~Six Strings~

He is ten years old; he's always had a fascination for music, but never had the initiative to learn it. That is until; his father comes home with a present for him. His father plays the guitar, or used to, but that old acoustic instrument had long since broken. His father loves guitar, he loves guitar, and his father wants him to learn. And so his father comes home, with a present, a package, long, neatly wrapped, box shaped, completely unexpected and unknown.

He opens the present, and finds his first guitar. An acoustic instrument, small, made to fit one of his size. It's out of tune, but his father quickly fixes that for him, then hands him the instrument, sits behind him, and draws his fingers across the strings.

Six notes sound of in succession of one another, ringing loud and clear, from low to high. Each note lingered in the air, the strings vibrating profusely, seemingly unending in their harmonious sound. It is such a simple sound, the plucking of six open strings, but from that moment onward, he found a new passion.

He is fifteen, his old and battered acoustic guitar has seen better days, known better times, looks worse for wear, but still, when he plucks those six open strings, it rings with the same harmonic purity. Time can never dull the sound. He is still fifteen, he has saved and saved, and finally, he has the money. He goes to the store, and he buys a new guitar, one that he's been saving for since he first got his old acoustic.

He walks into the store, and there it is. Red, with a black pick guard, chrome hardware, Gibson, is the maker, the SG is the mode; simplistic in design, one used for years and years, but always a classic, ever working, ever useful. His father walks with him, takes his money, and pays for the guitar. The man behind the counter goes off to pick up, package and then hand the instrument over to him.

It dawns on him then, that he doesn't have an amp for his guitar doesn't have anything to make the sound ring clear like his acoustic would. When he says this to his father, the older man laughs, and ushers him out the door. They get into his truck, and drive home.

When he gets home, he walks into through the front door, happy, despite the lack of amplifier that he managed to finally purchase that long sought after instrument. He is surprised when he sees the amp he said he didn't have, sitting in the living room, even more surprised when there are input cords, everything he needs, to play.

His father laughs again, this time at the surprised expression on hi face. "Avery, go on, hook it up, let's see what you can do," his father instructs him, to which Avery quickly complies. He's read manuals before, doesn't bother looking at the one for his new VOX, and only focuses on hooking it all up. There are so many effects; all do something different, he can't decide which one to use; so he chooses reverb, with a clean, no distortion setting.

Just as when he first received his acoustic, he plucks the six strings, all open, ringing with more vibration, more sound, reverberating through the house as the waves are pumped out of that large piece of hardware behind him. He grins, he's happy, he's fifteen, and he plays guitar.

~Gigs~

He is nineteen; he plays guitar; he is in a band. His name is Avery Lokheart. He loves music; he loves his friends, he loves being in a band. There's nothing quite like it, noting like the experience and thrill of playing in front of a crowd, no matter how large or small. No drug, no alcohol, nothing, can match the euphoric feeling he gets when he hears a crowd of any size, cheering him and his friends on.

He remembers his first gig; he was terrified, they all were, they had never played before more than their select group of friends. Their nerves are all in a tangle, they're on edge, Mike wants to cancel, but Avery and the others won't let him. The time comes for their band to go on stage, they hear the announcement over the loudspeaker, and they hesitate.

They stand there, ready and able, but afraid and self conscious. Then Avery snaps out of the fear, if only for a moment, and ushers the rest of the group forward. They're not well known, but their friends are in the crowd, cheering them on, it's heartening. The rest of the crowd, a faceless blur of people, cheering, whistling, they don't know the band, but that doesn't mean they won't give them a shot.

Still nervous, even after getting set up, even after listening to the cheers, Avery looks down at his guitar, slides his hand up the rosewood neck, and gently curls his fingers around the fret board. His gaze flickers to the left, to the singer, Jake, Jake's just as nervous as him, they all are. For a moment, they share a look, Avery, Jake, Mike, and Chris; they announce that each one of them is ready. And they play.

The moment they start playing, the crowds cheers fall away, and it's just them, them and their music. They slowly become more and more aware of the crowd, again they are nervous. But then, they realize that the sound coming from the people before them, aren't boos and laughter, aren't insults, but more and more cheers. The crowd likes them.

They're filled up with a sense of confidence and strength that seems too euphoric to not be induced by some sort of illegal drug; but there they are, experiencing it, something they've never felt before, in a crowd of no more than seventy people. It's a slow night at that particular club, but it won't be the next time they play.

He is nineteen; he plays guitar; his name is Avery; and he's in a band.

The Serenade

Avery walked along with Spade; they were both leaving the Red Dragon Inn, arm in arm with one another, Avery's guitar case slung over his left shoulder. Where they were headed, was a mystery, sort of. He knew first, they were to go to Cloud Nine, Spade's shop; she was going to show it to Avery, but afterword, what? That was all him.

The time came when it was his decision of where to go; serenades; where would be the proper place" His thoughts were all a whirl with that. He'd never actually gone and 'serenaded" anyone, so he wasn't exactly an expert on such things. But Avery's not one to back down from his word, he promised a serenade, she'd get a serenade. Nice guy that he is.

Where then?" The market' No; too crowded. The glen" No; too earthy. Teas"n Tomes" No; too clich'd. To hell with it. They were walking; they had no destination in mind, so there, here, now, then, were as good as anywhere or any other time. Avery sat down on a bench, set his guitar case down as well, unclasped the latches, and opened it up. The cheap hinges creaked quietly, leather slid against leather, and an old, but well taken care of, acoustic guitar was revealed.

No picks were used by Spade's God of Rock, so all that was in that case, was that single guitar, its strap, and nothing more. He lifted it up, propped it on his knee, and slid a hand down the neck. As with every time he plays, Avery's fingers curled gently around the fret board, closing in around the wooden instrument, before loosening up, and moving into position.

The first notes were played; his left hand bent at what looked like odd and uncomfortable intervals, four different frets, and four different strings, all pressed at once. His right hand worked nimbly, fingers moving harmoniously with one another, each one moving at a different time to pluck a different string while his left hand moved. A serenade she wanted, a serenade she'd get.

Avery, the guitarist, played a song that seemed to have no beginning, no end, it just started, it never seemed to stop, seemed as if it could go on, and indeed, with his improvisation, it could of. A myriad of sounds escaped the guitar's hollowed out body, clear notes ringing through the air after reverberating from the strings down, echoing softly in the distance.

He knew what he was doing, guitar was one thing he could always be confident with, and it was guitar that he played. After all, it was a serenade, what else was there to do' Sing; singing was a must, she wanted that too, he'd promised that, he'd give it.

So Avery sang, it was a song she'd not recognize, one that he'd written, his band had yet to play it, probably never would. Avery wrote many songs, but most were never heard by his band mates, song writing wasn't what he was confident about. While he was a back up vocalist for his band, Avery's voice seemed able to be a lead singer, his tone soft when it needed to be, strong at other times, clear and working in unison with the notes that escaped his instrument and fingers.

And so Avery did as promised, he played for her, a serenade, and a song of his own writing, one that may or may not have been heard before, but that's beside the point.