THE MINSTREL
2 min readJan 8, 2025
I wrote this some years ago. My father was a musician and I remember the
look on his face as he played, the passion, the way he was one with his
instrument. He wasn't much for idle chit-chat, but he let his music speak for him.
"THE MINSTREL"
by Sharzi (c) 2017-2026
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Perched on a stool against the dark of the smoke-filled bar, the beam of light overhead blinded his view. Eyes peered at the man whose head bowed timidly. He barely noticed as a quiet fell in anticipation of his performance.
Uncertainty made him want to run and never look back. He felt he wasn't good enough, but he was here for the love of his craft.
The hushed audience blurred into the darkness as the beating in his chest pounded baritone drums, deafening him to all else. Beads of wetness on his palms threatened to steal his last remaining hope of guiding his guitar to speak that which he could not. It had always been his voice, his Cyrano. Now he required his companion lull them in his name.
Trembling, he brought the fingers of his left hand up to embrace taut strings awaiting his touch. Looking up into the nothingness ahead, slowly he moved his right hand to greet the instrument like the gentle kiss given a new mistress. And, in that moment of glorious climax, his fingers danced in sweet perfection.
In a silent gasp, they sat in awe.
He romanced them with melodic waves of flawless passion. Each note a lover so intense they were brought to tears. He heard nothing, only closed his eyes and slowly swayed.
The last chord resonated like a reaching hand to envelop them in its final sigh. And then when silence fell... he too cried.
