Little My Rainbow

       Little My was halfway through her lemon biscuit when it struck her—her mother’s visit might not be a catastrophe. They were both Mymbles, after all. Creatures of pure, unapologetic whim, sometimes crashing into each other’s wishes like seagulls over a chip. Like the eternal squabble over who’d watch over the little ones. But Mymble-Mamma had much longer experience in self-indulgence—romantic pursuits included (hence the frankly excessive number of siblings). Who better to consult about wanting to not want what you wretchedly want? A sharp tug at her dress hem brought her back to the reality. Little My spun around, but it took her a moment to spot the cheeky brat. The latest half-brother—judging by the familiar carrot-top and reckless audacity—could barely reach the chair seat. He was shorter than her, but had ingeniously scaled the back of another, even tinier sibling acting as his footstool. Around them, six or seven other Mymble offspring crawled, sprinted, or sat in various states of chaos—girls in yellow smocks, boys in blue overalls, all identically ginger with either green or blue eyes glazed in vacant enthusiasm. Except this one. His eyes were turquoise and sharp—future gang leader material, almost like her in her prime (because of course no one could be just like her!). Splendid. Time for some sisterly character-building. With a snarl, she kicked him off. "Paws off my biscuits!" To his credit, he didn’t wail—just squeaked and immediately began shimmying up the chair leg like a squirrel. "There’s enough for everyone, dear," Moominmamma observed mildly. Little My ignored her, gauging the perfect moment to swat him down again—but he slipped on his own, landing with a thud. He sat for a second, thinking. Then he yelped an incomprehensible order (Mymble-mamma never bothered teaching them to speak; they figured it out or copied the smartest sibling—her, once upon a time). The horde obeyed at once, swarming the chair leg in unison until the whole thing wobbled. It’s going over— It did. Little My leapt onto the table just in time, flashing the brats a rude gesture before cramming the last piece of biscuit into her mouth. The ringleader squeaked again, and the mob diverted to Sniff—specifically, his conveniently long, climbable tail. Fine. Let them get acquainted with his fragile nerves and sturdy lungs. In a second, Sniff screeched and bolted to the kitchen, dropping his biscuit as he fled. The sweet distraction worked—on most. The leader remained, staring at Little My with unsettling focus of those turquiose eyes. Then—the little demon mirrored her rude gesture perfectly. "Oh, you want war?" He did. With a battle-squeal, he lunged for the tablecloth, yanking it downward. Little My barely saved herself, rolling clear as porcelain rattled. Right, let him scald himself with the teapot— Wait. Her favourite resting teapot! "He just wants to say hello," Moominmamma interjected, swooping in to rescue the crockery. "He threatened me!" "Did he?" Moominmamma waved at the pup. He beamed and waved back. "He copies you. If you’re kind—" Little My gagged. But—ugh—she couldn’t deny the logic. Testing the theory, she jumped down, arms splayed in exaggerated welcome. In the worst case, she’d show who’s the best biter here. "Alright, squirt. ‘Sup." "Weee!" He barrelled into her, sticky paws clamping around her waist. Revolting. Snotty face, prickly hair tickling her ear—yet somehow… not entirely terrible. She patted his back with grudging approval. "I dub thee Little Wee. Since Mum couldn’t be arsed naming you." A pause. "And learn to talk properly. I’m not decoding squeaks forever."