I met a little girl once.
I found her under a mushroom, watching the fairies dance and wondering what it would be like to have wings. She could fly one day. She has dreams.
Inside she has wings, outside, she is a little wild thing. Her hair is like course straw, frizzy and frazzled, as if she ran in teh wind. All the time. She isn’t the walking kind after all. If she can’t fly, she does the next best thing — runs.
She adores the ground her older brother walks on. She looks just like her mother. A temper. A wild imagination. Stubbornness issues. And stripes.
She wears stripey socks and gumboots.
Her lives in a world I made, a world with a history and another set of Stories. But I think she’ll fit in well. Who knows, she might even get her very own Book. As of now, she’s the sister of the brother. But she has enough personality to fill a chest, and, if you lifted the lid of the chest, I think you’d find fairy dust.
And tiny fallen stars.
And fairy tales.
She has a name, of course she has a name. It’s a secret. One day you’ll see it, next to her brothers, written in the Old Tongue my Story’s boasts.
For now it’s Frizz.
The Little Wild Thing.