Louisa has a beautiful voice. When she sings, the tourists give up the bucks. She was supposed to meet me at the sad statue. When she doesn’t show, I take out the guitar and go it alone. I’m not much of a singer. The take isn’t good, not even enough for a dime bag. I blame Louisa, and head for her apartment to confront her. At her door, I knock and call her name. No answer, though the lights are on. Peeping under a blind, I see her lying lifeless on the couch, the syringe still stuck in her arm.
If you would like to come out and play with Madison Woods and the Friday Fictioneers, click here and follow the instructions.