DALE THELE - AUTHOR
Bonus 2026
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THE UNLUCKY LEPRECHAUN
by Dale Thele
In a quaint little village nestled between rolling emerald hills, where rainbows frequently arched across the sky like nature’s smile, lived a leprechaun named Finnegan O’Flaherty. Finnegan was not your typical leprechaun. While his fellow green-clad cousins reveled in the spoils of their legendary pots of gold, Finnegan had become somewhat of a local legend for an entirely different reason—he was the unluckiest leprechaun in all of Ireland.
You see, while other leprechauns pranced about with glee and mischief, sprinkling good fortune on unsuspecting humans (and sometimes mischievously stealing their socks), Finnegan seemed to attract calamity like moths to a flame. His troubles began when he accidentally spilled a pot of glittery gold dust into the village well. From that day forward, every villager who drank from it found themselves caught in bizarre situations—like a goat wearing glasses at market day or Mrs. McKinney dancing uncontrollably during Sunday Mass.
One crisp morning, as golden sunlight streamed through his crooked window—knocked askew by an errant bird the previous week—Finnegan sat at his tiny kitchen table, nursing a cup of chamomile tea. “Today is going to be different,” he declared to no one but himself and perhaps the half-eaten scone on his plate.
Just as he took a sip, there came an unexpected knock at the door: three knocks followed by what sounded suspiciously like someone trying to whistle “Danny Boy” through their nose. Finnegan opened the door to find himself face-to-face with Nora McGinty—a lively young woman with hair as fiery as her spirit and a glint in her eye that suggested she was up to something.
“Finny!” she exclaimed with unrestrained enthusiasm. “I need your help! The village is organizing its annual St. Paddy’s Day festival, and we’re short on decorations! I heard you have… connections.”
Finnegan scratched his head nervously; connections were not typically part of his skill set, especially considering his previous luck issues. However, Nora’s infectious energy drew him in like a leaf caught in an autumn breeze.
Thus began what could only be described as “the” most chaotic quest for decorations ever undertaken by any leprechaun—or human—known to man.
The first stop was Old Man Murphy’s barn, where they hoped to borrow some shamrocks for decoration. Unfortunately, Old Man Murphy mistook them for thieves trying to steal his prized goats. After much shouting and waving of pitchforks (which sent Finnegan diving behind Nora), they left empty-handed but with newfound goat friends who decided it would be more fun to follow them than to be tended by Old Man Murphy.
Next, they visited Miss Hattie’s flower shop with the intention of acquiring some daisies—not just any daisies, but those rumored to bring good luck (for everyone except poor Finnegan). Just when they thought they were in the clear, picking flowers amidst giggles and jokes about how Miss Hattie always seemed confused about whether it was spring or summer, disaster struck once again: a swarm of bees descended upon them!
“Run!” yelled Nora while swatting away bees that mistook her hair for a cozy hive. Amid the chaos, poor Finnegan slipped on what could only be described as “a particularly squishy piece of floral arrangement” and landed face-first in Miss Hattie’s prized tulip patch.
By this point, both laughter and disbelief filled the town as people recounted tales of Finnegan’s mishaps—each incident worse than the last, yet somehow endearing him even more to their hearts.
As evening approached and the duo hadn’t collected anything but bruises, they settled down near Willow Creek under the twinkling stars, which seemed to be amused by their antics.
“I’m sorry I dragged you into this mess,” Nora said softly, catching her breath after laughing at how muddy he looked, even compared to the goats grazing nearby.
“Oh, don’t worry!” Finn replied, his cheerfulness forced despite feeling utterly defeated inside. “Nothing ever goes right for me anyway! I’m basically cursed!”
Just then, a shimmering light flickered across Willow Creek, stirring both curiosity and dread within him. Out stepped none other than Maeve, the ancient fairy queen known for granting wishes… or so the legends claimed.
“Mighty unlucky you are,” she said, playfully tapping her chin before bursting into laughter, which sounded like wind chimes tinkling merrily together. “You’ve made quite an impression today, dear lad.”
“What do you mean?” asked Finn incredulously. “I couldn’t gather anything useful if my life depended on it.”
