Faithfully Kept
((Ack! My net's been down for EVER. I just got Broadband because I got sick of waiting...anyway, here's a filler post for all the time I've been missing >C ))
With an exuberance and sweetness to belie her rapt intelect, the tiny form of 6 year old Faith Rodgers frolicked into her new bedroom. Behind her she dragged a small, Unicorn picture encrusted wheelie-suitcase and under one arm was tucked the form of a stuffed poodle. The young girl hummed a high-pitched and choppy song as she bounced, ringlets of yellow hair swirling in springs about her face and down her back.
"La la la...lala laaa la...LAA LAA...Omph!"
Faith dropped her bag on the ground and took a running leap for her bed, landing spread-eagle on her face. She giggled into the soft mattress, and rolled herself to the left. The poodle, still at her side, stared without emotion at her, and she picked it up with two pudgey hands. "Oh Best Beloved, shall we transcribe our adventure thus far unto the medium of the ages?" With that, she tossed the animal aside and bent over to rummage about in her suitcase. With a flamboyant flick of her tiny wrists she withdrew a pen and journal, settling it over her knees and bending her back to write.
"Dear Diary:"
No sooner had she written that then she scribbled it out, making a face as she did so.
"Eloquence is the essence of history..." she muttered, and began again.
"Oh the emotions that grip and bear, to heave and ho, to wrench and uplift my elated soul! From the very droplet of time in which my expectant eyes beheld this castle, I was fully aware of my desire to make it home. The place intreagues me; fills me with wonder and awestruck confusion. These last few sunrises have awoken me to a ravenous curiosity; each night I fall asleep to thoughts of bafflement and total satisfaction. The mannor truly is a palace of the Gods; where I may be at peace with my own kind. We are the figted and the able; all other creatures quake before our phenominal grace. But to those poor, ratty creatures we extend a strong and sympathetic gesture; they are meek and pathetic and cannot mentally behold our majesty; thus they hide and spit as dumb animals often do."
She paused, tapping her pen against her small chin, thinking.
"A most disgusting event occured last week. It pains me to write of it, but I must confess to someone, or I fear it threatens the very joy of my soul.
I was alone in the yard (no wait, that's not true, Best Beloved was accompanying me) when I heard a sound like quiet static an instant before the scent of chemical reached me. With quiet haste I made my timid way toward the sound, whose source seemed to be the outer gate of the mansion. And as I peered through a crack in the wall, my still young eyes were horrified with a most unnerving of sights.
There, on the Street, stood a boy, truly not much older than myself. His wicked eyes peered out of deep sockets; beady lumps of glistening and evil coal. Beneath a yellow cap worn askew to the point of complete reversal on the grown lay a sinister grin, and in his malicious hands the cretin held a can of spray paint. Repulsed for a moment, I stared at this monster as his can spat bright orange streaks onto the cement roadway before my home.
My shock lasted a stunted moment, though. I found myself in a silent rage, and without hesitation I pointed a vengeful finger at the boy.
His gleaming eyes darkened with confusion, and the spray-can wavered. The marks me made on the road were now meaningless scribbles; surely the boy must have thought himself going near mad. Immediately suspicious his head darted up as he scanned for one of the stronger race who inhabit our the home whose street he was desecrating. Those stupid eyes locked upon my tiny body, my malicious eyes, my cruel pointed finger. Hugging Best Beloved closer to my side, I recalll shouting words to him, to the like of:
'Imbecille! Fool whoe kind fears it's own inferiority! That thine spawn should be webbed of fingers forked of tongue and sharp of mind is my curse upon you! Pah, worm! Slithering creature, thy contageous and infected wound that burns and boils in it's own chaffing misery, causing thou superiors to squirm and write with disgust!
Surely, I spoke less than that before the boy's mouth began to open and shut, with the charm of a dying fish; my powers held strong and would not allow him a single spoken means of defense. Finally, baffled and frightened, the now-timid moron turned a terrified tail to literally run down the street and out of my sight.
It was only at that point that I let down my arm and released the smothering hold I'd had on Best Beloved."
The girl stopped again, closing her diary. She heaved a sigh, feeling a bit depressed, and left the bedroom to go for a walk.
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