This `writers group` piece was a photo prompt. This photo here is very similar to the one used. It was an open piece. Interpret any way that we wish using any method that we desire.
The gaunt man was there for everyone to see but nobody saw him. Its as if he didn’t even exist. They walked round him and past him. He was surprised that they hadn’t tried to walk through him.
He sat there in the rain, his fingers wrapped around the love of his life. His world was small and the violin was his most prized possession left in it now, that and his coat. Many times he had debated trading the violin for money, a warm bed or food but there was too much at stake. Too many memories in th wood.
His fingers curled around the neck of the violin and instinctively began to play. No one took any notice. After a while, neither did he. He was playing by instinct. Every note a thought. Every note a memory and vision that only he knew. His eyes glazed over.
The rain continued to fall around him. He was protected by his coat. It was a good coat and had been given to him,he was sure, out of sympathy. However it kept him dry and that was the main thing.
Still, he played. His face set into distant recollections of days before.
Still, he played.
Still, no one noticed him.