Thomas Kinkade Evening on the Avenue

Thomas Kinkade Evening on the AvenueThomas Kinkade Cobblestone ChristmasThomas Kinkade Cobblestone Brooke
More power to your elbow, eh?’ said the drummer, grinning.
‘Shut up and play!’
He was aware that tunes were turning up at the ends of his fingers that his brain had never known. The drummer and the piper felt it too. Music was pouring in from somewhere. They weren’t playing it. It was playing them.
IT IS TIME FOR A NEW DANCE TO BEGIN.
‘Duurrrump-da-dum-dum,’ hummed the fiddler, the sweat running off his chin as he was caught up in a different tune.
The dancers milled around uncertainly, unsure about the steps. But one pair moved purposefully through them at a predatory crouch, arms clasped ahead of them like the bowsprit of a killer galleon. At the end of the floor they turned in a flurry of limbs that appeared to defy normal anatomy and began the angular advance back through the crowd.
‘What’s suddenly kept time with the music.
‘Who’s playing the maracas?’
Death grinned.
MARACAS? I DON’T NEED . . . MARACAS.this one called?’TANGO.‘Can you get put in prison for it?’I DON’T BELIEVE SO.‘Amazing.’The music changed.‘I know this one! It’s the Quirmish bullfight dance! Oh-lay!’‘WITH MILK’?A high-speed fusillade of hollow snapping noises
And then it was now.
The moon was a ghost of itself on one horizon