Cliff perched atop a stool in his private studio, strumming chords on a sleek six string.
He fancied himself a musician, but the truth of the matter was that he just didn’t have “it.” What he did have was money enough to buy all the “stuff” of a musician, but money could not purchase what was most important.
That didn’t stop him. Every night he ran clumsy fingers over strings that seemed to fight him, singing, trying to train his toneless voice.
Drowning his nightly frustrations with alcohol, he looked for hope and good music to come with the rising sun.
#FridayFictioneers is a weekly blog link up hosted by Rochelle over at RochelleWisoff.com. You should check out her sight and perhaps try your hand at writing a 100 word story.