Wrong Wail [FICTION]

The day before Halloween and our Irish wake had barely gotten started. Great uncle Seamus would have been proud of his three sons for getting us all together to celebrate him. But he would be most proud that they convinced his best friend to foot the bill for the finest Irish whiskey. His pride would have faded when they refused to share the whiskey and were falling down drunk before the ladies of the family had set out the array of treats he enjoyed so much in life.

Their mother cuffed them soundly about the ears and sent them to sleep it off in his stead. Then the party really got started. Thankfully, Seamus was more clown than cad, so as we shared our memories, we found cause to roar with laughter and raise our glasses. 

As darkness fell deeper outside, eyes turned to the clock. Slowly but surely, people began to take their leave with more hugs, more Irish blessings baptized in the dregs of the bar, and reminders to the widow that family was just a call away.

When only a handful of people remained, the remaining hands banded together to help clean up the remains of the celebration of life. They might have finished in record time had she not interrupted. 

An unearthly wail filled the room. A pinpoint of light grew with the earsplitting sound until the silhouette of an angular woman in rags revealed herself to the remaining mourners. The widow sank to her knees, adding her own wail to that already permeating the air. The mourners closest to her, knelt beside her as if to shield her with their bodies and the rest stood staring at the banshee with slack-jawed, wide-eyed fear as her hollow, soulless eyes looked through them.

She turned her head with disturbing slowness to scan the room. Finally, her eyes rested on the image of the deceased under the in memoriam banner. Her head whipped back around to face her quivering audience and emitted an even more plaintive wail. 

“Late,” she dragged out the word and turned once more to Great Uncle Seamus’ photo, addressing it with a lingering wail of despair. “Already called.”

She disappeared with less fanfare than she arrived. The mourners still huddled together as coldness gripped the room. When the temperature finally rose, so did the mourners. They rushed as fast as feeble legs could carry them to vacate the banquet hall before anyone else could be called.

~~~

Happy Halloween, dear readers! Feel free to take this last chance opportunity to inspire my National Novel Month Writing but posting suggestions in the comments.

Grumple, the Grumpiest Leprechaun [FICTION]

Reading to my daughter may be helping me rediscover my childish authoress. Enjoy.

In one gloomy glen in Ireland, the grumpiest leprechaun ever known took up sole residence. His demeanor frightened off all the other fairy folk that once inhabited the area. From rotting potatoes lobbed at unsuspecting passers by to late night digging complete with the ringing of a pickaxe on stone to cursing at unseen foes throughout those dark hours, he assured an unwelcome feeling to even the most thick-skinned individuals. Creating such an environment earned him the lonely neighborhood he desired in which to perform his daytime moping and late night ranting. Such perfection could not last long, however, for too much of what one wants dissolves grumpiness and misanthropy.

Late one night as the pickaxe resounded against stone time and time again, Grumple's weary arms gave out and the axe rebounded, flying toward his head with his weary hands still clenched around the handle. Startled, he screamed an improper word, loosened his grip, and fell to the ground. As the axe clanged off something in the weeds, a high-pitched laugh erupted from Rumple's left.

He raised his head slowly until his eyes rested on a thick tree trunk. "Is someone there?"

Another laugh answered him as a slender woman stepped from behind the tree. A soft glow emanated from her skin, shining through the thin rags of white fabric that formed an old-fashioned dress with voluminous skirts, a high neck, and flowing bell sleeves.  Long, dark hair flowed freely past her shoulders. She raised her arms in greeting and bowed dramatically at the waist.

"My name is Branna." She whispered but the words cut through Grumple's eardrums.

Clasping his hands to his aching ears, he exclaimed. "Banshee."

She chortled and reached into the folds of her skirt to produce a small pipe. She lifted it to her lips and the sweet scent of pure tobacco filled the air. She inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. A trail of smoke letters floated from her lips.

'A caterpillar's trick should keep you alive to heed my warning.'

"What?" Grumple's hands fell from his ears.

'My cousin lives here. You're trying to scare her away. Stop it. ' 

"But I need my privacy." He crossed his arms and scowled at Branna.

'Why?'

"That's not your business."

'You lost something?' As the words hovered in the air, her free hand disappeared into the folds of her skirt again.

Grumple's eyes followed her hand hungrily as it reappeared with something shiny. "My gold?"

'Not yours.' She put the coin to her mouth and gently peeled gold foil away from milk chocolate.

Grumple muttered something under his breath as Branna devoured her prize.

"What?" She opened her mouth in anger.

Grumple screamed and clutched his head. As the pain subsided, he mouthed an apology. The banshee raised the pipe to her lips once more.

'If I find your gold, will you be a better neighbor?'

"If I can't find it, what makes you think..."

The banshee raised her hand to silence him. 'I have my ways.'

Grumple stood stunned in the fading light as the banshee disappeared into the trees. 

What do you think, dear reader: Is this story done or should I tell you how it ends?