I thought today we’d do something a little different. Let’s play a game in honor of St. Paddy’s Day. There’s only one rule. You have to stay within a shamrock/leprechaun/magical/Irish theme.
Here’s what we’ll do. This will be a round robin sort of story. Each time you comment, make up two or three sentences that will “continue” the story. Let's see how long we can keep it going!
Ready? Let’s go!
Crowds clogged the streets. The deep thump of the base from a band echoed off the tall building and skyscrapers, reverberating in her chest. With so many people meshed together, the cooler temperatures of March in the Midwest didn’t feel so chilly.
Tia took a sip from her plastic cup of green-dyed beer, wondering for the third time that evening why local bars thought coloring the alcohol was so darned funny. Because, really, looking at it and thinking too hard about the liquid made her stomach turn.
With a sigh, she scanned the throng, looking for a guy wearing a green top hat. Or at least that’s what he said he’d be wearing when she chatted with him online the night before…
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Unfortunately, it seemed like every guy and their second cousin was wearing a green hat.
Tukes, bollers, baseball caps, and even a beret, no top hat though. Was someone giving these things out for free?
Someone reached from behind and placed their cool hands over her eyes.
She gasped, spinning around in a near panic. The plastic cup of green beer forgotten in her hand as she gazed in hope at the face of a total stranger. Mr. Green Top Hat was standing there with a jaunty smile on his handsome face, holding a green cane in one hand and in the other hand.....
...A fake four leaf clover. Which he placed in her empty hand. Then he lower his head, to whisper in her ear, "What's your wish?"
They had been talking about everything under the sun online for the past couple of weeks... He knew what she wanted, what she desired most.
She seemed froze like a statue. Did she think he would not come?
She looked up at him with a knowing glance and looked towards the door...
"I think you know what I want..."
"Ah, it's a kiss you're wantin' then," he replied in a fake but cuter-than-cute Irish brogue.
That's a start, she thought. Taking the green paper clover from him, she...
put it down on the table and stood up. She took his hand and murmured, "Let's get out of here."
He turned out to be driving a green (of course) Austin Cooper Mini, and he somehow managed to maneuver it out of the downtown area without killing any marchers, spectators, or random drunks.
Ardaila nodded approvingly as she saw he had a room at the Marriott. She missed the view from the glass elevator as she appraised her internet boyfriend. Tall. Muscular but not muscle-bound. Cute as hell...
But something was off. He was smiling, warmly holding her hand, but she didn't sense any excitement.
Please tell me he's not gay...
They got to the 17th floor and her escort opened the door to room 1701. Ardaila stepped inside. Coat rack to her right, bathroom to her left, but in front of her was another door, this one wooden and intricately carved. What the hell?
Her escort swept the door open and beckoned her inside.
Ardaila stepped through the threshold and gasped. She stood in a forest, on a warm spring day, with black tree trunks hundreds of feet tall on all sides. There before her was a pavilion with a shamrock flag floating at the top. Horses. Palfreys. Men and women in green livery. "What the hell is this?" she said.
Never letting go of her hand, her escort went around her, and knelt before her. He kissed his hand. "Princess Ardaila. I have looked for you for many years. Welcome, Your Royal Highness, to your true home. With you here for the leprechauns to rally to, we will beat back the invaders once and for all, and establish the fairy paradise we enjoyed in the time of your late grandfather."
For a full minute Ardaila had nothing to say. Then: "Hold it. Stop. I'm not Princess Ardaila. I'm not Princess anything. I'm Ardaila McFinn, I'm a thirty-two-year-old divorced legal secretary, my life bores me to tears, and I came here to get laid--not to lead some kind of half-assed fairy revolution."
The man smiled. "Ah, if it's to lie with a man ye're wanting, my Lady... I am at your disposal in all ways. I'm your vassal, you know. Do with me whatever you will."
Er, I mean, he kissed HER hand...
