I lived in a meadow, encompassed by a pond- to which I was very fond. I was out in the North of Cork-Kerry. Oftentimes, I found my self sorting through baked loaves and thyme- to make poverty seem no farther than a dime.  My sister Helena and I collected yeast, nearby in the east.

My family lineage fell under the plague of lack due to tales that gave my bloodline heart attacks. If we "go to the south", my now-dead-uncle Finley would say "we'd be eaten by the woods' mouth". G'damn, were his words worth grands. The verses practically curated to mold our empty hands.

Every night my mother would rehearse the same harsh lines; before I'd even place my head on the soft pillow. "If we go south... We'd be eaten by the woods' mouth!"

As a consequence, a sequence of nightmares would mock my rest. I'd witness and grimace at ghastly mouths, wrapped in roots that welded thousands of feet into the ground. There was also beastly trees, with limbs eager to cocoon my body into a corpse!

So here I sat on the compasses' tale of the North, hoping to reach higher courage. 

Although my family drilled me with fear, I knew something was unclear. 

I wandered to the pond with my sister yesterday morning, after my series of terrors... and wondered. CRACK! Echoed the blunder of thunder, as I spoke my truth. "Sister of my youth, why do you think all this paranoia riddled grandpas' tooth?"

She cocked her head and beamed at me. "Probably afraid of some change?"

I looked at the reflection of my sister's worn out face, all I'd see is history I wanted to erase.

I chuckled cynically, in frustration. Change, alright.

You see, my grandfather grew up in poverty him self. I remember how much he'd loath his being. He'd use the yeast to make beer instead of bread. He'd chug and chugged 'til he was drunk, rambling up folklore.

Perhaps he conjured tales to keep his family in lack, as a way to make amends with his pride once he had passed. "Well, the lack of sense has made us lack cents." I kicked the stones into the pond, angrily. 

"Well, why are we still on the fence?" 

My sister, Isobel, a women who would always spit wit.

We were quite literally surrounded by a fence. A true visual of the fear that creeped my lineage.

There was this constant need to find shelter in what possibilities laid below.

"Y'know, I don't know", I responded, my curiosity then glowed. 

She sorted through her bag of hopeful whim 

"Look, I've got the knives and some rope."  She progressed with ideas.

I scratched my head. "You're willing to go to the South?" 

"Uh-huh! It must all be a myth! A myth with no rhythm for growth."

I gulped and reached into my pocket. "Well, I've also got some seeds for vitality and a heartful of courage".

She nodded her head, eyes lighting up as she grabbed a loose feather from the floor and dribbled the end in a pit of dirt.

I grinned, knowing what was next. I handed her a loose-leaf.

She scribbled out a map into the supposed mishaps of the South.

"Look," she pointed up into the autumn-glazed sky, cotton candy clouds drifting overhead. 

It was still early morning, and Mother was asleep. 

"Let's go now,"

And as we followed the maps' trail we soon realized all was a fable. When two young-spirits unite, all is able.

Instead of decaying trees that'd haunt me, I witnessed lush gardens.

Plants of endless species I had never encountered in my life... promisingly lined up, in assortments of abundance. 

My sister and I danced with the arms of prosperity. 

And as we followed the trees that gleamed and beamed at our youthful glee, we realized one final truth.

The only mouth that had eaten up anyone was my uncle's false tooth.