Irish Rose by Elizabeth Penn (Illinois, 28)

Emma Flannigan wasn't your average Irish country woman.
In fact, she wasn't even Irish. And yet there she stood, in her
home in the small town of Ceallach, getting ready for a day
at the market. She finished pinning back her mousy brown
hair, exposing her thin, pale face. Although she was only 23
years old, her features were aged with grief. She had, as the
towns people often said, "lost her bloom" over the last few
months; slowly fading away ever since the death of her
husband, Seamus. They had only moved back to his
homeland there in the Irish countryside a year before the
tragic accident. And now, Emma, a very English woman, had
to find her life there, in their Irish home, without him.

​Looking in the mirror by the door on the way out, she noted
her pallid complexion, and, pinching her cheeks in the hopes
of color, only seemed to redden them, as if from being too
long in the sun. She untied her plain white house apron,
hanging it by the door and brushed her hands down her blue
cotton dress, smoothing out the bunches from where the
apron had been tied. Then off she walked down the road to
the market place.

​Ceallach was a quaint little town nestled into hillsides of
Southern Ireland. It was sheep country, meaning that the
land belonged to the sheep and the people were merely
humble visitors, or so it felt to Emma. Everything in the town
was for the sake of the flocks. Their pure white fleece was
the lifeblood of the town. Everyone was acquainted there,
and if someone was new to the area, they were only
strangers for a week or so.

The town was comprised of stone cottages off dirt roads,
which all led to the center of town. The streets in the center
of town were lined with cobblestones which matched the
rocks used to erect the buildings some 500 years before. The
town center was home to the primary school, the pub, and
the marketplace, which was really just a bunch of shops
sitting side by side, who would put out street tables of wares
for sale on Sundays before church. That was where Emma
was headed.

The dirt road wound its way from her cottage through the
rolling green hills of the countryside. The white stone
steeple of the local church rose high in front of her, watching
her each day to assure she didn't stray too far from her
duties. Moss-covered stone fences lined the road with the
heads of fluffy sheep peeking out at her as she passed,
hoping for an afternoon snack. The wind rustled the rose
bushes by the wood door to the church, and she knew this
time she had to hurry; a storm was on its way.

"Do hope the wind doesn't blow the petals off our roses. Bad
luck that is," said Mrs. McKree, the dress saleswoman, as
Jane approached her table.

"You know what they say around here," she continued, "The
death of the rose means the fall of an angel. And that is our
only rose bush in the area. We lose that, we lose all our
angels. I couldn't imagine what that would mean for the
flocks."

Emma nodded, barely paying attention to the conversation.
She was too busy looking for a new gown. She had always
promised Seamus she would attend his little church one
day, and while she was too afraid when he was alive, as she
had lost her faith long ago, she missed him dearly, and she
knew if she were to find his spirit anywhere it would be in the
church. She found a green silk gown with a matching
bonnet, his favorite color. Paying for the gown, she made her
way home to change for mass. Returning soon after, she
walked through the large wooden doors of the church just in
time, and found a seat near the back.

The priest, Father Tomas, was a young man with a soft voice.
His eyes were dark and distant, expressing the emotional
scars of a lost love and an oath to become a better man. He
was new to the cloth; it was his escape from the pain of his
lost Beth. The day Emma came to mass he spoke of love, of
sacrifice, and of giving up your life for the ones you love, as
Jesus did for the world. He was there to tend the flock of
Christ.

He had never met Emma. He had only heard stories of the
"plain-faced English woman who was obviously no
Catholic". Father Tomas was on the lookout for her since her
husband's death, hoping to assist her in joining the
community that he had also found himself a part of , but
because of the description he had received, he had almost
missed her. She wasn't plain to him. The moment he saw her
glowing pale skin as she removed her bonnet to take her
seat, he was struck with passion. She was the embodiment
of purity, sitting only feet away from him in his humble
church. Never in his life had he felt so close to God as he did
in her presence.

Emma was in tears, and he saw the same look in his eyes
reflected in hers from where he stood behind his pedestal.
She wasn't sure she could make it through the mass, but the
voice of Seamus echoed in her head. She expected to feel
the warmth of her husband there, but all she felt was cold of
the stone walls of the church. She prayed for his soul, and
that she could once more time feel his love for her. She was
too young to live the widow's lonely life, and she begged to
find his love in that church, but there was no answer.
As soon as mass ended, she burst through the doors,
sprinting home as thunder shook the ground. She locked her
door tight behind her to keep out the storm. Then, throwing
herself on the couch, she finished her cry. Her sacrifice was
that of her heart.

Eyes red, she made her way to the closet to pack her bags.
Seamus was gone from the town, and their home. She was a
black sheep. Sitting on the bed by her half-packed suitcase,
she heard a loud banging at her door. The rain was coming
down hard, but it didn't sound like rain, so she opened the
door, unsure of who would be calling at such a time.

It was Father Tomas, and he held a rose.

"I am no sheep," she said, tears running down her cheeks.

"I am no shepherd," he replied, rain dripping off his face as
he removed the white collar of his priest's cloth, letting it fall
to the ground. She took his rose, and invited him in.





Elizabeth Penn holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University. She currently teaches as a Creative Writing Teacher for KIPP High School in St. Louis. She grew up traveling as a military brat and meeting people from all over the world. During her travels, she especially loved the countryside of rural Utah and Alabama. Now she uses these settings as the backdrop for many of her books. Her romance writing is inspired by both her life as a Queer Sufi Muslim, and the diversity of her friends.  Her works consist of both novels and short stories, and include a variety of cultural, social, racial, religious, and sexual perspectives on love. The only thing she loves more than being a writer is being the mom of her two wonderful special needs kiddos.