Lovlies, this past few months have been topped full with inspiration with amazing events that have been like an extra lightning rod in my back pocket for writing and painting. I am working on compiling together a chapbook possibly… and continuously writing more short stories! Here an intercept from my latest one called The Harpist & The Hummingbird, let me know what you think in the comments below!!
It was nearly ten when that tired fiddler stopped scratching on it’s loud violin and all the saints within the town half-floated by. The Nuns in the center of the street in the market place, bowing their heads as if they were avoiding the rain that had already stopped at ten that morning.
The town marketplace of little Bodstow was a curious place for idle individuals.
One at a time you could watch as various souls walked past. Wanderers, lovers, thieves, magicians, guitar players romanticizing with their acoustics, starry-eyed fortune tellers, whistlers, givers, takers, and children in the like who strung at their mother’s arms with eyes as big as grapefruits devouring every bit that they could possibly take in.
The farmers, strought with character and manner were challenged with selling their goods to the crowds of hands fighting their way to make payment, and the people were challenged with making their way through the crowds.
Rarely anyone ever stopped by, or ever seemed to notice the Busketeers on the street, standing by way of the farmer’s barrel of carrots and fennel.
It didn’t really matter how well you played, how loud you shouted, how well you looked, people went to the market for food and goods, and it was as rare as seeing a shooting star that anyone ever stopped to listen to the fiddler, or see the magician fan his cards, or have their fortune told… And quite so ever rare that they may make payment on their hard-working revelry. Why try at all to peddle if nothing ever happens? You might be thinking. Well, the truth of the matter is that the Busketeers are kindred, hopeful souls at heart, and believe in luck and magic. Though it be quite rare and tiring, they go on each day pouring out their souls into their music, juggling, or tricks like a normality of pouring out blood from their veins. It is rare to be so lucky, but it it is within the prospect of lingering luck that makes it all worth the downpour.
One person was lucky enough to get the gift of being heard that one morning, and he was quite so lucky of a person indeed, he always prided himself in having as much of luck as for having Irish blood in him (which wasn’t nearly enough to have the excuse for Irish luck, but he thought so and that was well enough.)
In white linen harlem pants that were well too big for him with a shirt and a canary-yellow pork-pie hat stood a very thin young man with dark hair and a face that resembled a mouses’ with eyes black and modest, and a slightly narrow brow. Everyday he came there, standing with scrolls in his hands of poetry, just like the rest, hoping someone would stop and buy a poem. Throughout the marketplace people stopped, listened, then carried on with their shopping, undevised by his solemn ballads. Tried he did many a-day to lure people in with writing ones suited for them. One day when the Bee-Keeper came in to observe his stock on honey, The Poet just nearly made him stop in his tracks by his amble words;
Long live ye bees who giveth thy sweet elixirs,
oh spinith thy wings on the dance of my nose!
for shan’t I be grateful for but a blister,
just to share with I ye golden rose.
Though this vague attempt failed to draw the Bee-Keeper in, he was willed from his shortened step to continue and when the Gipsy’s came rolling in their Fortune-Teller wagon he sang loud and clearly above the fiddler
Oh how ye gipsy’s foot
I wish that I could be,
for what a surely memorable place,
to ring and laugh beneath the bells,
and swing within each dance,
Oh how the gipsy’s foot
I wish I was for one slight chance!
He thought for sure his act was won when the youngest of the dark-skinned mystics, a fair-haired daughter not more then seven and ten gave him a very bright and amorous smile, but none of them came over, nor bought a single poem.
He then approached the game he loved so dearly to play whenever all seemed lost in hopes of selling his poetry— and that was to watch every strange and intriguing person that walked by. First there was that odd-begotten man with the parrots, two on each side of his shoulder, each bird carrying it’s own cages in it’s talons as he stalked off through the market, looking for a place to sell his bird tricks which was to feed them crackers on command to a favor to fan and twirl. An older woman, nearly seventy it looked, brought along a big trombone and sat at the opening of the marketplace in a rocking chair for hours playing. Young ladies in red dresses gifting him with smiles as they passed and blushed. Two younger ladies stood down past the lavender and sang slightly mournful melodies that rang from their end back to his.