The thought fluttered through her head, borne on a torrent of notes, as her mind drifted, her fingers left on autopilot. Her bow hopped and dragged across the fiddle’s strings, coaxing drones and triplets from the instrument; the fingers of her left hand flickered, fast as lightning, in rolls, cuts and trills. Beside her, Ciarán threw his head back and laughed, not out of malice or amusement, but simply from the sheer joy of playing; the local musicians smiled and nodded at him even as they played, racing through the second part and suddenly the tune ended. Shauna was caught on the hop; she was left playing on her own, frantically trying to find the keynote there. She dragged it out into a suitable finish, double stopping it for effect, and smiled shyly to gales of applause. Ciarán compressed his concertina; she rested her fiddle on her knee and sipped her water. The pub’s owner set a platter of sandwiches on the table in front of her.

“Oh you shouldn’t have.” she said, cursing her accent as ever.

“It’s all right, dear, we always do this when we have trad sessions.” the owner assured her in a thick Cork brogue. “Eat up quick, before that greedy lot get it.” Sure enough, the local musicians had dropped their flutes, fiddles and accordions and were ravaging the unfortunate sandwiches. “Ireland has the world’s highest sandwich mortality rate,” Ciarán used to joke about the Irish love affair with sandwiches. Luckily for the locals, at one in the morning, Shauna hadn’t much of an appetite.............

Story Continued here....

Ghost Stories, Haunted Stories, Horror Stories, Paranormal Stories

This is not a site for unsolicited fiction and this is the second time you have done this.



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 8 Aug 11 | 06:35AM by jimrockhill2001.

Quite right Jim - also, the guy can't write for beans

It was a dismal morning, oppressed by leaden clouds that were like the moldering tatters of all joy and hope. A livid, icy glow fumbled at me through the crooked blinds as I fumbled with my computer. All was in a dreamful haze--my thoughts, my eyes, the world. So had I seen correctly, then?--that new topic in the Eldritch Dark forum? Or had I imagined it?

With hovering trepidation, I neared the cursor toward what my newly rubbed eyes revealed to be a very real topic. Those white words, burning starkly white against the irremeable blackness of cyberspace infinitude, pulled at the little spaceship like a ravenous blackhole. Under an insuperable witchery of curiosity, I clicked--

And I stared into the very Pit of hell, vomiting up flames and tormented screams that shattered my sanity to jagged fragments, which sprinkled down into that nadiral chasm!

--Actually, what I really saw was far less interesting.

What could be less interesting than this pile of pseudoliterary excrement that has come oozing out of your fingertips like a septic contagion from the foetid bowels of Pupucaca-P'tooey, god of obsolete literary forms and delusional poseurs?

Whoa, there! words like "pile" hurt my feelings! And you should not use P'tooey's name so lightly...a noisome end might befall you...



Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 8 Aug 11 | 05:31PM by K_A_Opperman.

Is this from the P'tooetary Gland - hmmm - amusing thought