There once lived a small girl with no mother, but a quiet man for a father and a dog named Boris.
Boris was a large ugly thing, with a scruffy mass of uneven thick hairs standing all about him. A rather disorganized measure of black shaped him muzzle with a snout of ebony, usually wet with snot and a mouth with a perpetual drip of saliva. Boris. Oh, Boris! A mutt of such an unkempt appearance could only be so loved by a small sea-faring girl.
She was a child-beauty, our young girl was. She had a pair of dirty green-lit eyes and a head of hair which fought to be red, but was rather hinged by an emboldened chocolate brown color, constituting a precise measurement about her face. And yet, it was the child's lips which drew the eye with a spectacular force. A pair of berried lips, pouted, standing out, even among even the perfection of such large and perfectly lash-lined eyes.
Our sweet sea girl and her mutt, Boris, made it a habit of trailing the secret ghosted steps of those who tread the sand before them. The girl often told her ugly dog the stories of those who once danced upon these same shores, the ghosts, whose presences followed her to the edge of the sand, where pavement met shore, and stopped altogether. Whispers of lives past, upon the wind, only a child could hear. That only a child might believe to be more than what simply is. She followed the belief that magic kept spirits within reach. Some harbored heartache from lost and missed loves, gone to the Sea, unable to wait. Others, at peace, wings spanning the entirety of their backs, flit about overhead. Such lovely creatures, thought the girl from the Sea. Stories filled her mind, like the bright images of the reel of a movie, upon a giant screen before her. Those lost, drawn to our small heroine found friends in the odd couple, girl and ugly mutt, who traveled the long-forgotten paths along the side of the sea.
The girl from the sea and her dog sought the presence of the gilr's mother, daily, certain that a mother's wings must rise to the sky, higher and more grand than any other.
But the girl and Boris were yet to meet the magic of a lost mother.
Crabby old Mrs. Lance, the widowed sister of the girl's father, had sneezed a hundred times, upon meeting Boris, one day soon after her mother's death.
"Why for must that dreaded beast accompany such a lovely child, and why ever must such a small thing spend so much time, alone, at the edge of the sea?" she'd asked.
Mrs. Lance, though with no children of her own (she now mourned the loss of her husband, even after 32 years) judged herself the most obvious replacement for the girl's mother. She thought it impossible that a fisherman might be able to raise a small child of his own accord. A man would never fair well in the presence of a small child, and would fair worse as that same child aged in to the demure stature of a woman. After all, crabby Mrs. Lance had come to find the small child had collected rocks, shells and leftover bones from those whose fates were met at the edge of the sea.
Sand collected among the treasures spread throughout the house as though left behind by the small presence of a sea-faring sprite. Of course Mrs. Lance would never think of such a silly thing...and yet it was the imagination of our small own dear girl which caused the spread of the ocean's remains.
Upon the very sight of the rugged, though well mannered Boris, Mrs. Lance let out a continued mass of sneezes, eyes rimmed with a pink and dripping with a clear liquid. The small girl only looked on, hand upon the large head of the beast, placid and calm at her side.
"Such a drat of a creature, I should certainly say! Unacceptable for such a small child to be trailed by such an ugly thing as this, believing that she should meet the spirit of her mother upon the shores!"
And at such a moment as this, dear old Boris began to whimper with a small sound and then a very long sequence of his own sneezes, blasting out of him, soaking the old bat of a woman before him. For minutes this lasted, while the young girl spoke words, sweet as sugar, to her large friend, carefully wiping his own dripping black snout.
"Whatever made such a mess of this dog so suddenly," cried Mrs. Lance.
And now our young girl's own father sat before a large hearth, glass of Scotch in-hand smirked slightly to himself, looking upon his young daughter, admiring the affection with which she handled large old Boris.
