Margo Ellis
Absent-minded | Doormat
- Messages
- 250
- OOC First Name
- Claire
- Blood Status
- Muggleborn
- Relationship Status
- Single
- Sexual Orientation
- Homosexual
It was hailing, in May.
Of course it was. Margo lived in England.
She hugged her textbooks a little tighter to her chest, hunched against the cold bullets that shot down her neck and bounced off the backs of her knees. It seemed incredibly unlikely that she would choose to wear a skirt, forget her jacket, and wear white socks all on the day it chose to rain dirty ice cubes - but then again, Margo was an incredibly unlikely girl.
She didn't know, yet, that she was a witch. If she had, all the hail and sludge and school in the world could not have stolen the spring from her step. Alas, as far as she was aware, she was plain old Margo Ellis, and plain old Margo Ellis had nothing much to spring about.
It was all right for Cynthia and Brogan, her beautiful elder sisters, from whose bottoms sunshines and rainbows seemed to erupt. They were clever, and popular, and funny; and, above all else, had glossy, straight brown hair that fell like swathes of silk over their ears. Why oh why oh why had Margo been cursed with this frizzy yellow mop? Her mother told her it was special, but special was a polite way of saying absolutely horrible, and Margo knew it.
Just to well and truly ruin her day, a piece of pavement decided to protrude at just an angle sufficient to trip her up, sending her and her textbooks both crashing to the wet ground. "Aw!" she whined, but despite the injustices mounting against her, she didn't feel like crying. She peeled the books from a puddle and carried them the rest of the distance home at arm's length, and once inside hung them over the radiator to dry. Another normal day, she concluded. Another normal day.
It was one of her last.
Of course it was. Margo lived in England.
She hugged her textbooks a little tighter to her chest, hunched against the cold bullets that shot down her neck and bounced off the backs of her knees. It seemed incredibly unlikely that she would choose to wear a skirt, forget her jacket, and wear white socks all on the day it chose to rain dirty ice cubes - but then again, Margo was an incredibly unlikely girl.
She didn't know, yet, that she was a witch. If she had, all the hail and sludge and school in the world could not have stolen the spring from her step. Alas, as far as she was aware, she was plain old Margo Ellis, and plain old Margo Ellis had nothing much to spring about.
It was all right for Cynthia and Brogan, her beautiful elder sisters, from whose bottoms sunshines and rainbows seemed to erupt. They were clever, and popular, and funny; and, above all else, had glossy, straight brown hair that fell like swathes of silk over their ears. Why oh why oh why had Margo been cursed with this frizzy yellow mop? Her mother told her it was special, but special was a polite way of saying absolutely horrible, and Margo knew it.
Just to well and truly ruin her day, a piece of pavement decided to protrude at just an angle sufficient to trip her up, sending her and her textbooks both crashing to the wet ground. "Aw!" she whined, but despite the injustices mounting against her, she didn't feel like crying. She peeled the books from a puddle and carried them the rest of the distance home at arm's length, and once inside hung them over the radiator to dry. Another normal day, she concluded. Another normal day.
It was one of her last.