On deathly silent ground she stalked, her every footstep muffled in satisfactory crunch. The translucent, cold flakes piled high as they caught against her thick, red eyelashes and against her messy hair. Elegant cuff links and shirt collar protected her pale limbs from the chill as she marked in swipes of ocher paint the words that Aster had directed of her— "All Yesterday's Parties".

The twenty letters marked out on twenty equal posts of stone in the wall that lay before the town clock, its heavy, oxidized arms reading 'three twenty in the morning'. Sísí was a woman of the realm of the sun's death. She knew how silent the streets of Peppermint Plains lay in the belly of communal sleepiness, and so she had no worry as she dropped her brush for the last time in that bout of graffiti, admiring her work complete.

"Feast your eyes on us," she whispered to herself with a grin, the arresting psychological invitation that was Sísí's art piece telling all who passed it to prepare for a life of inadequate happiness and muted joy.

—

The vestiges of night's slumber dissolved, pockmarked by rays of dawn. A fresh cover of snow blanketed the village of Peppermint Plains, every inch of it beset in the soft spectacle of winter's breast. Through the early morning air cracked the echo of hammers against wood and steel, a slew of men hurriedly constructing shoddy stages at various points of Peppermint Plains' town square as shopkeepers on all sides amidst the hubbub hurried in their own ways to establish a plot of their own at the festivities' shore. Through no direct action of their own, The Love You Forevers' festival was taking on its own momentum as the gravity well of general commotion surrounding construction brought attention and eyes fully onto the town square.

As the dawn bled into full wide-eyed morning, a considerable number of townspeople had begun pouring into the center through word of mouth and curiosity at the square, perusing the stalls that had been hastily setup, as they looked onto the empty stages, their eyes set with equal parts anticipation and interest.

Rumors that a single, enigmatic band had arranged the totality of the festivities floated through the turnout, their patrons eager and hungry to see just what sort of band could inspire such affected and moved tales with so few performances or even a single record to their name. What band could be responsible for the graffiti that seized the heart of Peppermint Plains that morning, its citizen's eyes locked in insatiable interest at those three words that spoke to the forever lust for creation, while never really saying anything? Shopkeepers, still twilight-eyed and dreary as they moved to open their stores for the day, were the first to happen upon the colorful scrawlings before the clock tower, curious bystanders having assembled in turn before policemen on early duty could considerably assess the situation.

Whispers were awash through the crowd of The Cherubs being the band responsible— an unverified rumor which caused the collective beast of excitement to grow yet hungrier in anticipation of the empty stages finding their children, their unoccupied state almost taunting that innate drive for knowing that no one could disable. The crowds surged up and down the stalls, past Floyd's record shop, as the fruit of The Love You Forevers' event could be seen through the windows, now fully witnessable as having gained a life of its own. From the radio beside the register drifted the haunting, sleepy lull of the familiar Christmas songs of Aster's childhood passed, as the band clamored against the frosted panes to get an eye of the pandemonium.

“Holy fucking shit,” Aster whispered as she glanced through the window at the crowds which wandered and filtered through each other. “That's way too many people. That's way too many fucking people,” she panicked under her breath as the others looked out onto the scene equally stupefied.

“Nah man, we've had two shows, you're all out of your minds,” mumbled Marion as he backed away.

Floyd paced behind them, his cane squeaking as it scuffed the floor at the turn of every lap, the normally graceful man covered in perspiration as he mumbled to himself.

“Floyd Childress, listen to me. You cannot mess this up. For once you will not. You will not ruin this,” he recited as the band one by one slowly wrenched their eyes from the madness outside, the lofty ordeal that was preparing to take the stage begging for their utmost attention.

“You know, Floyd,” Marion began, swatting Sísí away, who was attempting to adjust his collar. “How did you even pull this off to begin with? I know the bootlegs aren't bringing in that much money,” he asked, the sweaty man breaking from his self-directed diatribe as he stared blankly at Marion, Sísí stealing away his leather jacket as he waited for response.

“Childress Shipping,” murmured Cecil. “Have you never noticed that the clock tower is inscribed with his last name? His old man was a massive industrialist. His whole family put a lot into this town,” Cecil explained, watching Sísí move her attention over to Sylvia and Aster.

