A young girl glides along a well worn path, talking to herself quietly in a language she didn't even know she knew.
Japanese, it is, and she's never learned a word in her life, yet she can feel that the words are correct. She assumes she's just pretending, but she's been able to do it with more and more languages; and when she's out people turn to their friends and whisper how smart she must be.
She's not; she could tell them this, but it'd spoil all the happy she gets when she hears them. She knows she's not smart because she doesn't know things, like why some people like her and some people don't, and why people drink milk when it's really meant for little calves.
She doesn't know where the path is going, either. She looks down, tilting her head to the side and asking herself out loud. "Where am I going?"
She shakes her head. It's not her that's going, it's the path, and she doesn't understand her logic but she feels it's true. She pulls on the long white sleeves of the ribbed shirt that's hiding beneath the purple t-shirt with the glitter stars, contemplating this for a second.
Her soft red hair brushes into her eyes in the gentle wind, and she tucks it back behind her ear. It has grown in the past two months - now it drapes over her shoulders and tickles her cheek no matter how she tries to keep it away. She doesn't know how to get it cut, and she's afraid to ask anyone lest they laugh at her. They already laugh at her for enough, like her boy-clothes and dirty sneakers that she can't afford to replace with new ones.
Wait - she has a hair band, and she tells herself this in her maybe-fake German. She digs in her pockets, finally producing a woven black and green dyed circle that she corrals all her tickly hair into and twists it around a few times until it will stay shut the second she takes her hands off it
She continues walking, singing made up word songs to herself in what she assumes is pseudo Latin; pausing for a second to announce in English "Latin is a dead language," to no one in particular.
Then she rounds a corner and comes upon the cemetery, and reminds herself in Latin that she still likes it, even if it is dead. She runs through the imposing cast iron gates with the little spears on top, squatting down on top of one of the graves and squinting at the huge tombstone. "Emily Elizabeth Parker." She announces, and then "Born 1926, died 1994. Beloved wife, mother, and teacher." A pause, and "I'm sitting on you, aren't I, Emily Elizabeth Parker?" She questions, scooting off so she's lying on her stomach next to the grave. Her feet kick up in the air, and she rests her chin on both hands in a way that'd be quite endearing if she wasn't talking to a dead woman. "Were you a teacher here, then? That'd explain why you're buried here and all." She says in Russian, pausing a second and then repeating it in English in case Emily doesn't know that particular language.
OOC: felt like present-tense. I probably won't continue it, though, so no worries. Open to anyone...
Oh, yeah, and this is Ed.
Japanese, it is, and she's never learned a word in her life, yet she can feel that the words are correct. She assumes she's just pretending, but she's been able to do it with more and more languages; and when she's out people turn to their friends and whisper how smart she must be.
She's not; she could tell them this, but it'd spoil all the happy she gets when she hears them. She knows she's not smart because she doesn't know things, like why some people like her and some people don't, and why people drink milk when it's really meant for little calves.
She doesn't know where the path is going, either. She looks down, tilting her head to the side and asking herself out loud. "Where am I going?"
She shakes her head. It's not her that's going, it's the path, and she doesn't understand her logic but she feels it's true. She pulls on the long white sleeves of the ribbed shirt that's hiding beneath the purple t-shirt with the glitter stars, contemplating this for a second.
Her soft red hair brushes into her eyes in the gentle wind, and she tucks it back behind her ear. It has grown in the past two months - now it drapes over her shoulders and tickles her cheek no matter how she tries to keep it away. She doesn't know how to get it cut, and she's afraid to ask anyone lest they laugh at her. They already laugh at her for enough, like her boy-clothes and dirty sneakers that she can't afford to replace with new ones.
Wait - she has a hair band, and she tells herself this in her maybe-fake German. She digs in her pockets, finally producing a woven black and green dyed circle that she corrals all her tickly hair into and twists it around a few times until it will stay shut the second she takes her hands off it
She continues walking, singing made up word songs to herself in what she assumes is pseudo Latin; pausing for a second to announce in English "Latin is a dead language," to no one in particular.
Then she rounds a corner and comes upon the cemetery, and reminds herself in Latin that she still likes it, even if it is dead. She runs through the imposing cast iron gates with the little spears on top, squatting down on top of one of the graves and squinting at the huge tombstone. "Emily Elizabeth Parker." She announces, and then "Born 1926, died 1994. Beloved wife, mother, and teacher." A pause, and "I'm sitting on you, aren't I, Emily Elizabeth Parker?" She questions, scooting off so she's lying on her stomach next to the grave. Her feet kick up in the air, and she rests her chin on both hands in a way that'd be quite endearing if she wasn't talking to a dead woman. "Were you a teacher here, then? That'd explain why you're buried here and all." She says in Russian, pausing a second and then repeating it in English in case Emily doesn't know that particular language.
OOC: felt like present-tense. I probably won't continue it, though, so no worries. Open to anyone...
Oh, yeah, and this is Ed.