Margaret hated clichés. Her last name was “O’Brien” and she had memories of her grandmother who described her as “her little Gaelic lass.” Her mother dressed her in emerald dresses and decorated her hair with clover tiaras for the St. Patrick’s Day parade each year. She had played fiddle in elementary school and could still pick out a tune if pressed.
Once she became an adult and moved away from her family, Margaret found all those connections with her culture to be a little trite and in private would go so far as to say that they were stereotypical in nature. She ran west and got a job at the mill that squatted next to a wide channel on a branch the Colorado River; she’d gotten almost as far away from her West Roxbury roots as she could.
Margaret considered all those things as she carefully kept her steps on the path; the one thing she didn’t like about the southwest was the fact that there was always the possibility that a random bush along the path could be home to a poisonous snake. She never left for her morning hike without her walking stick just in case, but it wasn’t snakes she needed to have worried about that day.
It was the only thing being talked about at the mill. Sophia’s first thought when she heard that Margaret had been kidnapped was So much for the luck of the Irish and she felt immediately guilty as soon as it crossed her mind.
Written for today’s Flash Fiction Chronicles Daily Prompt. Come find a fresh-cooked batch of 10 words daily…