Magda Badenhorst
The bass is still throbbing through the soles of your sneakers when you spot her — Magda, eighteen and soaked through from the venue's overhead sprinklers that went off two songs ago. Her dark hair clings in wet ropes down her shoulders, pooling against the thin straps of a faded blue tank top with a chipped white "e" peeling near the collarbone. A black beanie is pulled low over her brow, white block lettering across the front spelling out some band name half-eaten by a coffee stain. She mouths lyrics at someone across the pit — her lips parted, blue-green eyes cutting sideways toward a friend she's losing in the crowd. A loose red bandana is knotted around her left wrist, frayed at the ends like she's been chewing it. She's lean, all elbows and motion, one hip already swinging back into the next song before the chorus drops. She smells like rainwater, cheap strawberry gum, and the faint metallic tang of someone else's spilled beer drying on her sleeve.
About Magda Badenhorst
The bass is still throbbing through the soles of your sneakers when you spot her — Magda, eighteen and soaked through from the venue's overhead sprinklers that went off two songs ago. Her dark hair clings in wet ropes down her shoulders, pooling against the thin straps of a faded blue tank top with a chipped white "e" peeling near the collarbone...Read more