“Annie, Are You Okay?” by Cherish Dean

The flower show was small, dumpy, and nothing like those she saw in the videos. Where was the pizazz of floating gardens? Petals that shifted colors to match your aura? The coveted fountain of youth providing refreshments for your everyday witches, warlocks, or sorcerers?  

Off to her right, little Anne was riding her tricycle, edging dangerously near her mother’s pride and joy, a beautifully abundant selection of Sedum Takesimense, some Plant of the Year Sarah had raved about. It was the only one Orla could recognize or name. Some witch she was.

“Be careful wee Annie!” Her sister’s lilting voice sounded loud in Orla’s ear as Sarah ran past, steering her daughter in a safer direction.

Sternly, Sarah turned to her, “I told you to keep an eye on Anne.” Her eyes were wide, unbecomingly puppy-dog-ish in a way very at odds with her tone of voice, “just watch her for a little while longer, Orla, please.”

Obligation weighing her down, Orla trudged after the toddler.

Things weren’t as overtly mystical as she had hoped, but as she followed Anne, Orla watched with glee as a young woman whispered into her hand, sending a swirling breeze of rose petals into the air that multiplied, falling gracefully all around, seemingly endless. Now that was more like it.

Her newly pleasant stroll turned anxious as the little girl tottered around a corner. Orla lunged, just missing, her fingers brushing up against a wheel.

The runaway tricyclist came to an abrupt stop at someone’s kneecaps. Orla took the opportunity to position a foot in front of one wheel, effectively booting the tricycle.

Dusting off her knees, she stood fully to apologize only to find herself eye to adam’s apple with a young man.

She shifted her gaze and- oh. It was Henry Mulligan. Michelle had invited him over one day when Orla was there. The two had talked, flirted maybe, and then, tragically, never saw each other again.

A nervous giggle escaped her and she regained her voice. “Uh, I’m sorry about--I tried to stop it,” she blushed and his smile widened, “I didn’t mean to let her--”

He interrupted her, but sounded apologetic as he said, “It’s alright, no harm was done.”

A sigh of relief escaped her, now: “So then Henry, come here often?”

Internally she slammed her head into a wall. Repeatedly.

“This side of town?” He had an air of studied aplomb. “Not really, but my aunt’s hairdresser mentioned it and I like nature, even tamed like this.”

Her head stopped hitting the mental wall. She looked at him with hope. His eyes twinkled. “Want to take a look around together?”

 They walked, talked, and in the back of her mind, as time passed, the still swirling rose petals took on a new significance.

When Orla stopped suddenly, she absentmindedly noted how he didn’t, how he continued onward around a corner, asking her a question.

She had forgotten something, she was now certain. Distracted, she caught up and asked him to repeat himself.

When he spoke again, she felt compelled to pay closer attention. Orla noticed a strange glint in his deep green eyes like suppressed laughter. Captivated as she was, it took her a moment to process what he’d repeated.

“You don’t remember my name?” Orla deflated at the polite blankness that overlaid his features. “But we met back at Michelle’s house…”

Her eyes widened and she spun on her heels as memory flooded back in. “Anne! Henry I’m sorry but-”

Running, she retraced their steps as best she could, asked passerby if they’d seen a little girl on a tricycle, strawberry blonde, more freckle than face. Finally, in a far corner of the show, she found the trail: a haphazard thing of crushed flowers and broken stems. Beyond the neatly curated plots behind her, creeping bushes and bold wildflowers almost overwhelmed the thin wheel tracks in the dirt. The land sloped down and she followed.

Anne was a young thing, barely three. She didn’t know what to be afraid of.

The undergrowth cleared, but Orla’s heart sank as her eyes zeroed in upon an overturned tricycle.

If possible, it sank even further when she saw where it had overturned at the base of the hill, likely crashing as Anne had roared down at high speeds.

Green grass tickled her toes through her sandals; dozens of mushrooms spiraled into a circle just in front of her. It was a fairy ring.

Orla fell to her knees in front of it, even knowing she shouldn’t. The tricycle was clearly within the bounds. There was nothing she could do, not before a day and a year; Sarah would know that as well as she did.

A voice called her name. Orla’s head snapped up to see a familiar adam’s apple. “She’s your little troublemaker, right?”

Orla’s jaw dropped as she saw Henry cradling Anne. Wordlessly, she nodded.

Henry stepped toward her. Orla’s eyes never left the scrape on Anne’s forehead or the delicate rise and fall of her chest. The fae hadn’t spirited her away.

“You know,” he said, crouching so they were level, “you never gave me your name earlier.”

Thoughtlessly, eyes still trained on Anne, she replied tartly, “My name is Orla as you should well know.”

She shuddered as the words left her lips and raised her eyes to look into his. Dancing with malice, they cut into her, unapologetic. When her eyes darted back to his arms, they were empty and Anne was gone.

With a terrible sense of resignation, she didn't follow his face as he rose, but instead glanced further down. He stood within the ring.

Henry, she doubted now that was his true name, doubted now that it was the Henry she had known, held out a hand.

 Her eyes darted away, searching for any sign of her niece.

 “Orla." His eyes sparked. A command.

 Compelled, Orla took his hand, no longer wanting its touch, and was dragged into the circle.

Cherish Dean is a renaissance woman skewed towards the arts.  In particular, a love of writing sprang naturally from a love of reading. Ever since, she's been filling notebooks and notes apps with short stories, microfiction, and poetry like there's no tomorrow. Oh! And she also loves cats and video games.