Not technically fiction, but 100 words.
I saw Bob Dylan twice: First time the Blood on the Tracks tour. 1974, Madison Square Garden. Afternoon concert. Hippies in their 30s swaying and grooving, while we college students felt unforgivably young. We didn’t have much money, so we got seats behind the stage. I had a great view of Dylan’s tush and back … he never turned to face the hoi polloi. Then, summer of 2005, I saw him again, on the stage in Bethel, NY, the former site of Woodstock 1969. His creaking whine of a voice had matured into a gravelly, unintelligible drone. Cool hat, though.
I saw Bob Dylan twice: First time the Blood on the Tracks tour. 1974, Madison Square Garden. Afternoon concert. Hippies in their 30s swaying and grooving, while we college students felt unforgivably young. We didn’t have much money, so we got seats behind the stage. I had a great view of Dylan’s tush and back … he never turned to face the hoi polloi. Then, summer of 2005, I saw him again, on the stage in Bethel, NY, the former site of Woodstock 1969. His creaking whine of a voice had matured into a gravelly, unintelligible drone. Cool hat, though.
