home authors guest shorts graphical shorts
On stage with her bodhran, Melanie wailed, "And lo shall we strike, and be the trash, uncollected. And we shall stand up and fight for our democratic elective..." with conviction and ferocity. Her bodhran made her feel like she could sing anything and mean it. Her bodhran needed to free its rhythm, like she yearned to deliver her message, to feed the next generation of folk singers with her vehemence. Her bodhran was the rhythm of her own beating heart. In her songs she took down unfair municipal signage by-laws, brought to the forefront the ecological disasters and horrible consequences that may arise from feeding the ducks from the perpective of a bread-stick, she felt her indignation grow as she lamented the decline of the less pretty creatures like muskrats and eels. On stage with her bodhran, she felt vital; vigorous. She felt worthy of her little brood of translucent folk larvae waiting for her at the table, absorbing their destiny of protest music throught their differential permeable folk-membrane.
Back at the table, alone with her bourbon and box of spawn, she continued to wail without the benefit of a microphone. She didn't take any shit whatsofucking ever. She don need you. She don need anybody, so fuggoff! She jus nee her fuggin bodhran, her fuggin baybays, and dis'ere fuggin bottle so fuggoffn'die, you sunoffafug... She often wept at the table, cradling her bodhran with one arm, as she traced the immense cicular scar which sat on her stomach like a sealed asshole where she had removed the skin to stretch over the wood of her loving instrument. The cardboard box holding her litter of maggot folk-babies shook as they squirmed and cried in their little hemp body-socks at her feet as her sensitive, folky finger felt the bumps along the puckered outline.
Mr. James sat across the bar by himself drinking nothing. He was a good agent; patient, calm. He was close enough to see when the breeder passed out, but far enough that her squirming, bleating maggots couldn't smell the kerosene in his water bottle. His heart-rate slowed as Melanie slowly relaxed her grip on the sour-mash and her head dipped like a dowsing rod toward the extinguished tea-light on the table in front of her. Mr. James unscrewed the bottle cap and slid out from behind the table, ice-water in his viens.
Date Written: July 08, 2004
Average Vote: 4