My Unpublished Novel
My Music
Tweets for Writers
The Alzabo Circle
Time Travellers
Panorama Mama
Prophecy #1
Robot in Distress
The Bridge.

My feet are killing me. Phil is setting a crazy pace and I feel compelled to keep up with him. The abrasions previously caused by my new sandals are turning into suppurating lesions. My children are so far behind us that I see no trace of them. It's just Phil, me and this accursed, interminable bridge. There is no hiding from the sun and I am sweating profusely. I find it hard to believe that I got hood-winked into this crazy endeavor. I have spent nearly 200 dollars that I could not afford, in order to trudge across this infernal bridge and listen to some old, tired and mostly Irish musicians' attempts at making music. The bridge stretches in front of me, disappearing over the horizon. The East River is winding its vile, polluted waters under us in an obscene attack upon my thirst. Large, passing trucks are frequently shaking this whole unnatural structure with such violence, that for the first time I am feeling some hope; a hope that the next one, will hit the one chord that could reduce the whole blasted thing to a large pile of match sticks. The water may be unspeakably filthy, but underneath it, lies the promise of eternal peace.

At the Site.

Strangely enough, we actually made it to the concert site. Entering the fenced in area, is a traumatic experience. People are laying their filthy hands on my person, searching for drugs, or weapons, or something. Other people are yelling uncomforting things into megaphones and nowhere is there heard even one: Welcome to the Guinness Fleadh, enjoy your stay. Dust is moving freely through the air, settling on everything in site. It's in the food, and in your drink. The prices are exorbitant, hot dogs for three dollars and fruity non-alcoholic concoctions for five. The beer is an astronomical six dollars a pint, and the only two available, are Guinness and Harp; Blasphemy, you can't even get a proper black and tan. An assortment of Irish lads and lasses is mindlessly mingling inside the compound. A lot of the girls are wearing only short shorts and bras, in a shameless disport of female flesh;

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