Fog hung over the land like a ghost. The trees shamefully slouched in the adamantly firm soil. Icicles hung down like tears from their branches. Crows, like black streaks in the gray, flew low to patrol their barren territory and fed on Beatles. The land was all but dead.
A crowd had gathered, battling the belligerent winter wind as they moved toward the performance. Their expressions remained constant on their faces, as though they had been permanently engraved that way. The crows pridefully stretched their wings and screeched at the people as they approached.
Showtime.
A boy muscled his way through the pack and positioned himself at its head. Nervously, he picked up his guitar and caressed its strings. Seconds ticked by as he began gently plucking them like petals off a daisy. The instrument’s mellow structure glistened in the peeking sunlight, and it’s sweet sound streamed through the swirling wind. The crowd nodded their heads approvingly.
At once the fog dispersed into the air like a popped bubble, and its remnants sparkled like sugar in the sky. Smiles cracked through the firm faces, and the howling wind fell to the ground as if it were a picnic blanket. A girl, eyes as round as Georgia peaches, began clapping. The rhythm seemed to shake the trees back upright. The crows fled in fear, crossing paths with robins swarming from the south.
Through it all, the boy continued to play, unaware of the abrupt changes around him. He kept plucking the strings of his guitar, faster and faster each time. Rock ‘n’ roll was never meant to die. Through him, it had risen yet again.
“Encore, encore!”