“Fuck, why is it so itchy?” Aster whined as she looked down at the flower patterned dress shirt she wore, its collar and sleeves billowing out in frills as the pink hue of its satin rested in stark contrast against the brown, wide-ankled trousers which covered her legs.

“But you look so hip!” Sylvia laughed as she twirled around in her white and red flowing dress, her candy red jeans ending at flower sequined dress shoes.

Sísí watched on with a wide smile as the group modeled the outfits she had chosen for them, pressured for a makeover by Sylvia's insistence that they didn't dare end up looking 'square' for their biggest performance yet. Cecil and Marion met the idea with vested disinterest as Aster had nodded in hushed approval.

“The apple of Peppermint Plain's eyes. Only fools would pass you,” she uttered, as she smirked to herself, her face twisted with delight at the four exemplars of fashion.

“I'm being honest here, what is it with all of you and this old people stuff?” Marion interjected, violently untucking his paisley dress shirt from the sequined belt that held his trousers in place. “Seriously, how am I going to go out in this? My guys are out there! The Asparta gang are out there!” he continued, throwing his leather jacket over top the paisley shirt as he kicked the dress shoes off and returned to his leather boots.

Gang? Aster thought to herself, glancing out the window at the rough men immediately outside the shop, some perched high on motorcycles, a few kissing a cigarette as they kept wanderers from entering the store.

Oh God, they don't know about Altamont.

“I'm sorry, I'm not sure how my eyes failed me so shamefully,” Sísí muttered in response to Marion's vocal displeasure, her eyes set over him with intense thought and study. “Perhaps it'd be best if I go blind,” she concluded matter-of-factly. The group went silent as they looked to her in confusion, all of them sans Cecil wearing looks of significant unease in their eyes as the latter patted her on the shoulder.

“They look fine. Stop it,” he said as she began to chuckle, the yuletide background floating with little notice around them suddenly finding itself pierced by static as the jingle of a news spot replaced sleigh bells.

“Who is responsible? Nobody knows. This is Peppermint Plains Morning Bugle and we are coming to you with the latest on the events at town square as vandalism over night has turned into a full blown celebration— hundreds of Peppermint Plains residents are braving the cold and snow right before the holidays to get an eye of the elaborate graffiti outside of the town's landmark clock tower,” the smooth voice spoke as Sísí turned away in disgust.

“'Vandalism', par for the course for those sad minds too defeated and recluse to reflect on anything,” she mumbled, moving over to help Sylvia with her dress.

“What the fuck is her problem?” Aster whispered to Cecil, her concerned eyes not breaking away from the burnt orange bangs which swayed as she monologued to Sylvia.

“Sísí... operates differently. Remember those free thinkers I mentioned? Well, her writing is some of the best stuff coming out of this town at the moment,” he explained, tucking into his paisley overshirt and tie as a natural as Marion continued to yank and pull at his own.

“To get perspective on what exactly is happening at these festivities, we have with us Mr. John Augerberry, artist and relations representative at the Cherryaire based record label, Clementine Records,” the newscaster continued. The five of the group broke from their impromptu fashion show, Floyd from his mad pacing, as they turned in haste to the radio as the man's plain spoken voice began to spill out into the hushed shop.

“Well, what we have here is a band who knows how to entertain,” he began as Sylvia smiled to herself, Marion leaning in to turn the radio up. “I don't think this is a case of simple vandalism, and thus I will be heading down there myself to try and get a scope of this enigmatic band. Who knows, my ear may lead me to gold yet again!” The man finished with a laugh, the group looking onto one another in shock as the impetus for hurrying up and starting the show took on a whole new fervor and urgency.

“To the stage, everybody!” Floyd suddenly screamed, his head cocked back in clamor as he directed them out the door, tossing pick after pack of strings after strap at whoever happened to be nearby, as members of Marion's entourage poured in to help move equipment to stage.

“Hey careful with that kit, you know how much it cost?” Marion complained as Marcy began rolling a large tom across the shop's floor.

“No, how much boss?” he asked, lifting it up over his shoulder.

“I don't know, but don't scratch it.”

Aster exited the shop, her heart beating fast as she finally came face to face with the crowds who had gathered to see them, her mind besieged with thought as she made her way up the steps to the platform.