Maeve smiled knowingly before producing two sparkling four-leaf clovers out of thin air. “One is yours, to change your fortunes forever; the other belongs here—with your charming human.”
As she handed over one clover, which glowed brightly against the moonlit sky, he felt a warmth radiate deep within, connecting his and Nora’s souls. They were momentarily united, celebrating the camaraderie forged through shared chaos rather than mere triumphs.
Perhaps luck wasn’t just about gold coins and riches, but rather the friendships formed amidst laughter that echo long after fleeting moments are lost forever.
With newfound resolve bubbling within him, Finn stood taller than ever, despite being covered from head to toe in mud, like a rogue trying to escape an unwanted fate. Beside him stood an unwavering ally, ready to tackle whatever adventure awaited beyond the horizon.
Tomorrow promises new beginnings, filled with possibilities that swirl infinitely around the corners, waiting to illuminate our paths. To truly embrace these moments, take small, intentional steps forward, trusting that the magic you seek is within your reach. We should never tread lightly down these paths, as they wink back at us encouragingly, reminding us that all we truly need to discover is the magic that lies within ourselves. This magic is found in sharing joys and hardships alike along the journey we walk hand in hand toward endless horizons that beckon us onward, urging us deeper still toward brighter tomorrows. These moments are sprinkled joyfully everywhere among unsuspecting lives, gently touching them forevermore and leaving lasting impressions that are treasured fondly, even upon the most unlucky among us.
Copyright © 2026 Dale Thele. All Rights Reserved
Not to be copied or reproduced electronically or otherwise is expressly prohibited without prior written permission of the author.
VALENTINE'S IN AMOURVILLE
by Dale Thele
In the charming village of Amourville, where the streets were lined with rose bushes and the air smelled of lavender, Valentine’s Day was more than just a holiday—it was a grand event that united the community. Each year, the townsfolk would gather in the town square for the Great Valentine Exchange, a tradition that fostered a sense of shared joy and connection, reminding everyone of the warmth and kindness that define their community.
This year, however, the Valentine’s Box included a peculiar addition. Amid the usual heart-shaped cards and poetic declarations, there was a small, unassuming envelope marked with a single word: “Mystery.” Inside was a riddle that read, “To find the heart that beats for you, follow the path where roses grow.” The villagers buzzed with curiosity, eager to uncover its meaning, wondering if it was a prank, a secret admirer, or a clever trick by the mischievous baker, Monsieur Pierre, known for his elaborate practical jokes.
As the day unfolded, a young woman named Elvera, known for her sharp wit and insatiable curiosity, decided to embark on an exciting adventure to unravel a mystery that beckoned her with quiet allure. She followed the clue from the riddle, tracing the path of roses that led her to the edge of the village, where an old, forgotten garden lay. There, amidst the overgrown vines and wildflowers, she discovered a second note tucked beneath a stone bench. It read, “Where the sun kisses the earth, your answer lies.” With a knowing smile, Elvera realized the clue pointed to the hilltop overlooking Amourville, where the sunset painted the sky in hues of pink and gold.
As Elvera reached the hilltop, she discovered a final note tied to a bouquet of wild roses. It simply read, “Look behind you.” When she turned around, she found herself face-to-face with Lucien, the quiet, bookish librarian who had long admired her from afar. His heart pounding, he shyly confessed that the riddles were his way of expressing feelings that words alone could not convey. Elvera, touched by his honesty and the gentle moment, accepted the bouquet with a laugh. Thus, in the heart of Amourville, under the setting sun, a new love story began—woven together by riddles, roses, and the timeless magic of Valentine’s Day.
Copyright © 2026 Dale Thele. All Rights Reserved
Not to be copied or reproduced electronically or otherwise is expressly prohibited without prior written permission of the author.
WINTER’S WHISPER
by Dale Thele
Winter 2023 was unlike any other in Eldridge Hollow. December came, and the air chilled. But the skies above never darkened even once. Snow did not fall from the clouds. Instead, the world was brushed with a thin, brittle frost. It was not just the snow that was amiss. The people of the town felt as though something had been stolen from them.
