Original fiction. The first adventure of a little girl whose name we don’t know.
(Written by and Copyright B. Phillips, 2011)
It was sunny and warm the day that the little girl went for a walk all by herself for the very first time.
“How nice,” she thought to herself as she walked down the street, which seemed so open and full of possibilities without the shadows of her mother and father beside her. “Where shall I go on my first real adventure?”
The sidewalk glistened and shone. The little girl had no shoes, and she left smudges of red behind her as she walked. It seemed clumsy of her to dirty the glass shards like that, but it couldn’t be helped.
The little girl came to the edge of a field. The smell of dust and dry grass tickled her nose. Her feet tingled: They were excited to keep going. The little girl always listened to her feet, because everyone knows that feet know best when it comes to adventuring.
The ground in the field was hard. There was a layer of slippery pebbles and loose dirt on top of the dry, cracked earth. The grass was brittle and yellow.
The field was home to many different lives, big and small, and the little girl supposed that it had been rude of her to come in without knocking even though there was no door. So she didn’t mind when some of the creatures that lived in the field made their way into the cuts on her feet. Ants and tiny worms, centipedes and some fat white maggots.
“How nice to have some friends,” thought the little girl, mindful now to tread carefully and not squash her new travelling companions. “It’s a shame I can’t understand them, or they could tell me their names. No matter. I will name them myself.”
By the time she got to the other side of the field, nearly all of the little girl’s new friends had names. Percival, Bertram, Gary, Simon and Peter. She was just about to come up with a really good name for one of the ants burrowed deep in her left instep when she saw the house.
It was a tiny house, built just the right size for the little girl. That made sense, she decided. Even though she’d never seen it before, she knew that it was her house.
Inside the house was dark and musty. There was a layer of dust on everything and the windows didn’t open. It didn’t matter to the little girl. It was her house and it was beautiful.
There was a pot on the stove, but whatever had been cooking had been there for too long and was dried up, rotted and looking like nothing the little girl could recognise. There were some things moving inside, so she scooped her new friends Percival, Bertram, Gary, Simon, Peter and the ants she had to apologise to because she hadn’t found their names yet, and put them in with the old food. They squirmed about happily. She was glad.
There was someone else in her house. She had known that as soon as she walked in. It wasn’t a friend. She knew that too, but she didn’t leave. It was her house.
The stranger didn’t want to be seen, but the little girl saw him in the corner of her eye, in the spaces between the blackness. Her heart vibrated in her chest. Her pores opened and covered her in thick, sticky sweat. The black spots danced and she couldn’t keep up. Her house was a small one indeed, and it seemed it couldn’t hold enough air with the stranger inside. The little girl’s scalp felt too tight for her head. Her feet throbbed and mourned for their new friends.
“Oh dear,” thought the girl, and it was the last thing she thought for a very long time. “Perhaps it wasn’t a good day for adventuring after all.”