A Five Sentence Fiction
The pimply music store clerk leaned against the counter and watched as the unshaven 50-something in a suit so threadbare its fabric glowed like it was under a black light put his ear to and clumsily pluck the strings of the vintage National Reso-Phonic guitar on the wall and he thought, Oh, jeez, another one.
“She’s a beauty, isn’t she,” he said as he startled the morose figure beneath a bunged-up fedora who had just left four greasy smudges from remarkably well-groomed fingertips on the guitar’s shiny metal body, “and a steal at, ya know, just 5,800 bucks.”
The mournful face turned toward the clerk and replied in a rasp about twenty years older, “She’s my Holy Grail since I realized the Blues in my DNA, the preeminent color in the fabric of my fuggin’ life….uh, man.”
“Sure, dude, gotcha, but we’d, ya know, appreciate it if you’d, like, ya know, not touch the piece unless you’ve, ya know, got the dough and the chops to, ya know, like actually play her?”
The man stepped away from the guitar on the wall, stared down at his $900 Bally slip-ons and mumbled the rap the clerk had heard in one form or another about half a dozen times from other such blues men: “’Course…sorry…shoulda known…no damn good no way…my damn life in a nutshell…ya take ‘Merican Express Black…uh, man?”
This week’s Lillie McFerrin Five Sentence Fiction is brought to you by the prompt word FABRIC and this writer’s desire to use it a couple of different ways in the same story.