Just made this story and was wondering what i need to make it...good.

[chiefmichael]

A man walks down a dusty old road, his age not past thirty. An old guitar rests on his shoulder held by a hand big enough to grasp the thickest part of the neck twice over. The night is warm and pleasant, but not to him, not to the man walking down an old dust road heading toward an even older crossroad. The trees on either side of him sway back and forth to the rhythm of the wind, they move in such a way that makes them look and feel aware, of both them selves and of there surroundings. They stretch forward and then back each with its own unique manner. It is as if they were trying to grab the man walking on each side of them to lynch him some where in the think of the forest were he would never be seen again. It would be impossible to tell if there intentions were to help him or not. His destination isn’t one a person would wish to go, but he has no choice. Who was he to change or question the bargain? The chill he feels is not one of nature, it trickles from down his neck to his fingertips, he feels the chill blow past his body and he can feel it as it brushes past his eyes. The soft vibration of his guitar every time the wind gets caught inside it makes his grip lose, he lets his back drop low as if he no longer has the strength to carry him self. It makes the guitar look a thousand times heavier than its real weight, he lets the wind slowly drag it to the end of his shoulder, and painfully lets it drop to the side, but the man that doesn’t look past thirty keeps walking and begins to sway, he finds it hard to balance he no longer has the strength . He recalls an event not long ago, a friend told him not to drink from an open bottle, and the same friend knocked that bottle right out of those hands of his, "don't ever knock a bottle out of my hand" he said as he glared at his friend, an empty soulless glare. If you could read his mind you would find nothing but regret…but it’s hard to say what for. Some people say his music can posse’s people, some think he’s the best guitar player there ever was. He was a moody man, was never the same after his wife and child died, never bothered with family life after that either. He can hear the bark of a dog, but no matter were he looks he can’t seem to find the animal or the source of its growl. The howl hits his ears from all directions all at once, and his hands begin to do something that they haven’t done in a very long time. His hands have only ever shaken once before, in almost the exact spot he stands now. But the man keeps walking all the way down the old dust road heading neither here nor there, but heading some were, a man not past thirty with his hand griped comfortably on the neck of his guitar walking gently as the wind guides him forward towards the crossroad.

This story is about a blues Guitarist called Robert Johnson i like his music and could not get his myth out of my head. he supposedly sells his soul to the devil to have the skill to play the blues. both his life and death are mysterious, his grave is unknown and all thats left of him is basically the songs he recorded before he died. this is my first story that i have basically ever written so please help me out and don't be to cruel...thanks for your time.