Clara Bellamy looked out the kitchen window. Brown grass and naked trees stared back. She wrapped her arms around herself, shivering from something colder than the air. The kettle shrieked behind her, and she leaped from her reverie. Filling her teapot, Clara let the boiled water tumble over the leaves. She stared, warming herself in memories of her father’s tales of winters long gone and blankets of white.
“Just another bizarre year,” she muttered to herself.
Her father had passed two years ago. The best kind of father. The quietest. The one who always took comfort in the patterns of the earth. Now, Clara only had her memories and his notes. Pages and pages of scribbled clues and questions about “the missing winter”. The notes had filled an entire drawer in his desk—drawings mixed with lectures on climate change and fairy tales of lost seasons and some odd symbols.
Clara sipped her tea. There was a loud rap at the door. Clara opened it, and there on her step was the town’s hermit historian, Derek Matheson. His expression was wild under his knit cap.
“Clara! You need to come with me,” he said breathlessly.
“What's going on?” She followed him outside into a biting wind that seemed to whisper secrets among its gusts.
“There's been a… disturbance,” he hesitated before adding gravely, “in Frostwood Forest.”
The Frostwood Forest lay just outside of Eldridge Hollow. A large forest, filled with old trees and haunted silence in the winter. There were rumors of spirits trapped inside the Frostwood, whispered stories told in front of roaring fires, but they had all been lost to local folklore long ago—until now, as Derek ushered Clara toward the forest’s edge.
The forest mouth yawned in front of them, beckoning their fears to consume them. After a few steps into the woods, some fallen branches and patches of dry dirt seemed oddly out of place, like someone’s dream gone horribly wrong.
“What did you find?” Clara pressed as they trudged deeper under skeletal branches that clawed at their coats.
Derek halted at a gnarled oak, its bark riddled with deep grooves that oddly looked like a form of writing. It was not anything they understood, but it intrigued them both to want to learn more. “I came across this late last night when looking for research on cyclical aberrations,” he whispered as if someone could still be there.
“It feels…” She hesitated, running one groove along her fingertips; it was oddly warm, even with the cold air about them.
The unexpected noise quickened both their pulses-the sound reverberated disconcertingly in the stillness, which was at last so thick that one cut it with a knife. Out of the shadows there stepped an older woman in patches and rags of some dusky stuff from which the night was spun; pale eyes that seemed to gleam of fire from under her hood, like fragments of ice peering into some nether world—and other worlds as well, maybe?
“Seekers…” she intoned softly yet firmly. “You wish to know what is lost?”
“Who are you?” Derek demanded, his tone laced with uncertainty and tinged with fear.
“It is I, Nira,” she responded, her voice heavy with the knowledge of many years--the force with which she pronounced that single word was enough to make their bones shake more than the coldest winter would have on its own.
Nira moved forward, until they could almost feel the warmth of her presence against their skin despite the cold that hung between them: “Winter has been stolen—not by the Earth but by hearts uncaring or incapable—of hearing.”
Clara shared a knowing look, a spark that now lit up the space between them—they both mourned what was lost and clung to something that still lay below.
“What do we have to do?” she asked urgently, wanting nothing more than answers, unearthing possibilities previously thought impossible.
“To recall what once was... to restore the severed ties that bind us through lost seasons.” Nira pointed at mountains far away, shrouded in fog, spiraling near a horizon where sky and earth eternally merged.
It sounded so easy and so big all at once; images flashed in Clara’s mind where bits and pieces she had collected over the years came together in an elaborate quilt of memories now forever captured in her mind. As her memories played, the gray clouds above began to shift and settle together, shutting out all blue sky. Then, out of the silence, one snowflake drifted down from the heavens. Then another and another. As memories came, so did the snow as it began to accumulate at Clara’s feet.
Clara made a path through the snow as she joyfully walked that cold winter’s day. As she traveled home, it seemed that a breeze rustled through the trees, “Thank you, Clara, for saving winter.”
Copyright © 2026 Dale Thele. All Rights Reserved
Not to be copied or reproduced electronically or otherwise is expressly prohibited without prior written permission of the author.