The Color: Pink - O.F.R: 3

CHAPTER ELEVEN: The Colors: Pink

The smallest of the three glances at the commotion. She turns her head to look over, then tilts her head ever so slightly up to see underneath that baggy hood of hers. Every step jolted the hood back down. She adjusted to seeing things time and time again becoming what was essentially a walking bobblehead. Her focus over time solely went to the event, slowing down in pace and breaking away from the distracted group. Their posture and focus were split for only a few seconds.

The girl stopped to get a better look at 'em. It had to be the single most exciting thing she's seen for miles, maybe even in her entire life. This included the up-close interaction she had earlier in the day. At the pond there was a frog afloat on a lily pad. She really enjoyed being here. She really loved those horses pulling the traveling homes.

Her older siblings would read bedtime stories of people who rode on these majestic beasts. This was as far as her knowledge reached on the subject creature. And a single picture from the waterlogged pages of the book, "Adventures of Davy and His Friends" rippled and crinkled in all its glory, that just remembrance when gazing upon the stallions formed tears in her eyes. Running alongside dribbles of rain her cries made for pellets when falling off the cheek. She was a living waterfall of joyful sadness. She wondered if it was possible to tame a horse for oneself—those quick wildebeests—it may have well been an impossible task. 

She saw men as carriages showed their backs to her. She thought to ask for help, but then thought back to when her brother said to keep her head lowered and not to talk with anyone no matter what. She hadn't given the specific reasons why she couldn't ask for help. She only knew she shouldn't.

Confusion was part of the comradery that they shared. One knows more than the age below, not because of life experience or time. It had to do with a discussion that could not be told. Withheld information made it an impossibility for communication, so the fear set in for the middle trembling at a multitude of uncertainties set before them, whilst the oldest bit at the tips of his fingers till it bled from knowing and ignorance claimed the youngest.

They thought about too many things and displayed too many emotions. Jittery from the opposing points of view. "An unusual bunch—nothing much but a few runts—" one man said when asked, what those kids were doing and why they acted the way they did.

It was explained in multiple passes, on several carts and in various ways by more than one man. It was always discussed as such: "They were beggars, they were choosers, and they were merchants who sold all their goods and had nothing left when walking home. The boy was on his way as the blacksmith's apprentice. The other two's trade must be maid."

Whatever the scenario. The children were too busy for the angels, and they did not reciprocate in the matter of situation or in the fact of help.

"Horseys!" The little girl yelled out happily, energetically jumping in the muddy puddles.

 A switch had flipped. I think she believed the upcoming caravan's horses looked at her as she did them with the same equal excitement. She said it loudly that's for sure. A shriek came from her high-pitched vocal cords.

The puddle jumping, the caterwaul, and possibly something else off in the distance. Whatever it may have been it was trigger for both the lead horses and their leader. Detached to the hinge was the carriage. Ejected upward was the driver whilst setting the camper onto the ground. Offset by the large wheels it once rode on is now what holds the structure up, hanging unevenly.

The siblings ran to their sister's aid. It was beginning to rain. The brother made it to her first passing the middle child before falling onto his knees. He grabbed hold of the little one in a fashion that was both a hug and a scolding. Grasping his hands onto her shoulders whilst into his chest.

The disturbance scared the girl. She began to cry out, "I'm sorry! I didn't know."

In an attempt to alleviate the little girl's distress, the boy said in a placid way, "It's okay. It's not your fault." He couldn't downplay the affair. Even a six-year-old knew that. 

The middle met them from behind hugging over the two. 

Luckily for them this was the last carriage and the rain's pitter-patter hid the clatter of the child's fault. The carts moving forward had before patched their uprising curtain to not let the storm inside.