Ficlets

She played her mandolin at the fair grounds twenty seven times a year. She always sat barefoot in her folding chair, wearing overalls, a moth eaten shawl and self-fulfillment. She would never be surrounded by large groups offering tips and requests, but she played just the same. Her songs are too soft and slow for crowds anyway, and they leave a bittersweet taste.

Listening to her play was religion; rituals organically formed immediately. This is what you were to do: Go up to her chair, alone. There is no need to make your presence known; she will know when to look up. She will play a song for you. Her eyes,filled with understanding and guilt, will never leave yours. After the song is over, she will look down. Leave, making way for the next person. Never leave money for her,(a small coin would never be enough), instead give her something meaning full. She has been given pieces of string, feathers, broken jewelry, old letters- all of which make their way into the large carpetbag that she carries.