Your story kept me reading, which is the gold standard for me. I continue to scoff at the notion that an author's work must be validated by a "publisher" to warrant merit in the eyes of academia, when the real test is whether people read the work.
Well. That was one hell of a spell you just cast. I sat down to read with a cup of coffee and left with a limp, a lawsuit from the leprechaun union, and a sudden urge to inspect every drawer in my house for cursed quills. You’ve taken the whole tangled mess of cancel culture, literary identity, and mythological diplomacy—and served it up with wit sharper than a fresh-whittled shillelagh.
I nearly spit my drink at “Yeats?! The Sandymount fascist!” and don’t even get me started on the molars. That image is gonna haunt my dreams more than any ghost I’ve conjured.
This story wasn’t just funny—it was smart, spellbound, and sly as a fox in a Sunday hat. And if this marks the twilight of the anti-woke satire age, then you’ve gone and buried it with style. Deep. With bones crossed.
Your story kept me reading, which is the gold standard for me. I continue to scoff at the notion that an author's work must be validated by a "publisher" to warrant merit in the eyes of academia, when the real test is whether people read the work.
The leprechaun was the bad guy, right?
That's a very insensitive comment.
I enjoyed this. I wonder if it will still be a potent piece in 20 yrs, or a historical artifact? I think it will still be funny.
Thanks. As much as I would like my fiction to be eternal, I hope this kind of story becomes a quaint artifact of the past.
Well. That was one hell of a spell you just cast. I sat down to read with a cup of coffee and left with a limp, a lawsuit from the leprechaun union, and a sudden urge to inspect every drawer in my house for cursed quills. You’ve taken the whole tangled mess of cancel culture, literary identity, and mythological diplomacy—and served it up with wit sharper than a fresh-whittled shillelagh.
I nearly spit my drink at “Yeats?! The Sandymount fascist!” and don’t even get me started on the molars. That image is gonna haunt my dreams more than any ghost I’ve conjured.
This story wasn’t just funny—it was smart, spellbound, and sly as a fox in a Sunday hat. And if this marks the twilight of the anti-woke satire age, then you’ve gone and buried it with style. Deep. With bones crossed.
Consider me thoroughly hexed (in the best way).
Yours in ink, ash, and literary mischief,
Chava Hoffman aka Miriam Fay
Thanks Chava! What a classic comment! It’s good to see you on on Substack!
Outstanding ! Thank you
I hate those little Leprechauns making Lucky Charms unkosher.