Does your life mean so little to you? Would you truly surrender it for fortune and fame?
Go down to the crossroads, then. Look back on the road from which you’ve come. Look ahead to the path before you. Glance right and left. Then straight ahead, once more.
The verdant field, the copse of trees, the distant town, the faraway heights of a yet unseen city. All yours for the taking once you make your trade.
Come back to the crossroads at midnight. Wait there, guitar in your hand, clasped by the neck. Footsteps will come behind you, then stop. Without turning around, give the guitar to the unseen one behind you. A chord will sound, then another. Then your mysterious benefactor will return that guitar to you.
And every chord and blues riff you play after will entrance any that listen. Record labels will fall over themselves to secure deals with you. Concerts will overflow, and fights will break out among the scalpers’ clientale. The fortune and fame you sought will be yours.
All it costs you is your life. The very essence of who you truly are, whittled down by the very fruits of your own willing trade. Until, in the end, nothing remains.
Least of all, yourself.
withered grass rippling
in the wind
the last, empty grasp
of a dying hand
for Sue Vincent’s Thursday photo prompt: Decisions #writephoto
WD April PAD 2019 13/30