My Writing Journey begins at the Crossroads…of course.
As I start this writer’s journey to the Alluvial Mine ( and I’ve been on this journey for a very long time ) I come across a young man standing at the crossroads as I walk by.
He has a guitar in his hands, I have a backpack in mine.
” I used to play.” I tell him.
He nods and smiles.
” I don’t anymore, it’s in my blood though, I can feel it there. Know what I mean?” I hold my hands up ” Sometimes I can feel the strings, the frets at no particular time. I think I’m haunted by it. Do you think it’s possible? To be haunted by your guitar?”
He smiles, tips his hat and walks away.
I watch the young man make his way down that dusty road in the middle of nowhere, guitar in hand all alone in the…
View original post 542 more words