The following is an entry for the Fairy Ring Flash Fiction Contest over at Anna Meade’s blog, Yearning for Wonderland. I’m a horrible procrastina-pod, and I waited till the last second — or more accurately, the last twenty-eight minutes. But here you go!
I didn’t expect it to be so wet.
Oh, I knew it rained in Scotland. How else would everything be such a virulent shade of green? Somehow when I pictured majestic mountains shrouded with twilit silver mist, that mist lacked the power to turn my hair into a fro.
Right now the expanding mass of curls atop my head didn’t make number one on my list of problems, but it also didn’t help my visibility as I squinted into the engine of my rental.
Steam rose from the metal, along with the acrid tang of seared rubber. One end of the betraying belt flopped against the oil dipstick.
I’d come here looking for magic. I’d found wet feet and a fro. Two hours to wait for AA – that’s what I got for picking a nameless glen in Sutherland over a pub in Fort William. My brain taunted me with the memory of malt vinegar over chips and Glen Ord scotch.
The forest to the west looked drier and less cramped than the tiny car. I squished into the underbrush and picked my way to an oak tree, sitting on the cushion of moss to wait for my rescuers.
The air smelled of peat and crystal water, clean. A deep breath afforded a small comfort against the damp seeping through the seat of my pants.
Bright in the gloaming, eyes met mine through the trees. Breath held tight, I pushed my back against the tree, feeling the bark crease my skin. Eyes. Deep green-gold set into a face of leaves. The pat of the misting rain fell silent as I stared across the clearing.
Someone called my name.
My head swiveled toward the road and the flash of reflective yellow jacket. When I turned back, only the rustle of leaves remained.
Get every new post delivered to your Inbox
Join other followers