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Guitar Gifts, part VIII

A short story in small installments.

Back in his room, Gifflet practiced the techniques he’d learned from the woman in the park. Over and over and over. Stumbling. He knew he wasn’t very good, and there was so much exact timing involved. It would take a lot of practice until his fingers remembered on their own what they were supposed to do. He lost track of time and heard, but didn’t take in, the exasperated sighing of his companions outside.

“By god, is he never going to stop?”

“It’s so loud. Who knew you could turn an innocent guitar into a whole bloody drum set?”

“I hope this doesn’t go on every night.”

Doctor Dolci, although he looked as afflicted as the others, said, “Well, for now, let him have his moment of peace.”

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