by Bridget Webber

Created on: November 06, 2008   Last Updated: December 12, 2008

The moonlight glinted on the wooden veneer of the little Spanish guitar. It was as though an artist had placed it in the stream at the exact point where the rays of the moon could reflect the waters glow upon it, making a perfect picture. But it wasn't an artist who had softly lain the guitar in the cool water, and while sobbing with wretched emotion had sadly watched it disappear into the distance. It had been a young man who had Spanish blood running through his veins and who was full of passion.

The man had looked up at the stars and felt them stabbing him a thousand times over in the words of his father that had been spoken earlier that night. An argument filled with acid words had cut through his soul and immobilized him like a vice. While gripping at his spirit the conversation had held him and not let him go, even though it was now some hours since the angry conversation had taken place.

As he saw the last glimpse of the guitar fade his heart had gone with it. Lonely and rejected, he had made his way back through the shadows cast by the trees that lined the park and returned home to a silent reception.

His father was sat with his head in his hands, avoiding his sons vengeful gaze. His mother sat opposite him, a concerned and pained expression on her mature, but beautiful face. "We only want the best for him," she quietly said to her husband who did not respond. "If he would go to university as we wish then we could be so proud of him as the first in our family to achieve a good education. However, he only wants to play his guitar, and not to please us."

Her husband looked up at her for a second, and rising from his chair softly told her that all would be well, as their son had taken out his guitar, but not bought it back. This was surely a sign that he was accepting his parents wishes, even if reluctantly.

Meanwhile the guitar innocently sailed along the stream, occasionally halting momentarily as its progress was marred by water lilies and the long grasses that grew along side the waters edge.

Once, the guitar's strings had been plucked by a flamenco instrumentalist in Spain. The sweet and daring music that had sailed forth from its pear shaped body and from its twelve strings had forced even the shyest of people to stand up and dance. Raven haired senoritas had kicked off their shoes and picked up the hems of their skits and thrown caution to the wind. Male observers had found themselves swept up in the delight of the moment and the passion of the song and

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