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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
Author: TheBuyer
Average Vote: 4

07/12/2004 anonymous (4):
07/12/2004 TheBuyer (3): send em back to hell! also, you're a slob. this is a three star short.
07/12/2004 PoopMouse (4): You lost one star because of that last paragraph.
07/12/2004 Will Disney: someone summarize this for me!
07/12/2004 anonymous: sweatjob that started out as a pretty good idea but was posted before it was ripe. the author has trouble editing himself. plotwise- folk singers come from folk-larvae and there is an agency which exterminates them
07/12/2004 Ferucio P. Chhretan: Is that so?
07/12/2004 anonymous: Unless you heard different, I think it's scientific fact.
07/12/2004 Ferucio P. Chhretan: No, I haven't. I just never heard that nugget of empirical data before, that's all.
07/13/2004 TheBuyer: Seriously though, black monday is over, what do you think?
07/13/2004 Ferucio P. Chhretan: I know you're trying to give the impression that someone else wrote the short by giving yourself stars, but it just looks kinda silly. That's what I think, o teller of thirty shorts.
07/13/2004 TheBuyer: Poopmouse isn't me, but she is Canadian.
07/13/2004 Will Disney: another canadian woman? wow!
07/14/2004 Litcube: There's two more up here. Sue and Candice.
07/21/2004 TheBuyer: Hey Ferucio took a shot at me and I didn't even notice, damn. In way late response, I actually think this is a three star short regardless of how bogus it looks to rate one's own work.