Gingers

Moira pinched the flier with the day’s events between her fingers, leaving dimples of moisture on the edges of the paper. She had entered the grounds without issue but as she mingled among the myriad of redheads at the convention, she felt anxiety twist in her stomach, certain she would be spotted as a fraud.

“Fáilte, mo dheirfiúr!” A woman said, blocking Moira’s path. Moira forced a grin. The Irish phrase was familiar after hearing it so many times.

“Welcome to you, as well, my sister,” Moira managed to return the greeting.

The woman’s eyebrow arched. “American, aye?”

“Yes,” Moira agreed. “I’m from Oregon. The closest I could get to my roots, living on the coast you know. This is my first year where I was able to travel to Crosshaven. I’ve dreamed of coming to Ireland for ages.”

“I’m Shannon,” the redhead grinned. “This is my third year attending the Irish Redhead Convention. Will you be here all three days, then?”

Moira nodded so eagerly her chin-length hair slapped her cheeks. Shannon cocked her head and Moira found herself caught in the woman’s emerald-green gaze. She tucked her hair behind her ears, wondering if Shannon had discovered her secret.

“There’s the cairéad tossing contest. Would you like to enter?” Shannon was asking, pointing over Moira’s shoulder. Moira let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She followed Shannon’s finger to where a group of people stood, their flaming hair sparkling under the sun.

“Carrots?” Moira giggled, squinting at a basket full of orange vegetables.

“Aye, cairéad,” Shannon laughed with her. “They have teams of two. Whatever team can throw their carrots the furthest wins.”

“Wins what?”

“A soul, of course.”

Moira found herself inspecting her new friend’s freckled face, uncertain if the woman was joking. She realized Shannon had been reading her own face when the woman gently patted her arm.

“Not every redhead is told the secret, but this is the one of the rare times when our kind can obtain a soul. They’re much sought after, you ken.”

“I thought gingers being soulless was just a joke.”

Shannon gripped her arm. “No, my sister. Have you not felt the deep emptiness? It is your very being crying out for a soul. Once you have collected one, you will ken what you have missed and never want to go without, again.” Those verdant eyes sparkled again and Moira swallowed down her fear. The woman was serious, then. Moira’s boss had been adamant that the ginger convention was more than just a fun get-together but Moira hadn’t believed the rumors. She had hoped to prove the man wrong but now she was beginning to wonder what she’d walked into.

Moira allowed herself to be tugged across the grass, trying to tamp down her racing thoughts. They passed a stage where a redheaded man was singing that, “...only a ginger can call another ginger, ginger...”

“Tim Minchin,” Shannon said with a nod. “He’ll probably win the MOGO Awards this year.”

At Moira’s blank look Shannon clarified, “Music Of Ginger Origins. This is our first year that we’ll be hosting music awards.”

Before Moira could come up with a reasonable comment they were in line to sign up for the carrot toss. After a round or two she found herself getting the hang of lobbing the vegetable so it could gain the most ground. She found herself enjoying the competition, laughing as a strawberry blond girl no more than six-years-old accidentally sent her carrot straight up into the air and onto the head of her auburn-haired father. The two were disqualified with a rousing round of applause. Before long there were only three teams left on the field.

“I can’t believe it!” Shannon hissed, excited. “I’ve never gotten this far. You’re like my charm t-ádh The wee folk have certainly blessed our friendship!”

Moira tried to hide her embarrassment by rummaging through the carrots, pretending to search for the perfect piece of produce to pitch. When she glanced up she found the third team being cheered off the field and their only opposition standing at the ready. The first man chucked his carrot. It flew far and fast beyond Shannon’s orange root. Her friend groaned. Moira took her place and put all her strength into her throw. The carrot wobbled through the air but managed to land next to the competitor’s vegetable. Shannon screamed in disbelief.

“Don’t get too excited,” Moira murmured. “Mr. Muscles over there is next.”

She watched as the man readied his carrot only to see him pause, glance her way, and wink. His carrot flew across the field and fall short of hers.

Moira’s jaw dropped. “Did he just—”

Shannon jumped up and down. “We won! We won!”

They were called to the music stage where the appointed King and Queen of Gingerdom waited to congratulate them.

“To the victors go the spoils!” the King bellowed. The crowd cheered and parted as a man with poorly dyed red hair was shoved up the stairs and pushed to his knees before the royal feet. “This fool thought to infiltrate our convention but the fae folk had other plans.” The King gestured toward Moira and Shannon. "Come and claim your prize!”

“We’ll have to share but half a soul is better than none,” Shannon whispered.

“You go ahead,” Moira urged. “A gift to my new cara.” The Irish word had Shannon placing a hand against her chest, touched.

Moira pasted on a smile as she watched Shannon touch the imposter’s face. The man slumped over and his body turned to ash in front of her eyes. She gasped as a bright light illuminated Shannon’s face.

“Huzzah!” The Queen cheered and the crowd shouted with her.

Shannon slipped back to Moira’s side. A freckle glowed on the redhead’s face.

“Every freckle is a stolen soul,” Shannon winked, her voice giddy. Moira absently tugged at her dyed hair, suddenly very aware of the crush of gingers surrounding her.



Luck of the Irish ▼

999 words
Written For:

FORUM

The Writer's Cramp  (13+) Write the best poem or story in 24 hours or less and win 10K GPS! #333655 by Sophurky

Prompt: Your character attends a convention. What type of convention is it? Where is it being held? How many days does it last? Why is your character attending this convention?

Fáilte, mo dheirfiúr = Welcome, my sister
cairéad= carrot
ken = know
cara = friend

Every year in Crosshaven, Cork, Ireland there is an Irish Redhead Convention. Unlike my story, non-gingers are allowed and compete in some games with redheads. There are lectures, a carrot toss, music, and speed dating. A King and Queen are appointed every year to rule over all Gingerdom.