Little My Rainbow

       Moomintroll had locked himself in his room. The nerve! Little My was bored, and boredom was an offence punishable by chaos. So she scaled the rope ladder, wriggled through his window—and there he was, hunched over his desk like some tragic poet. Blue paper. Pink ink. Rose-scented, no less! Disgusting. She told him exactly what she thought of his bourgeois drivel. "Nobody invited you!" he snapped, and—the audacity!—shoved her into the wardrobe. "I don’t need invitations! I irk whenever and whoever I want!" She kicked the wardrobe door, reciting his dreadful verses from memory. "'My heart beats ever faster'—see a cardiologist before you keel over. 'And all I see is you'—and an optician while you're at it!" "Can't hear you!" The door slammed. Little My jammed the latch open with a kite strut, but by then, he’d fled. Pity. She’d have loved to hear Snorkmaiden gently eviscerate his aesthetic crimes. Left alone, Little My clambered onto his desk. The pink ink still glistened. Absentmindedly, she dipped a finger in, smearing the paper, drawing lines and letters—then blinked. A crude sketch had appeared. A silhouette. And beneath it: "You’re nice, y’know." With a snarl, she tore the page apart and ate the evidence. Ugh. Sentiment. He’d be terrified of it. She hated it. And pink ink on fancy paper was tacky anyway. …Though, against green, pink wouldn’t look half bad. A flower on the hat—not one of Miss Fillyjonk’s prissy selectioned roses, but something wild and full of thorns but tender at the core. Like a dog-rose in the hedgerows. Little My didn't know or care a shit about flower language, but that sounded matching the feeling— Ugh. What rot. Where did she get those ideas? Was the ink laced with something icky? Because she had nowhere to get those feels from. Little My only specialised in gleeful malice and rage, and right now, she was furious that her ears and cheeks were burning—probably pink as that damned ink. She hauled herself onto the windowsill, letting the wind scald her back to sense. By lunch, she’d be her usual cool again.