The Ghost of a Good Thing
“One little, two little, three little Indians…”

Dusk had settled down up Las Vegas and its surrounding areas. The hues of the desert landscape were slowly fading, moving as if they knew that it would be another twenty four hours before they had another fifteen minutes of fame. They were a luxury to be enjoyed for the fleeting time they presented themselves; a truth that could be recognized by anyone who took a few moments to appreciate them.

“Four little, five little, six little Indians…”

Braden had been told that this patch of desert that sat five miles North of Vegas was actually an Indian burial ground. Childish as it may seem, the leprechaun had not been able to suppress his natural interest in such a place. He loved nature, and in a country as diverse in scenery as America, Braden felt like a kid in a candy store. The heat and dry weather had bothered him much less than he had anticipated. But that was just his kind of luck.

“Seven little, eight little, nine little Indians…”

From the deep folds of his pant pockets he produced a small flask, just big enough for a little fun. Braden was taking it rather easy this night. While it was not typical for him to take it easy on any type of booze, this was a place that he wanted to remember in the morning. The land was suppose to be completely sealed off from visitors, but it was not a difficult task for a magical being to get into somewhere that was off limits. And it was even easier for Braden to get into trouble. He unscrewed the cap of the flask while he finished his song.

“Ten little Indian boys.”

Not breaking stride, he lifted the liquor to his lips and took a sharp draw. As he came up a small hill, suddenly the land before him sprawled out with large mounds of sand and clay. The sun had vanished, leaving the moon barely visible in sky. Braden felt as if he could follow that sky forever.


[thread is open to Hannah]