DeeperWater
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Apr 30, 2011
- Posts
- 257
Davy reached down the neck of his guitar to mess with the tuning, before he started plucking through some old mountain tunes. The afternoon sun filtered down through the oak trees, playing light across his bare chest and the glossy wooden body of his guitar. His strong, sleek frame was tanned like a ripe berry and his long black hair hung free around his shoulders.
His rich baritone voice joined his guitar as he moved into an old song about a man who kills the woman he loves, because she can't love him. His long, nimble fingers played across his instrument. He could hear his music echoing through the forest, bouncing around like a pinball.
He was sitting on a fold out camp chair, under a green canopy. The canopy was connected to a silver airstream trailer. In front of him lay a rural access road, headed deeper into the forest. Only a few cars had gone past in the last day or so and the sounds of the highway were to far away to disturb him.
His nose was aquiline and his cheekbones high. A black soul patch sat beneath his expressive lips and sideburns edged his handsome face. His only clothing was a pair of cut-off jeans shorts which had seen better days. The air in the camper wasn't working and it was still in the low 90s, though it was cooler under the cover of the forest.
After practicing for a few hours, he paced up his trailer and headed back down the access road, headed to a local folk festival. The highway went past, with billboards for gentlemens clubs, firework warehouses and restaurants. Davy hated how commercial and homogenized American had become and playing folk music, he felt, connected him to a simpler way of life, where folks cared for one another and took pleasure in making love, making the Earth bring forth life and making music with their friends. He had been born to late to really be a hippie, but he had never let that stop him from living the life he wanted.
About five miles along the road, he spotted a hitchhiker holding a sign up. He pulled his truck and trailer along side the road, a hundred yards in front of him, and waited.
His rich baritone voice joined his guitar as he moved into an old song about a man who kills the woman he loves, because she can't love him. His long, nimble fingers played across his instrument. He could hear his music echoing through the forest, bouncing around like a pinball.
He was sitting on a fold out camp chair, under a green canopy. The canopy was connected to a silver airstream trailer. In front of him lay a rural access road, headed deeper into the forest. Only a few cars had gone past in the last day or so and the sounds of the highway were to far away to disturb him.
His nose was aquiline and his cheekbones high. A black soul patch sat beneath his expressive lips and sideburns edged his handsome face. His only clothing was a pair of cut-off jeans shorts which had seen better days. The air in the camper wasn't working and it was still in the low 90s, though it was cooler under the cover of the forest.
After practicing for a few hours, he paced up his trailer and headed back down the access road, headed to a local folk festival. The highway went past, with billboards for gentlemens clubs, firework warehouses and restaurants. Davy hated how commercial and homogenized American had become and playing folk music, he felt, connected him to a simpler way of life, where folks cared for one another and took pleasure in making love, making the Earth bring forth life and making music with their friends. He had been born to late to really be a hippie, but he had never let that stop him from living the life he wanted.
About five miles along the road, he spotted a hitchhiker holding a sign up. He pulled his truck and trailer along side the road, a hundred yards in front of him, and waited.
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