Die Writing

The man on the stage

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on June 16, 2011

The felt shadows wove together to make the bluesman. No colors to him, not even much of a shape. Just gradients. Just a sense that he is there. The feeling, the rhythm, the broken rhythm. He leans forward, stretches out his hand – plucked a string and let it ring – the walls and the felt shadows bend and lean with him. He’s got roots in that stage. Parts of his being melted, seeped into the floorboards. That’s not a performer. He’s the joint itself now.

Not much light here, but it shimmers. Not too much color to it, just the gradient. Dark to light. Shadow to shimmer. Alcohol in the glass is just another candle. A rare spot of gold.

He leans forward, stretches his out his hand – plucked a string and let it ring – makes you sit back down. Doesn’t actually touch you, doesn’t even point at you, doesn’t even do anything different, but just lets you know. This is not the time to leave.

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