Angels, drifting toward Armageddon. Greenfield Prep’s eighth-grade choir anxiously rose up the escalator. White smocks billowed. Sensible shoes shuffled.
After a noisy scramble up the half-moon of holiday risers, they stood stock still. White candles on a layer cake.
Lucy’s pale, delicate hand cupped the satisfying bluntness of her new Dorothy Hamill. Shimmering in the glass opposite, hovering transparently before a rainbow of Star Wars tees, behold! Her reflection. Her shiny helmet, haloed overhead.
All was in readiness. Her solo performance would soon be called forth by the master conductor himself, Dr. Rancid.
The last man to ever upstage her.
For another flash fiction with a hint of menace, read Correction.