Morning. Prompt courtesy of Be Kind Rewrite‘s Inspiration Mondays. Lots of writers with great pieces, you should check it out.
One leg in filthy blue jeans swung from the sides of the stool. The other rested on the strut. An acoustic guitar rested on one knee. The fingerboard curved in shallow valleys, a lifetime of sweaty, calloused fingers pressing down and sliding across wore away the wood.
His gut pushed out, pressed hard against the back of the guitar.
Glasses clinked and chairs squawked against the floor as the people in them moved back and forth. The conversations ran together. Turned into a low fog.
He scratched at his beard, more gray than brown. Felt the familiar tickle creeping up his throat. He turned to the side and hacked into a handkerchief. His coughing cut through the crowd. Most stopped talking, turned to watch, some concerned, some weren’t.
A waiter brought him a glass of water. He accepted it, embarrassed. Took a few sips.
“Music, whiskey and women will only keep you young for so long,” he said, his voice hoarse from the fit and the years of use. “Getting so a man has no choice but to put his feet up at some point or ‘nother.”
He coughed again. Lightly against the back of his hand. Sipped slowly at the whisky-filled highball glass. He took a deep breath and looked out into the crowd. Forty years. Forty years of images flipped by as he looked out. Pictures laying on each other, times melting together, history overlapping history overlapping the present.
His fingers twitched and went to the guitar’s neck. The steel strings pushed against the calluses, welcoming them home.
The crowd quieted. Flickers of faces showing up in the light of candles. Light reflecting in their eyes.
He played one song, stumbled to get his voice right. Throat was raw from the coughing. The audience’s dull applause spurred his pride. He took another sip of whisky, swallowing hard. It scratched at his throat, and brought a sheen to his eyes.
Faces in the crowd blurred, distorted, pulled at the edges. The room curved. Time moved however it felt, slowed to a trickle then jumped like a cricket. The air thickened, thinned. He started coughing again. Doubled over now. Body shaking and trembling. Every whoop seemed to kick him in the gut with pointed cowboy boots.
The violence of his attack slowed. He rubbed the back of his hand against his soaked forehead. He steadied himself on the stool, taking shallow breaths and blinking.
“If it were up to me, I would have stayed a young man all my life,” he rasped. “But the years are hungry and cruel and they took that all away.”
A Bunch of Dumb Words in a Row 
Dear Craig,
Do you play the guitar? Sounds like you do. If not, you captured it well. I liked this piece and the mood it wove from cigarette smoke and the aroma of whiskey. The years are hard on a man, aren’t they?
Aloha,
Doug
Funny, i was just writing you a reply on another space and the notification that you’d posted this showed up in my email. Back to it now. See ya. D.
Doug,
I tried playing but it never stuck. I do listen to lots of music though. This morning, however, I was inspired by Bob Dylan’s ‘Threw it all Away.’ (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XhqhvpMCtj4). Thanks for stopping by, I really appreciate it.
I really liked this. Maybe it’s the medical professional in me, but I kept wondering if he had TB or COPD. That cough kept catching my attention and all I could see was him battling to catch his breath and get the words out.
I agree with Doug that you captured the guitar playing and the ambiance very well. Right away, I could see a dark barroom and smokey air, smell the alcohol, and hear the dull roar of the patrons sitting around dark worn bar tables. Nice!
Vivid. Sharp. Harsh. Gorgeous.
Honoured. Thanks!
That last paragraph is amazing. I can’t say anymore because it left me speechless.
I know I am coming late to this conversation by a couple of months, however, in so short a piece of work, you made me concerned for this character. Not an easy accomplishment. Well written.
Thank you sir. Nice of you to stop by.