That Guitar (Advanced Writing Workshop Timed Freewrite)

I won’t lie. I tell as I see them. But I don’t see nothing.

That isn't entirely true. I see ghosts. They drift and jump and float about my face the way mud and clay and peat feels under my feet. There are greens and blues and something red.

I see more than most. I see because I hear. Oh, and I feel. How I do feel! I feel their heat. I feel their whispers. I feel their waves and crashes. I feel their tears fall and hide in the rough floor. Tears that squeeze under splinters and along long, narrow cracks. I sometimes find them. I touch them on my lips. They taste warm and salty.

I like most when I feel that guitar. Except, that’s mostly at night. I don’t favor night. That’s when the big ghosts come. They fill my face. They perch in the corners and grow as the fire cools. They dance perverted around the lantern. I close my eyes, but I feel them. They keep trying to pry my eyes open. They run their fingers across my eyes. Poking. I don’t favor them. I just scrunch my face tight and listen. I listen for that guitar till I can feel it. Then I follow it. Sometimes it takes me too far, and I’m in the cold and damp out past our steps. Happens more than I care to say. But his words bubble up to save me. I feel him pulling me back to where I can lean down again. It always ends too soon. And worst, I can feel it coming. A step is missed, and soon his tapping gets soft. Then I’m carried away to bed.

That’s when I scrunch not just my face but my body too. The ghosts cover the door, and I can’t see nothing. Sometimes I forget fast. Other times I feel that guitar. Sometimes it whispers to me, and I try to whisper back, but I’m afraid of them big ghosts. But I always end up forgetting. Sooner or later. And then I remember. The big ghosts are gone. I’m thinking they forget too.

When I remember at first, I don’t see nothing. I can’t feel past my urge, and I fight it. But she helps me. She listens for me. I wish she’d stay close as she can be. I sometimes cry when I feel her warm go. Makes my inside heavy and stuck. But she talks to me. Oh her words. I wish I could find them on the rough floor and touch them on my lips. Sometimes she hums a song. But she never sings. It’s okay with me. I let her tune carry me out past our steps. Out there are white and yellow ghosts. They sway and flutter. Sometimes I creep to our steps. I let my feet down. Oh, I don’t get too far. I just want to feel that tune out in the open. That ends too. And I feel it coming. First, it’s the ghosts. They lose their warm. And then they go altogether.

That’s when I start to feel them most. Their heat. Their whispers. Waves and crashes. Blues and greens and something red. I wonder why they come and go. Why they don’t stay. But then I start feeling that guitar.