She glanced over at Marion's men hurriedly assembling the equipment and wiring as Sylvia directed them, as Marion himself wiped snow away from his kit in annoyed expression. She made her way through the cold afternoon wind to the edge of the stage, her feet perched out over the precipice of the sloppily built structure as her eyes scanned out over the hundreds of heads which bobbed from stall to stall, the crowd surging around the shimmering water fountain which lie in the center of the square, bedecked in garland and wreath.

She could only look on in disbelief at the sheer scale of the crowd, the size of which only seemed to grow yet further as many more spectators flowed in from the various avenues at the edges of the square. Aster's vindictive wish to leave not a soul in attendance for Johnny Vallerie's lifeless masquerade of being worth something had manifested as something far greater than she or the rest of the band had ever expected. The little leaf shook at the grand result of her will, disappearing in thought as she mused. One month. Only one month ago I nearly met the pavement outside my building, she pondered, looking onto the faces of her band members as they continued in their manic dash to set up. And yet they make experiencing this illegal. For once in my life I'm actually doing something, and yet they'd kill me if they knew I was here.

She sighed, her pensive, frosty whispers snaking upwards into the cloudless blue winter beyond. I wonder how much time has passed outside of this. Has it been a month there too? I wonder if they've found me, if that's the case...

Sylvia wandered over to the edge of the stage, all smiles, as she joined Aster in surveying their crowd. “That's a whole lot of people, huh?” she began warmly, pulling her cardigan over Sísí's dress. “I told ya you could do it!” she said gleefully, rising on her tiptoes as her button nose blushed with chill.

“The show hasn't even started yet, Sylvia,” Aster replied in a quiet voice, turning her gaze from Sylvia back to the crowd.

The crowd before her split and coalesced and meandered in its far-flung length. The individual universes contained within each person were lost and found again in different sections as the square as Aster followed various peoples in their journeys, her eyes set on them in sheer wonder as she took in the full size of the event.

Am I stuck here forever? she pondered as she glanced over to Sylvia, now rambling on about the different food stalls she could see on her tippy toes from their vantage point. Aster, insulated by the sudden burst of warmth which coursed through her body in that moment, felt her hair stand on end as the great question had finally arrived to be asked— But, do I even want to get out of this?

She turned backwards to see the men struggling as they hoisted the grand piano up the sleet-covered stage as Floyd screamed and warbled, Marion yelling at his men to put their backs into it as Cecil stood on the stage, directing them forward.

I've never been this happy before, have I? she wondered as the pure visual summation of it all set her heart down the river of elation.

She looked suddenly at Sylvia, a sensation of warmth tracing against her chilled hand. Sylvia gripped tightly, holding her hand as she eye-smiled at her friend. “I'm really proud of you, Aster.”

Aster, ever knowledgeable in cardiac rhythms, found the wallop her heart made in that instant to be of awe-inspiring intensity. The life-deciding organ brought its vessel to the precipice of existence and death as if to imprint on it the true weight of being.

I hope I never see that fucking menu again, she thought as the hum of electrified amps began to drift across the stage, the equipment now assembled and waiting as the band took their positions.

“We're not going to have much time. These tubes aren't made for this kind of weather,” Cecil mentioned, plucking at keys on his piano as passersby glanced at the stage.

What the fuck are tubes? Aster wondered in a great bout of nerves, glancing over at the amplifiers she now was no longer so confident in. The band's exploratory strikes of tuning floated over the crowd, heads turning one by one as they looked to the baggy eyed girl who stood in front the others— her timid, almost frightened demeanor giving no indication that she was the source of the heavenly tones that were pouring out of her bass as she traversed the fretboard, lost in thought as the rest of the band assumed their places.

This is it, huh? This is really our chance, she thought, glancing out at what they had assembled. Floyd stood to the side of the stage, the gangling social juggler busy talking between several men at once as the square's attention slowly peeled from the other stages to the four assembled, who stuck out profusely in the vibrant clothing they wore against the dead, sleeping trees that framed each side of the stage. Whispers lilted from person to person as Aster negotiated each string, her mind hopeful it could steel itself against another failure like her utter collapse before Eugene.

I have Sylvia. I have Floyd. I have Cecil. Even Marion, too, she told herself, hands slightly shaking as the mere thought of failing before this throng brought her to nearly evacuating her stomach. She closed her eyes, the familiar intoxication of adrenaline and shock that was product of such direct attention numbing her anxiety as she stepped towards the microphone Marion's men had placed before her.

