Mo Fhioghrá

PHOTO PROMPT © Amanda Forestwood

Mo Fhioghrá

by T. Delaplain

Willing to take the beatin’ that would come later, Aidan laid his chin against his gobshite brother’s favorite fiddle. Catching the eye of the barkeep, he nodded, requesting a pint. The bartender flashed him the finger and mouthed feke off.  

He’d only get the one chance to score before the band retook the stage. He pulled the bow across the strings and the violin began to sing. Caitlin glided towards the stage like a silkie carrying a pint of Guinness. 

“Slainte Aidan, stop acting the maggot and g’wan and play.”

“This one is for herself, mo fhíoghrá, my one true love.” 

Join the craic at Friday Fictioneers. Rochelle will give you 100 words to make some music. Start with something easy like The Fields of Athenry or The Swallow Tail Jig. In celebration, let’s raise a pint together and thank Rochelle for hosting this ceili. If I’ve offended any of my Irish cousins with my appropriation of your slang, get on with yourself, it’s all in good fun. Drink up.