IRIS

Iris was a hermit.

She lived in a thatched roof hovel at the bottom of a valley. Fetid pools of mosquito birthing yards sat cool and still among the pale brown strawgrass and cattails. The patchwork grey water and flesh-colored vegetation grew disparate as the landscape rose into lumpen hills.

The hills burbled from the depression. Thin, fingerly coniferous trees rose from balled, nutrient-poor sand. The trees were wiry, and the pinecones seemed latched shut. Tightened into a defensive cloister. Dark in color.

Iris chose this life. Two days travel from most civilization.

She read her books. They sat comfortably in their leather covers and there in her timeworn palms. Frog leg and mushroom soup burbled in the cauldron over the fire. Her hut was always twilight.

Stories found their way to the surrounding towns. A monstrous hag. Her lair deep in the pale fen that the gods forgot. Surely, a hero will slay this fiend one day.

Iris sat on a stump and watched a duck clean its feathers. It warbled. Pecked at a fly.

Iris sipped her tea and smiled.