A Slack String

A fallen needle from an old pine cone was caught inside the coiled spring of the hearth brush, muffled and crooked. I stepped down from the hearthstone onto the cool brass fender, bracing my boots beside an iron poker. Reaching out with my free hand, I gripped the brittle quill and pulled until it came clean from the steel coils with a soft snap. Free of the debris, the tension snapped back into place. I drew the headstock of my electric guitar lightly across the coiled wire. A dry, ringing metallic hum rose through the brass base, steady and clear in the early light. The hearth is quiet again.