The Girl from Luna
In the doldrum of the bar, vapid swingwave -jazzwave’s insipid younger brother- seethed through static to accentuate the glowering glass-staring glumness with a faux sense of enthusiasm. A room shaped like a jelly bean, lined with vermilion booths penning in the few scattered tables, behind the bar a corpulent man cleaning a glass. Above, through a wide, thick skylight, stars glimmered far beyond Luna. The dwellers were an eclectic assortment, as was the case across the moon, and yet made uniform by their downtrodden gazes and vague conversation. Moroli was no different.
Sitting at the bar, she stared into the bottom of her glass drearily. It had been a long day with nigh a scoop; Luna wasn’t particularly interesting. Any news of import was quickly seized by senior editors and lies -or ‘embellishment’, as Kabeya liked to call it- didn’t hold up to a shone torch on such a small satellite. So Moroli had gone without a story