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Let All the Children Boogie: A Tor.com Original
Let All the Children Boogie: A Tor.com Original
Let All the Children Boogie: A Tor.com Original
Ebook36 pages36 minutes

Let All the Children Boogie: A Tor.com Original

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From the Nebula-Award-winning author of The Art of Starving comes Sam J. Miller's sci-fi time traveling tale, "Let All the Chlidren Boogie," a Tor.com Original

As the Cold War stalls and the threat of nuclear warfare dominates the news, small-town misfits Laurie and Fell bond over a shared love of music and the mystery of the erratic radio messages that hint at the existence of a future worth reaching out for.

At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJan 6, 2021
ISBN9781250780638
Let All the Children Boogie: A Tor.com Original
Author

Sam J. Miller

Sam J. Miller is a writer and a community organizer. His fiction has appeared in Lightspeed, Asimov’s, Clarkesworld, Apex, Strange Horizons, and The Minnesota Review, among others. His debut novel The Art of Starving (YA/SF) was published by HarperCollins. His stories have been nominated for the Nebula, World Fantasy, and Theodore Sturgeon Awards, and he’s a winner of the Shirley Jackson Award. He lives in New York City.

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    Let All the Children Boogie - Sam J. Miller

    Radio was where we met. Our bodies first occupied the same space on a Friday afternoon, but our minds had already connected Thursday night. Coming up on twelve o’clock, awake when we shouldn’t be, both of us in our separate narrow beds, miles and miles apart, tuning in to Ms. Jackson’s Graveyard Shift, spirits linked up in the gruff cigarette-damaged sound of her voice.

    She’d played The Passenger, by Iggy Pop. I’d never heard it before, and it changed my life.

    Understand: there was no internet then. No way to look up the lyrics online. No way to snap my fingers and find the song on YouTube or iTunes. I was crying by the time it was over, knowing it might be months or years before I found it again. Maybe I never would. Strawberries, Hudson’s only record store, almost certainly wouldn’t have it. Those four guitar chords were seared indelibly into my mind, the lonesome sound of Iggy’s voice certain to linger there for as long as I lived, but the song itself was already out of my reach as it faded down to

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