"Ay," the father began. "He must be allergic to bullshit."
http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_vOU6Mh0BSTw/S7a7ajUTnCI/AAAAAAAAC68/J8v9uNuRxmM/s1600/dividerpreview.png
Boris was a large ugly thing, with a scruffy mass of uneven thick hairs standing all about him. A rather disorganized measure of black shaped him muzzle with a snout of ebony, usually wet with snot and a mouth with a perpetual drip of saliva. Boris. Oh, Boris! A mutt of such an unkempt appearance could only be so loved by a small sea-faring girl.
She was a child-beauty, our young girl was. She had a pair of dirty green-lit eyes and a head of hair which fought to be red, but was rather hinged by an emboldened chocolate brown color, constituting a precise measurement about her face. And yet, it was the child's lips which drew the eye with a spectacular force. A pair of berried lips, pouted, standing out, even among even the perfection of such large and perfectly lash-lined eyes.
Our sweet sea girl and her mutt, Boris, made it a habit of trailing the secret ghosted steps of those who tread the sand before them. The girl often told her ugly dog the stories of those who once danced upon these same shores, the ghosts, whose presences followed her to the edge of the sand, where pavement met shore, and stopped altogether. Whispers of lives past, upon the wind, only a child could hear. That only a child might believe to be more than what simply is. She followed the belief that magic kept spirits within reach. Some harbored heartache from lost and missed loves, gone to the Sea, unable to wait. Others, at peace, wings spanning the entirety of their backs, flit about overhead. Such lovely creatures, thought the girl from the Sea. Stories filled her mind, like the bright images of the reel of a movie, upon a giant screen before her. Those lost, drawn to our small heroine found friends in the odd couple, girl and ugly mutt, who traveled the long-forgotten paths along the side of the sea.
The girl from the sea and her dog sought the presence of the gilr's mother, daily, certain that a mother's wings must rise to the sky, higher and more grand than any other.
But the girl and Boris were yet to meet the magic of a lost mother.
Crabby old Mrs. Lance, the widowed sister of the girl's father, had sneezed a hundred times, upon meeting Boris, one day soon after her mother's death.
"Why for must that dreaded beast accompany such a lovely child, and why ever must such a small thing spend so much time, alone, at the edge of the sea?" she'd asked.
Mrs. Lance, though with no children of her own (she now mourned the loss of her husband, even after 32 years) judged herself the most obvious replacement for the girl's mother. She thought it impossible that a fisherman might be able to raise a small child of his own accord. A man would never fair well in the presence of a small child, and would fair worse as that same child aged in to the demure stature of a woman. After all, crabby Mrs. Lance had come to find the small child had collected rocks, shells and leftover bones from those whose fates were met at the edge of the sea.
Sand collected among the treasures spread throughout the house as though left behind by the small presence of a sea-faring sprite. Of course Mrs. Lance would never think of such a silly thing...and yet it was the imagination of our small own dear girl which caused the spread of the ocean's remains.
Upon the very sight of the rugged, though well mannered Boris, Mrs. Lance let out a continued mass of sneezes, eyes rimmed with a pink and dripping with a clear liquid. The small girl only looked on, hand upon the large head of the beast, placid and calm at her side.
"Such a drat of a creature, I should certainly say! Unacceptable for such a small child to be trailed by such an ugly thing as this, believing that she should meet the spirit of her mother upon the shores!"
And at such a moment as this, dear old Boris began to whimper with a small sound and then a very long sequence of his own sneezes, blasting out of him, soaking the old bat of a woman before him. For minutes this lasted, while the young girl spoke words, sweet as sugar, to her large friend, carefully wiping his own dripping black snout.
"Whatever made such a mess of this dog so suddenly," cried Mrs. Lance.
And now our young girl's own father sat before a large hearth, glass of Scotch in-hand smirked slightly to himself, looking upon his young daughter, admiring the affection with which she handled large old Boris.
"Ay," the father began. "He must be allergic to bullshit."
http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_vOU6Mh0BSTw/S7a7ajUTnCI/AAAAAAAAC68/J8v9uNuRxmM/s1600/dividerpreview.png