Every song you've written over the past month has been with every keystone of sixties pop music in mind. You cannot fail. You know their favorite songs before they even hear them, she told herself, her eyes focusing as her noodling came to end, the band now in position as the gathered crowd stood restless, conversations audible about the strange looking girl with the sad, fiery eyes. What chance do the Cherubs have if I'm ten steps ahead of them?

She grit her teeth, thinking about the colossal embarrassment that was her abject failure before their manager the night before. How pathetic and diminishing of a light it cast on her musical ability. How weak she surely looked trembling and stuttering before him.

She gripped at her bass' neck, nearly breaking it from the body as her seething rage shifted to boiling, the ember in the coals of her heart finally bursting forth as she moved to speak.

“We are The Love You Forevers.”

Aster struck the opening bass note, in her mind hoping dearly that the scant half day of practice they managed to fit in would be enough for what she considered songs of trivial difficulty.

She glanced towards the foot of the stage, a roar of applause and cheers of motivation coming from the assembly of housewives and seedy-looking bikers that had gathered to form the head of the growing crowd. Marion's men intermingled with the tattoo and scar-laden bikers from Asparta Ward as the friends of Sylvia's little brother held onto their parents, screaming in excitement as Sylvia waved to them.

“That's Willy's sister!” one shouted as Sylvia happily played a lick for them.

The entire congregation looked to the stage with anticipation as one of the bikers looked up at Aster. “You've fucking got this,” he motioned with a thumbs up, as the air seemingly left Aster's lungs.

The world stood still, decoupled from the subjective sense of the progress of time and of the ambrosia that was the mind drowning in a sea of dopamine and adrenaline, as Aster's body subconsciously moved to drop the match on the powder keg— the opening chords of their first song rocketed through the amplifiers in electrified fire.

The crowds from nearby stages were siphoned off, winding their ways through the festival as the band's otherworldly sound and whispers thereof made it to new audience members, who soon found themselves among the solidifying group of people witnessing the forging of a new sound in the heart of Peppermint Plains.

The band, though still playing with slight evidence of rustiness, maneuvered through Aster's setlist with relative ease— her purposeful focus on mimicking the simplistic pop songs of the time paying dividends as the band found few struggles in handling the basic chords and pop song structures that comprised them.

Aster glanced over to Sylvia, who laid down a guitar solo which sent a response of screams into the mass of heads gathered before them, as Cecil took the lead into an electric piano solo. The girls in the crowd screamed as Marion and Cecil shook their heads in exhilaration as they gave their all to the songs' rhythm sections, particular fervor paid to Marion, who had long abandoned his leather jacket to brave the frosty winter air as he laid into the drums for all he was worth, he toothpick held in mouth ever tight.

Floyd, whipped into mania by the crowd and electricity on stage, corralled various journalists around the side of the performance space, no doubt conducting pen to paper in extolling the overly grand virtues of the musical assembly they had put together on that day.

Aster— the heart of the stage, sang as loudly as her lungs would allow, the frigid tears in her eyes— the product of screaming her heart out, breaking forth like beads of a severed diamond necklace in droplets that refracted the dull November sun as they spilled out unseen onto the stage.

The compositional anchor of the bass, the transfer of the words that came from heart to pen to paper to audience. At that very moment, Aster had aligned with every core value of her being. She had achieved a completeness that few imperfect beings of flesh ever realize.

The sad-eyed girl, the magnetic beacon of happenings, the womb of countless universes, played her little, timid heart out on that morning, as the sleepy, tucked away village green of Peppermint Plains learned of her existence loud and clear. No longer would they pass by Floyd's record shop from that day on, for the insatiable drive for hunger that lay in the belly of the popular zeitgeist now had its first taste of The Love You Forevers' music— and they had no idea the lengths required to sate it.

—

“Hello, hello. What a privilege it is to make your acquaintances.”

The warm greeting came from none other than John Augerberry, short of breath from the journey that was making his way to stage through the pandemonium that ensued as the frenzied performance crashed to an end with an omnipresent roar of approval from the crowd.

“That's our fucking band!” one of the bikers screamed, downing a bottle as the veins in his neck stood ever clearly. “They played at our bar! Our bar!”

John Augerberry— the short, bald milquetoast man, motioned the band away from the audience members' clamor and cries of congratulations as Floyd brimmed with hungry anticipation.

“So?” Floyd put forth with palpable eagerness.

