IMAGERY

He looked down into the street, the occasional light reflected as the mirror world of the underground. Only from what Knife had heard of the 'underground' light would not dare to intrude.

He picked up the guitar, stroked its warm glow of teak, its mother-of-pearl inlay and fingered the ivory pick. He set it against his knee and was ready to play when he realized what he had done. With two fingers and four, he flipped it around.

The voices of his ancestors sang out the first chord, sang louder with each strum of the strings. Discordance, like the mob outside an assembly cut through the tense air in the small room.

The grandfathers fell away howling into the night.