Die Writing

An old guitar

Posted in Uncategorized by erdaron on June 24, 2012

He placed the guitar case on the bed and slowly wiped the dust away with his hands. The case was old and worn, its leather worn thin and smooth with the age, much like his hands. The clasps, though starting to accumulate some rust, gave with a snap and the top sprung up a bit. Here, the man paused. The lips of the case cracked, it seemed to breathe out a bit of the old air, the smell of late night tobacco and too many dawns.

The hinges creaked. The inside of the case fared better than its outer shell, but not by much. The velvet was worn in many spots. Corners were coming up, curling away from the frame. Some time long ago, a lit cigarette fell into the case and its burning ash left holes in the fabric. Tears welled up in the man’s eyes. He smiled but his lips trembled. His fingertips gingerly traced the old guitar and its taut steel strings. It was too much to actually lift the instrument. The faintest touch to its body was electrifying. He felt his muscles tense up, and heard the phantom crackle of the amplifier in his ears.

“I miss those days, too,” Helen said, smiling. She wrapped her hands around his arm and kissed him on the cheek. The sunbeams came in through the windows and lapped at her white hair.

“Yeah,” he answered. For a few moments he was still lost in the mad memories of sleepless nights and crowds. “I’m lucky to have gotten out with you, and not something worse,” he chuckled.

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