ASTRAL ROB
Episode 1: Waking Isn't Always Wanting
Episode 2: Echoes Over Beaver Creek
Episode 4: Night’s Not Over Yet
Last call had been called.
The lights were up.
And yet people lingered—grasping for one more drink, one more song, one more excuse not to go home.
A few tried their luck with Rob and Marcel behind the bar.
“Nope is nope,” Marcel called, slamming the tap handles closed. “Come on, people! We serve booze, not breakfast!”
That line? Always a crowd disperser.
The club slowly drained. Lights buzzed. Ice melted in abandoned glasses. The pulse of the music was gone, but it still echoed in bones and blood.
Cleanup done. Floors mopped. Till trays gathered. Everyone trickled into the staff room to cash out.
Idle Hands was a big place.
Three full bars.
Four server stations.
One shooter bar.
Seven bartenders, four servers, and a whole lot of stories to unload—drink in hand, of course.
Bartenders paired off to count shared tills. Servers cracked their caddies. Marcel raised a snifter of Grande Marnier in mock salute.
“Cheers,” he beamed. “Nectar of the gods. It may be orange, but Anita Bryant had nothing to do with it.”
He turned to Rob. “Where’s yours?”
Rob shook his head. “Not tonight. I need a clear head.”
Marcel shrugged. “Gotcha. There’s always tomorrow.”
The room buzzed with end-of-shift chaos—tips tallied, tall tales exchanged.
Did you see that idiot on the dance floor?
That girl was on fire.
That guy was a total god.
Important chatter.
But Rob? He wasn’t tuned in to any of it.
He watched Wendy.
She was different. Always had been.
While others rehashed flings and flops, Wendy spoke of faraway cities. Of Paris, where the cobblestones echoed with history. Of Rome, where the Coliseum leaned slightly because one side was built on bedrock, the other on unsettled ground.
She spoke with the weight of someone who had been there. Not through a screen or a travel brochure.
She knew things.
Rob listened without meaning to.
Then—music cut.
Radio static.
News bulletin.
“A gruesome scene was discovered in a downtown apartment late last night. An unidentified woman was found in her bed, in what the RCMP described as a ‘bodily explosion.’ No forensic evidence has been found. Homicide is not being ruled out.”
The room paused for a second. Just long enough for a few muttered “Oh wow” and “That’s awful” responses to float through the haze.
And then—back to tipping complaints and flirtation war stories.
But Rob didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t speak.
Something about that report lodged in his gut.
Something wrong.
Something familiar.
End of Episode 4
Meanwhile...
An astral figure drifted.
Soundless.
Weightless.
Intent.
It hovered over an elderly woman in sleep’s tender grip.
Her breath came slow. Measured.
Inhale...
Hold...
Exhale...
Hold...
The presence circled, sensing the vacancy.
The body was hollow.
It slipped in.
Not all at once.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Too fast, and the undulating would start again.
But slow?
Slow was exquisite.
A scratch bloomed on the woman’s arm.
Then another.
Thin. Precise.
They bled, just a little.
Just enough.
Then more.
Not enough to wake her.
Just enough to say:
I’m here.
TTFN
Frank Sirianni aka Foxxfyrre Cg
No comments:
Post a Comment