"My vassal? You're like my servant or something?"
"Or something," he agreed with a smile and a wink. "What would be your pleasure?"
"Right at this moment a strong drink wouldn't go amiss."
"As you command, your highness." He clicked his fingers and instantly in his hand a glass of something emerald green and frothy appeared.
"What is that?"
"T'would be your drink," he smirked, "your favorite actually."
She cocked her brow and took the glass from her lucky charm and drank it down in one swig.
Coughing she wiped a tear from her eye and laughed "Oh wow, that is good. Give me another."
Something was wrong, she didn't drink too often, but for some reason whatever was in the glass he passed to her again made her yern for one more taste.
"Bottom's up, M'lady!" Her vassle smiled.
Oh yeah, something was terribly wrong.
Ardaila wanted nothing better than to leave, after she finished this last drink. But as soon as she swallowed the last drop, her vassal refilled it. She shook her head. "I have to go back now," she said, her voice sounding faint and faraway to her own ears. She turned around to go through the door but it was no longer there. She whirled around, ready to scream or throw something, scared out of her mind. Instead, she promptly fainted.
The last thing that went through her mind, as the cloudy darkness whirled in front of her eyes, was the old adage...never eat or drink anything they give you in faerie.
She woke, not remembering to much of where she was. Staring down at herself, she was clothed in this gorgeous light green gown that flowed from her chest all the way down to her toes. Covering her toes were these precious slippers with diamonds on them.
Struggling to sit up, she stared at her surroundings. "Where the hell am I?" She said meekly as she rubbed her temples. The room she was placed in was made to fit a queen or some type of royalty. There were no words to describe how magnificent it was. Jewels everywhere, gold used in almost everything, portraits that look like they were from never never land...
"M'Lady, you are home. Do you not remember?" Ardaila almost jumped out of her skin. Turning her head so fast, she almost gave herself whip lash.
When her eyes landed on the hot guy from the bar, it all came back to her. Panic stricken her face. The hot guy, the bar, the elevator ride....
Wow, you guys! I'm gone for the whole day and come back to this wonderful continuing story :-) Very clever ;-)
The doors that led to this...place. "What do you want from me and why can't I go home?" Her voice quivered slightly.
"You are our queen and as such we have brought you home." Her Vassle said as he helpped her up from the plush overstuffed bed.
"No I'm not, I can't be I-I" she stammered when he brought her flush to his chest. Her body heated and flushed as he held her against him and nuzzled her neck.
"You most certainly smell like our queen." He chuckled.
"No-no, I mean...wait what? Are you saying I smell now?" She pushed out of his hold and began pacing. "I'll tell you what, if I smell so bad then send me home...like NOW!" She belowed.
Just then a knock came at the door. Her Vassle immediately answered the door to find a little man all dressing in green with a strange little hat.
"They're coming, we need the queen." he said excitedly.
"Nuh uh," Ardaila held up her hand to ward off both internet man and little person. "I said I was going HOME."
The diminutive figure standing in the doorway glared at her, stomped a tiny foot in frustration and cried in an annoying high wail,"You can't go!" He kicked internet boy in the shin. "You found her - you'd better make her stick around!"
Good grief, Ardaila thought - he's like a mini Tony Soprano in a bowler hat!
The hunk took her arm gently. Too gently, she thought. Ardaila glaced up-- Wait a secnd, why was she letting them all address her as Ardaila? That was the fancy name her free-spirited, pot-high, hippie mother had given her. Name she'd had legally changed to Tia when she'd turned eighteen.
Her head reeled as the realisation hit her. Her mother... Why had she named her only daughter, her fatherless child, by such a lyrical-sounding name? Tia'd always thought the faceless man who had sired her was probably Irish, hence the moniker.
But now... A sinking feeling dragged her heart down. Now she knew, and at the same time didn't know darn nothing. Did all this... nonsense - for what else could it be - have something to do with her father?
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