The Bard

“Dust collectors!” she lamented.

Perhaps it was time to post them on eBay or have that yard sale; sell them to the highest bidder. But she couldn’t bring herself to part with them. They were as much a part of her as her graying hair and fading voice. Those instruments helped her remember when.

Occasionally she’d strap a guitar over her tired shoulders and strike a chord or two with tender fingers that had long lost their callouses. It brought her joy, and a tinge of sadness.

“Once a minstrel, always,” she smiled, “with a few lyrics yet to write.”

~kat

100 Words for Rochelle Wisoff-Fields Friday Fictioneers flash fiction challenge inspired by the photo above by Rochelle. A bit of a true story…

This photo by yours truly.


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