Crust

A Micro-Fiction Story

            It was abrupt and beautiful, a tone only an angel could make, but fingers could strike. The liquid sound flooded the eardrums of their producer, this God almighty of solid movement, a heavenly rush of fluid beats; the rock and roll Emperor, and his name was Crust.

            The moment had been captured in time and space, all worlds forgotten but the frets and the calluses. The others in the room paid little attention, as they were finding their own minds elsewhere, but to Crust it was all, and he was their King.

            The cat stared longingly at the guitar strings, wishing it had thumbs.

            Crust was attacking anything and everything with soul and purity, exuding stardust from his fingertips and his eyes closed, glazed beneath eyelids, to see his image clearer.

            Then, the inevitable rapture arrived, slow and menacingly, and the “WRAPP WRAPP WRAPP” was heard. This was the outreach, the neighborly cries for help, a flighty figure appearing through the door-frame. It was Mrs. Creature, a not-so-old widow with a frown forever ingrained in her forehead and mouth. She was Crust’s neighbor, and nemesis in the real world; a world that was beginning to burn Crust’s retinas as she abruptly ripped his eyes open. He was no longer a King, Emperor, or God. His lust had died, soul disappeared into the shadows under the couch and behind the chairs, and he slunk into an instant depression.

            “Knock off this racket! Or I’m calling the cops!” She ripped the amplifier cord from the wall and stomped back to her liar beneath the crust of the earth.