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- Herausgeber: Spiral Publishing, Ltd.
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Sprache: Englisch
Estonoa, Virginia. A lovely little town tucked deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
Hiking and ATV trails. Kayaking along the scenic Clinch River.
A thriving community focused on the future.
Erin Evans loves her hometown, except for one thing.
The Earworms.
Will Erin find the answer before the music drives her and everyone else crazy?
An excerpt from The Earworms:
What if your whole town had to face the music?
Erin hunched her shoulders. No one else was out on the street, no vehicles moving. Just a few short weeks ago, even this early in the day people would be walking, chatting, doing a bit of shopping before the afternoon heat settled in.
The middle of the street could be the worst depending on how the songs played out that day. Sometimes all of Estonoa sounded one annoying tune, from nowhere and everywhere.
Sometimes each block was different.
More and more often, each building, sidewalk, and parking lot was infected with its own variety of musical torture. Even the hiking trail by the river and the town park had joined in the constant onslaught.
Erin gritted her teeth as chirpy Nineties pop battled campy Sixties TV. She hopped over brand new white lines on 4th Avenue, amazed at what she was willingly headed toward.
The theme from
Gilligan’s Island finally won out.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019
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For my wonderful hometown of St. Paul, Virginia
While I took a few liberties in the telling of this tale, I hope the enduring spirit of our little town on the Clinch rings true.
The Earworms
Kari Kilgore
Spiral Publishing, Ltd.
Chapter 1
Erin Evans stared at her hand on the thin red plastic steering wheel without seeing it, singing Frosty the Snowman under her breath. At least she thought it was under her breath.
With the wrinkled and faded orange plugs shoved deep into her ears, she couldn’t tell for sure.
She tapped her right foot with her internal beat, making sure she didn’t touch the brake pedal even though her truck was parked with the engine off. A randomly flashing set of brake lights was the best way to draw unwanted attention to herself even in a small town usually jammed full of pickups.
Her great uncle Wilson’s old Chevy, a flat-sided red and white Seventies model miraculously not eaten up with rust, already stood out more than she’d like.
Most folks in their little Virginia mountain town drove curvy new trucks, all shiny and modern. More decorated with fancy grills and black and silver accents than any cars were these days, pickups sported fine upholstery, heated seats, and better entertainment centers than Erin had at home.
Uncle Wilson used to say that kind of truck was too pretty and dainty to sit in if your boots were muddy, much less do any sort of real work.
That may be true, but Erin didn’t much care. All she knew was a broke college junior couldn’t get picky when it came to wheels. The long wood-grained dashboard was cracked in a couple of places, but she kept it spotless. She’d carefully mended a couple of tears in the springy red bench seat, which was conveniently long enough for her to stretch out on for a nap. The only cleaning or maintenance off-limits as far as she was concerned was any kind of harsh or stinky air freshener.
The lingering sweet, spicy aroma of her uncle’s pipe felt like a warm hug even after a long, hard day.
Kind of like the goofy Christmas music did for her miserable ears and tormented brain lately. She switched to singing Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer.
Erin thought she’d gotten too sick of the forced nostalgia and determined cheerfulness of traditional Christmas music to ever recover. Back when she was still playing the saxophone during the same songs for band concerts in school, year after year.
When they’d gotten so deep into her brain that their rhythms and melodies might as well have worn a physical groove, one she could feel right under her hair.
That was before the Earworms.
Now she was grateful to have songs she knew by heart, songs she could choose, to give her exhausted mind some kind of relief.
She was even more grateful for the sturdy old truck and had made sure to tell her uncle frequently until he passed away almost a year ago. She wished she could tell him in a few minutes when she went into the assisted living to start her shift.
In a little while.
Erin couldn’t face the noisy reality of Estonoa, Virginia.
Not yet.
She looked toward the sunflower-yellow brick building across the freshly blacktopped street. Shifting her gaze to avoid the long crack in the windshield was second nature after driving the Chevy for the last two years.
It was hard to tell with the hilly streets, but at four stories the Old Rosebriar Hotel was still the tallest building in town after over a century. Erin often tried to imagine what a sensation the hotel must have been when it opened back in 1901. Solid brickwork with decorative patterns between the floors and around the roof. Heavy white stones accenting the edges and around all the many windows. A broad, gracious front porch lined with bright white rocking chairs, empty despite the cool July morning.
The carefully restored building was still striking in the vibrant little tourist town in 2019. During the rowdy days when Estonoa was a bustling railroad stop notorious enough to be called the Western Front, only the wealthy rail, timber, and coal owners could afford to stay there. Now men and women much too young to remember the town’s peak but old enough to need a bit of help day-to-day called the Rosebriar home.
Erin glanced at her watch and shook herself. Fantasizing about the glory days wouldn’t get her through this day. Five minutes ‘til nine.
Time to face the music.
Chapter 2
Erin swallowed the last of her cold hazelnut coffee, then pulled her wavy brown hair back into a ponytail. Her work uniform of boring khakis and a painfully cheerful periwinkle-blue Rosebriar golf shirt couldn’t be improved. She belted out the last verse, hoping to somehow shield her brain even though that never worked.
Erin raised her voice for the big finish, all about Rudolph going down in his-tooo-reeee. The simple pleasure of making her own noise for a change left her grinning.
But not for long.
The problem with reusing the orange earplugs until they were shriveled and no longer soft—and the frustration of shipping delays on the latest batch she’d ordered from Amazon—assaulted her as soon as she pushed the door open.
The high-pitched chorus of Hanson’s Mmmbop echoed through the parking lot.
Erin hunched her shoulders and kept moving.
Just a few short weeks ago, even this early in the day people would be walking, chatting, doing a bit of shopping. Renting ATVs and canoes, picking up lunch and hiking trail maps before the afternoon heat settled in.
Not anymore.
Now no one else was out and no vehicles moved.
The middle of the street could be the worst depending on how the songs played out that day. Sometimes all of Estonoa sounded one annoying tune, coming from nowhere and everywhere.
Sometimes each block was different.
More and more often, each building, sidewalk, and parking lot was infected with its own variety of musical torture. Even the hiking trail by the river and the town park had joined in the constant onslaught.
Today Erin gritted her teeth as chirpy Nineties pop warred with campy Sixties TV. She hurried, hopping over the brand new white lines on 4th Avenue, amazed at what she was willingly headed toward.
The theme from Gilligan’s Island finally won out.
She dashed up two concrete stairs and across the broad stone porch, all painted the same cheerful yellow as the bricks. She yanked the heavy wooden door open and darted inside just as the thunderclap from the old theme song rang out.
Three women and two men all jerked their heads toward Erin when the door slammed closed behind her hard enough to rattle the windows. This same silver-and-gray-haired crew was usually in the bright sitting room, all focused on the huge television screen against the wall. The captions at the bottom were a couple of inches tall, perfect for deaf or nearly deaf residents.
