In America, everyone claims to be a little bit Irish in March. They guzzle green beer and generally have a good time. They talk about shamrocks and rainbows, and leprechauns and pots of gold. Never once do they stop to think about the consequences of their actions. This is a short-short about consequences, golden consequences to be more specific. (Trigger warning: includes allusions to sex and violence and may not be appropriate for younger readers.)
I’m an American with Irish heritage and I tell you, I love St. Patrick’s Day in America. Green beer—whoever thought that one up was a genius. Of course, I serve nothing but green beer on the sainted day. Oh, didn’t I tell you? I am the proprietor and bartender at Shawn’s Tavern.
Oh, yeah, it was a little shop, one people call a hole-in-the-wall. Ah, who am I kidding? It was a dive. I had my eye on this swank place off of Main Street, but I didn’t have the cash. St. Patrick’s Day was one of my biggest days. Until the day I met one particular lady..
It was the wee hours of the night after St. Patrick’s Day and I’d just tossed the last drunk out, locked the door, and counted my till. I hung up my apron and headed for the back door when I heard a wee sound. A tiny sob. It came from the back corner, the darkest corner in the place. I made my way back there and almost missed her, a wee girl sitting on a stool and a-crying her eyes out. I didn’t think she’d noticed me so I say, “There, there little lady, I don’t know why you’re a-crying but things can’t be so bad.” Taking my handkerchief out of my pocket, I offer it to her. “Her now,” I say, “wipe your tears and tell me what’s troubling you. I’ll help you, if I can.”
She looks up at me and I see the greenest, most emerald eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. She took my handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes that never left mine. “Oh, sir, how kind you are, unlike the scoundrel who took all my money and left me here all alone.”
“Someone robbed you?” I say, “Here, in my bar? Tell me who did this. I’ll make the sod pay.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket and swiped up.
“Who are you calling?” She asked in a voice that fell on my ears like a melody of violins.
“The cops, I’ve got to report this, you know,” I told her. “Got to keep my license and my bar clean of this kind of stuff.”
“Oh, sir, please don’t. You’ll besmirch my name in my Da’s eyes.” She gave me a look that pierced my heart.
I turned my phone off and put it back in my pocket. “Then, at least let me take you home. You live with your parents?” I offered her my hand.
“In a manner of speaking.” She took my hand and stood. All of three feet tall, she wore a wisp of a dress that didn’t reach her knees.
My shock must have shown on my face.
“You’ve never seen a little person before?”
“Never one so small and beautiful as you.”
“Would you like to make love?”
My heart and my manhood swell in answer.
She puts a delicate hand over her mouth and laughs a laugh that teases and arouses me at the same time.
My brain and my manhood spar about what is right and what I want “I don’t want to hurt you,” I say.
Her tiny hand pulls me with a surprising strength that should have made me wary, but the desire in her eyes drove away everything else.
Never has love-making on the floor of the bar left me so completed and depleted. She rolled off me and snuggled into the crook of my arm. Her sigh was a warm breath of spring. Tears shimmered in those emerald eyes.
“Oh, please don’t cry again,” I say. “It’d break my heart.”
“It always pains me when the kind ones are bound to me.”
I laugh, low and heavy, with the afterglow of sex. “Bound to you?”
“It is a rare thing for a lady leprechaun to be seen. Rarer still for her to share her passion with a human.”
I laugh again, not as low or as comfortable. “So, did I earn your pot-o-gold?”
“Oh, lad,” she says. “Haven’t you already done that?” She smiles. Her lips stretch against pointed, wicked-sharp teeth.
That was five years ago. Now, I know what you’re a thinking. There’s no such thing as a lady leprechaun. But I swear on my mother’s grave, she is… If you don’t believe me, you can see her for yourself. Just go through that door there.
No sooner than the door closed behind him that the lights went out. I busy myself with putting away beer glasses, noisy-like, so I don’t hear his cry of surprise. A green glow strobes around the door. Long after I finish stacking the glasses, the pulse of emerald light slows to a flicker, then dims to a glimmer. I wait until the room inside goes dark again, then rap on the door. “That’s the last of the stragglers tonight,” I say. “Is it safe?”
“Come, get your pot of gold.”
Sometimes my writing surprises myself. This story was inspired by a post about how there have never been any myths about lady leprechauns. I hope you enjoyed it. And I hope that you haven’t suffered golden consequences or any other kind from your St. Patrick’s Day celebrations.