Domicella

This story is so famous, each man tells it his own way. (May I begin like that?)

Domicella had never been caught with the clay of sleep in the corners of her eyes. She clambered all over the set, which the stageboys had not dismantled. She threw crabapples into the chimney. She ate for the good of the war. She tumbled down to the river with the washing on her hip. She scattered hairpins so her whereabouts would not be a mystery.

She hailed from the Riot. The Riot was an inkling of a tribe. Her father sold Rainbows. Her mother waited for the tea kettle to ripen. Her sisters linked paper clips into a chain for her yanking heart, for they feared she'd wake tomorrow to find it fled.

The tribe's horses slept on their feet. The bees were woeful, the moon a changeling.