Saint Patrick's Day Blogfest

Thank you to Alexia and Colene for hosting this blogfest.

THE RULES:
Write a 200ish word flash fiction entry about something to do with SPD(real, fantasy, whatever makes your pig squeal). OR, you could also write about a memory you haveof a past SPD. In the end, we aren't being picky. Just make it goooood and make it about St. Patricks Day! (Leprechauns, luck, gold, green, clovers, beer, celebrations, etc. Funny, touching, horrifying, dark, fast-paced, romantic, etc.)

Okay, so I was writing my entry and it kept getting longer and longer.  I was brutal and chopped it down to 285 words.  I know this is over the limit and I am sorry -- BUT if you want, you can stop reading at "forged by" (that is 200).

This is not St. Patrick's Day in the obvious sense, but more of a homage to Ireland and my memories of my childhood there.  No, I never did meet a leprechaun.

I look forward to reading everyone else's entries. 

My Woods

Stepping out of the sunlight into the shadows of the woods, I feel the chill embrace of the dark.  The unnatural silence, interrupted only by the sounds of my footsteps on the soggy leaves, welcomes me.  I am expected.

The darkness, intermittently pierced by shafts to sunlight, is comfortable.  The cold, familiar.  I make my way along the once paved lane lined with the remnants of exotic foliage planted with care by some forgotten gardener two centuries ago.  The old carriage path under the arc of trees would continue straight for a time, probably for the safety of the horses and the comfort of passengers long dead.  I do not need such pampering and cut right, down the deer path I remembered.  My foot hold is sure over the moss covered granite jutting proudly down the steep slope, steps forged for me when the earth was born.

Careless of the years that had passed, the old, lichen cloaked oaks still stand proud and strong.  They were my markers back then just as they are now, leading the way to the grove. 

I duck under a fallen bough and step into the circle of granite too uniform to be designed by nature.  This is the beating heart of my wood, both enthralling and terrifying.  A place I can never truly stay away from no matter the ocean between us.

A wizened little man clothed in rags of moss and fern steps out from a crevice in the center standing stone.

“Erin,” he says, his words more song than speech, “It has been a long time.”

I crouch to look him in the eye, oddly uncomfortable in my grown up body, “But I am home now.”

Don't forget to sign up for my Paint it Purple Blogfest on March 25th!