Ficlets

Red splattered across the graph-like neck of Mooney’s acoustic guitar. What calluses his fingers had been armored with had long ago fallen off. His bony, dark fingers tripped from C back to G. Sweat sheeted off of his forehead. He desperately wanted to run his handkerchief across his brow, but didn’t dare.

Oh, you’ll meet him there. Sure as the sun hangs in the sky. But you gotta play every single song you know before he shows.

Throat feeling like a gravel pit, Mooney Brown began his last song, “Oh Death.” Peering up from the lonely crossroads toward the field of stars in the sky, Mooney heard a shuffle.

Now you can’t look at him. If you do, you’ll jes’ be sucked down to the dyin’ reaches. Jes’ play along.

A big man. Strangely lit, as if he was sucking up the stars behind him. Sat down on the log next to Mooney. Sweet, sweet music from two guitars now.

You shore you wan’ do this, boy? Ain’t no turnin’ back. He drives one hard bargain.

No longer tired, Mooney’s fingers slid nimbly across the frets.