An offering of flash fiction where a man seeks to find the person, and the artist, he once was…
by: Foster Trecost
Night after night, he walked through town with a guitar strapped to his back. Street performers nodded as he passed. Tourists, with phones half-raised, wondered if he was worth the frame. In cafés, baristas asked where he was playing. There were plenty of places. No need to get specific. He’d smile, offer something vague — around, or just a small set — and tilt his head like the details were too tedious to explain.
It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. Just a current telling of an old truth.
The guitar pressed against his spine, a necessary presence. Sometimes he’d adjust the strap just to feel it shift. He hadn’t played in years, wasn’t sure he still knew how. But the way people looked at him — with curiosity, admiration, envy — that much, he remembered. In shop windows, he caught glimpses: someone with purpose, someone interesting. Someone he used to be.
His apartment was quiet. The walls mostly bare. A chair by the window. A table with nothing on it. Each night, he hung the guitar with a precision that bordered on ritual. Part of him still believed it deserved reverence.
One evening, the barista didn’t just ask. “I’m off at seven,” she said, pushing his coffee forward. “Where should I go?”
He laughed, soft and reflective, but she didn’t look away.
“Tonight?” he said, buying time.
She nodded. “I’d love to hear you play.”
The city felt different when he stepped outside. The guitar was heavier, or maybe he just noticed it more. Nods from passing musicians seemed sharper, edged with expectation.
He stood outside a small bar. Open Mic, the placard read. Music seeped into the street. A man strummed with practiced ease, coaxing something coherent from tension and wire. He watched the man’s hands, the certainty of their movements. Then looked at his own.
He could have left. He almost did.
Instead, he went inside. He put his name on the list and found a chair in the back, one with a clear path to the exit. When they called his name, he glanced at the door, but chose the stage. He unsnapped the strap and swung the guitar around front. It landed in his lap, centered but unfamiliar.
At first, he just held it. Then, after a moment, he brushed his fingers across the strings. The sound was all wrong. Thin. Uncertain. Off-key.
It wasn’t the sound he remembered. But still, it was sound.
Foster Trecost writes stories that are mostly made up. They tend to follow his attention span: sometimes short, sometimes very short. Recent work appears in Bright Flash Literary Review, Fabula Argentea, and Halfway Down the Stairs. He lives near New Orleans with his wife and dog.
