Synaesthesia Magazine Seven Deadly Sins - Page 56

he guitar struck out orange against the

night. Shimmering starbursts spiraled out

and disappeared into the blackness. Callused hands roughly fingered the strings. There wasn’t much else I could focus on then but that radiance. It was how he got me. A few songs color the space—then nothing—then light again. It was a spinning carousel of color that pulled me expectantly along with each melody. The timbre rose in me like the sun at night and I fell in love.

After, we talked a bit, I asked the musician to play more, he asked me back to his—I could only say yes. Later, as his hand slid over my back in some gesture of reassurance, he positioned himself behind me. I’d made sure to face the guitar—each thrust was like a pluck at the strings. The sound spiked across the room. Another pluck at the strings. The musician’s voice was low and earthy behind me, a dull pant. My eyes still held onto the wooden belly of the guitar. My fingers mentally danced over the strings, coaxing out that golden song.

I came on the deepest note from the loins of that stringed angel.

I broke away from the music man’s wet snores just before daylight. It was a good thirty miles back to my place and with no car the walk seemed even longer. But the guitar was light and airy strapped to my back. The wind caressed the strings and my love spoke to me in yellowed whispering tones, making devoting promises and romantic professions. He was mine.

T

Star Struck

by Mackenzie Doss