The following to the theme of,
Everyone has a song in their heart, a tune that echoes through your soul that you hum idly when the mind wonders. Some believe a song is passed down through family from one generation to another. My Great Grandfather turned our tune into an aria for his lover, a young soprano who captured his heart and destroyed his marriage.
Great Grandmother murdered the girl, breaking his heart beyond repair. It’s believed he cursed the song as he took his own life. The music destroyed so it would never be heard again.
When I was a young man, I found an old manuscript hidden between two walls in my family home. Curious, I played the tune on my piano and my heart melted to the melody. Defiant of the curse and crippled with debt, I publish the piece. The world fell in love as my love suffered. Success brought me personal tragedy, but my love of the melody drove me to madness.
On a windy night I hear the song, a woman’s voice drawing me to my final moments, a ghostly presence on my lowest hour, a banshee luring me to my death. It wasn’t Great Grandfather who made the curse; it was his cheated wife, punishing me for playing the song that ironically, was played at my funeral.
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The Devils Fiddler. Part 1.
He stood like a collection of broken body parts loosely held together by his ill fitted clothing. His unhandsome face was as twisted and contorted as his body was practically wrapped around his instrument in such a manner,
I thought it likely he’d collapse to a pile of bones at any moment. His black peering eyes unnerved me as they seamed to penetrate to the depths of my very soul through strands of his equally raven curly locks of hair. His long skeletal fingers crawled like the legs of a spider across the strings of his violin while his bow danced and jabbed like a savage whip.
His very presence was commanding in a way more suited to a man of the highest rank and yet all would not dare to take their eyes away from him, for they, like I, simply could not. This most sickly looking figure of a man with a devilish reputation never fails to draw a crowd wherever he plays.
What I experienced that day was nothing short of a dream within a nightmare. It is said the devil took his soul in return for such mastery of the violin and indeed I can agree with such a notion, for as he played I found myself enthralled with the emotional bombardment he stirred within me.
The Devils Fiddler. Part 2.
He is by no means a handsome man yet as he played the fires of my groin burned for the need to know his touch, my blood boiled and my heart raged as I was possessed with the demon of lust.
How could this unattractive figure of a man have me in such a grip of unholy ambition, for the sound he produced would have me throw myself at his mercy to let him have his way with me, and I would care not the scandal that would follow! With every stroke of his bow came wave upon wave of emotion carried on the sound as he made that shapely piece of wood sing, as would an angel sent from heaven!
This monster of a man, this demon of the violin had every female screaming, clambering, and baying for his undivided attention! In the days that passed I found myself haunted by his performance and of the melodies he’d composed for himself.
Never before has the violin been touched in such a way, for he truly is the Devils Fiddler.
Countess Isabella De’ Vellacini, on an intimate account of a performance by Niccolo Paganini at the Grand Opera House, Genoa, Italy, August of 1821.
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The following under the theme of,
The Prince had made his choice and the Spider Queen was seething with rage. Soon he would throw a Grand Ball to celebrate his newfound love and the White Widow will be there to deliver her revenge. “How dare he choose a silly little girl over me! For I am by far the most enchanting woman in all the land and infinitely more powerful!”
Her army of spiders delivered news of the dress her rival was to wear, made of the purest, softest silk and studded with diamonds and precious gems. She would also require a new dress for the occasion, one that will dazzle, amaze and knock them all dead.
On the evening of the Ball, she stood naked before her throne and sang an incantation as a thousand crystal spiders weaved her a dress from their spinnerets. A long flowing gown with white flowers and web made nets. It sparkled and glittered as it complimented her feminine figure.
The spiders that made it nestled within it, awaiting her command to spring into action when she dances with the Prince one last time, the man she’d grown to love, but who’s love was spared for another. The kingdom will hang by a thread that only she can break.
* * *
There has always been tension between the Hells Angels and their arch rivals the Warlocks. Bad blood flowed so freely they used it to fuel the machines. Whenever they’d meet violence was inevitable, and often the police was unable to control the chaos and destruction.
Though lawless by nature, biker gangs are fiercely loyal when it comes to family. The daughter of the Angels leader fell for the bad boy son of the Warlocks second in command. In spite of the potential for all out war, a truce was called and a wedding was set.
All went well until the evening of the big day when gallons of beer fuelled decades of bitterness, a fight broke out, and a husband was slain.
The widowed bride was broken. The rivalry between gangs seamed impossible to resolve, so the woman betrayed on her wedding day sort to solve the problem her own way. All the women from both gangs joined her and gave the boys an ultimatum. End the feud or loose the girls.
That day saw a wedding become a funeral, and in its wake, a new biker gang was born, one entirely of women. They’re called the Black Widows, and the boys know not to mess with them.