“It’s not yours, you selfish, black-Irish lass,” he grunted, slamming his body against mine.
“Well, it’s certainly not yours, you little fairy,” I said, elbowing him and then reaching out to pull his top hat over his eyes. He cried out an obscenity as I pried his fingers loose from the coveted prize.
“How dare you speak to me in that tone and how dare you accost me?” The leprechaun’s beady, red eyes met my gaze with contempt. “I am Gareth the Great. Haven’t you heard the stories about me? How I’ll go to great lengths to get what I want.” The wee-one cocked his head, giving me a sneer. “You should be quivering in your shoes.”
“Me? Afraid of you? You’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “You’ve no idea what I do or what I’ve seen. Believe me, I don’t scare easily.”
“I warn you, you should be frightened, lass.” He righted his hat and straightened out his black velvet vest. “Very frightened.”
“Is that so? Well, Gareth, you don’t know how far I’d go to keep your grubby hands off what’s mine. And yes, I have heard the stories. I’ve read a few submissions featuring you.”
“Really?” The leprechaun glanced at my hands, their contents glowing in the lamp light. He licked his lips. “I’ll give you my gold,” he whispered, jingling coins in his pocket.
“I don’t want it.”
“What do you mean, you don’t want it!” He shouted, glaring at me. “Everyone wants my gold. They sing about it, make movies about it, some have even died for it!”
“Well, I’m not everyone.”
“You wicked wench!” His face reddened as he fisted his hands and stomped his feet in an angry jig. “Then. What. About. Wishes?”
“What about them?” I shrugged.
“I’ll give you three,” he said, clenching his teeth, “in exchange for that draft of the Bleeding Ink Anthology.”
“I don’t want your wishes and this draft is for the InkBabes’ eyes only, buddy. Oh, by the way, I’m more than just an editor, you oaf! I’ve a talent for brewing up deadly potions that can take care of the likes of you in a blink of an eye, so you’d better check your temper little man, and back off.”
“But, I can’t,” he whined, clicking his heel against the floor. “I’m dying to read it!”
“And you will, soon enough. Just like everybody else.” I grabbed the shamrock plant sitting on the end table and took aim. “Now, get out of my house before I crack your skull!”
“Ooh you temperamental writer!” He took a step back. “Okay, I’m going, but you haven’t heard the last from me.” He shook his finger. “I’ve sent in a little ditty, meself, I did. Expect to find my submission in your inbox.”
And with that, the Leprechaun stormed out of my house, slamming the door behind him.
Who knew the wee-folk wrote dark fiction?
If any of you have a dark tale to share, send it in to us at Bleeding Ink. Like Gareth the Great, we’re dying to read them!
Submission deadline, March 31st 2012
We at Bleeding Ink wish you all a lucky St. Patrick’s Day!