Gillie wrinkled her nose. “It’s not magic.” What she meant was, the delicious taste of spring flowers and green hills was missing from her St. Patrick’s Day oatmeal.
“It’s green,” her father said.
“Did you dye it?”
He swallowed hard. “Sorry.”
“Where’s our leprechaun friend?”
Her father produced a note from his pocket.
“I’m off to the motherland. It’s not safe here.”
“Did NICE deport him?”
“The witch hunts are over. Now they’re hunting leprechauns.”
Gillie pushed the bowl away. “They’re not nice. It’s opposites day every day.”
Her father wrapped her in a warm hug, powerless to do more.
Monica's Monday Morning Flash 