The exercise:
The starter for today is: a sombrero's shadow.
Mine:
The man takes the stage, a guitar in his dark hands, a sombrero on his head and a restless, noisy crowd before him. There is no mic for him to sing into and I worry that he will go unheard, unnoticed, unknown.
Squinting into the spotlight, he tunes his instrument, the shadow on the wall behind him matching his every move. The shadow appears to be wearing a serving bowl balanced on its head and carrying a gun in its hands.
His fingers move lovingly over the strings but I do not hear their response. Clouds of cigar smoke float lazily between us, then he begins to sing.
His voice is soft at first but gradually grows stronger. As he sings louder, the crowd becomes quieter, until his voice and his guitar are the only sounds in this crowded room. We hold our breath as he celebrates his.
He sings of love won and lost, of life and death, of the days gone by and the days to come. When he finishes he is engulfed by applause and invitations to join tables for free drinks and conversation. But he gives a humble bow, waves goodbye and returns to the night from whence he came.
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