Augerberry glanced to the ground, fumbling with his hands as he turned to speak.

“I'm going to have to decline, I'm sorry.”

“What?”

What little traces of blood remained in Floyd's pale, powdered face left as those words were uttered forth from Augerberry's mouth. The rest of the band looked on in similarly mournful and pained expressions, as the crowd around them continued to hurl superlatives in their direction.

“But, did you not see the crowd? Did you not hear the crowd?” Aster grumbled in disbelief, her eyes watering up.

Augerberry glanced around at the cheers and congratulations being lobbed at the band, as he rubbed his head. “Yes, they actually are particularly affected. But I'm afraid that style of rock 'n' roll is already out the door. There's no market for it,” he explained, moving to shake Floyd's hand as he apologized profusely and begged for forgiveness.

Rock 'n' roll? One of the songs was a pop song that modulated to a submediant key and decrescendoed. Was he even watching the right fucking show? Aster bemoaned in heartbreak, unaware that the stubby man had actually in fact been mistakenly watching The Sluggers and their paltry audience of five people the entire time.

“Please, I beg of you! The spectacle, the sheer spectacle!” Floyd screamed as Augerberry walked off, scratching away at a notepad as members of The Sluggers tailed him.

“Do not be dragged down by fools, lest you become a gormless idiot yourself,” Sísí quipped, moving with the rest of the band back into the record shop as Sylvia consoled the quickly deteriorating Aster.

“I'll take her up to her room,” Sylvia whispered back to Cecil as they returned into the shop, a mob of captive audience members following in tow as they entered to peruse the store that bred such a band.

“Well, I think we did ruin any chance of Johnny having any sort of a successful show,” Cecil murmured to Sísí as Marion joined the two of them in the listening area. Floyd could be seen from the leather recliner motioning the audience members out of the shop, his exclamations that the shop was not in business for the day falling on deaf ears for those who waltzed in anew.

“Why are you here Sísí?” Marion inquired, frowning at his paisley undershirt as he pulled his leather jacket tight. “Why help us out like that?”

“Johnny Vallerie robbed us of our poetry hour, Mr. Marion. Why should we not crush him?” she chuckled as Marion's face bore no change in expression. “Simply, Cecil asked it of me. And if you all are fine with Cecil, then you are fine with me,” she stated simply, her smile resting mischievously on her pale face.

She reached down to her side, bringing to their view a large, angular camera.

“Whoa, what is that? Where's the film go?” Marion inquired, leaning forward to grab a better look of it.

“You actually brought that?” Cecil remarked, grabbing from her a batch of pictures.

“It's called Polaroid. They're instant pictures,” she explained. Marion looked on in wonder as Cecil spread them out.

His eyes drifted past the shots of Floyd screaming and the band assembled, resting on a particular shot of Sylvia hugging Aster at the front of the stage.

“As I said, you are the apple of Peppermint Plains' eye,” she whispered, their heads turning to the now clearly audible cries emanating from the loft above them.

Sylvia silently clutched at Aster's back as she howled, slamming her fist into the bed. “Fucking idiot!” she cried, hiccuping as her tears flowed into Sylvia's peppermint dress. “What do I have to do? When does it go right for me?!” she mourned with swollen eyes at Sylvia who only rubbed her head in consolation.

“I don't think anybody will ever mess with you again, Aster. You're as tough as nails!” she asserted, kicking her feet against the edge of the bed. “In only one month you showed up and kicked butt. I mean, did you see their faces out there? Who cares if one single jerk sucks at hearing?!” she exclaimed, wiping Aster's tears as she looked into her eyes smiling.

“You know what they are?”

“What?” Aster hiccuped.

“A bunch of uncultured swine!” she peeped, kicking her feet again. “We'll do even better tomorrow, you'll see,” she offered in infectious motivation.

Aster sniffled, her crying relenting some.

“As long as you're here, I feel like we can conquer the world,” Sylvia gave gleefully.

Aster smiled, turning to meet Sylvia's warm expression, but it was no longer there. All that she was met with, was a cold, electronic blue filling her eyes. Her blood slowed and froze, her frantic pupils darting across the menu which she now realized hung above her gaze. In the corner lay something that caught her eye— clouded luminescent digits that became all at once clear and unwanted. The date, Aster realized they displayed— twenty-sixty-six.

Aster attempted to scream, but nothing came forth.