Miranda

Short story. The last time I saw her she was singing in a bar no-one’s ever heard of in a city no-one’s ever heard of. It was back in the late 27th century, when I lived in France. Before she’d become famous. Before she’d become known from Mercury to the Moons of Pluto and beyond. She didn’t move as she sang. She kept her mouth close to the oval disk of the microphone that floated in front of her face, partially obscuring it. She wore a neurotransmission circlet that amplified her telepathy. Beneath it, her long, copper-coloured hair cascaded over her shoulders. She wore a silvery dress that clung to her figure and sparkled in the light. Her breakthrough song, Les Ames Perdues, the Lost Souls, was a  song that spoke of loss, of sorrow, of loneliness that was only just made bearable by memories of a transcendent love.