Centennial Rage Rose (Goldilocks)

by Ryan M. Parr

Sometime ago, a mounded crevice upon Capital Hill was shown with freeman farmers living within bountiful harvest. Summer smoldered in the heavens conveying a steadfast girl walking down Capital Hill, stocked with red of barren plainness, and her blond hair sought the sun through her curls in a discriminating palette of azure. So plain was her layout that that the golden locks of hair gave her discernment with the appointed name of Goldilocks.

To the right side stood Farmer Live-With-Passion, and down the road to the left stood Farmer Live-Without-Worries. A short walk from there stood a cottage of pride, a cottage of foundation and support for young Farmer Fill-ye-Plenty. Making constant prosperity through tumultuous hardships due to struggling roots, the farmer has lived idly with few struggles to come about. He had recently become a magistrate to his people by controlling the vitality of the rest of his town with the markets of distribution throughout the connected roads from the hillsides of Capital Hill. In his plotted farmland sheds row upon row of acres in growth arranged in straight parallel lines from the point of lookout shrouded by a magnificent brick fence, practically impenetrable by perception with its solid concealment of the abundant sloping landscape. Honey-Jars-of-Balance had been stacked up high one by one, never seizing to fall no matter how high they ascended upon one another. This honey spilled into the Jars-of-turmoil strewn across the field, in which the viscosity of the golden wealth was stocked at dispense of the work ethics surrounding orbits opon trinity branches.

Through a knocked down portion of the fence visibly shows the dilapidation of a small cottage still within the boundaries of the land. It provoked a matter that called forth on a sign in the front, “malevolence residence”, positioned over a drop-off of a stolid stream of stagnant water connected to the cottage set aside in muck of trepidation. It was a slow start as Goldilocks walked through the isthmus and pulled out into the forested region, for what reason she made as judgment in dire need of shelter.

A degrading serpent bust half cracked with sinister fangs. Neither to the perception to life did Goldilocks desire to bring forth into the cottages isolation. However the frame of time brought remedy to her confirmation, to stride past the serpents gaze of animosity, past the door and into a plethora of ailing sights of discretion. Reality splurged from her sockets in wondrous confirmation of her doubt of refuge in this barren confine, despite the rigid walls left tainted to the enumerable spans of time in this place.

A kitchen stockpiled with concoctions remedying the conformation of Honey-Jars-of-Balance in with the Jars-of-Turmoil, forming a singular concoction for remedial discretions ailing for disgruntled issues. Three singular seats sat juxtapose across the table in a way for classifying each singular size and matter. The largest chair had the words, “Mr. Mind-Your-Worries Malevolence”, the second largest said, “Mrs. Persecution Malevolence”, and the smallest said, “Little Making Malevolence”. Each table setting consisted of different sized portions of the kitchen concoction, and each seat derived for different specifications upon Capital Hill.

Goldilocks then sat down at the table, sample testing the matter of each concoction. First starting from the largest one, with this being too hot she did not approve of the matter. The second one she tries, that being too cold was just as opposing as the first. The third bowl she tries and she was comprehensible of the situation. For one being that it was neither too hot, nor too cold, and yet in between in equal proportions.

Being the proportions had equal sides to the matter, it brought exhausting values to her life in ways that were ex-honorable beyond the acceptance for alertness. She couldn’t begin to compromise with it, and hither she succumbed to a remedial rest in place of remedial concurrence with what was dispensing from within the kitchen. The rest of the house stood unnerved by the fallen down jars, yet comprised the existence of a size of proportion for each candidate in participation inside the household. In the bedroom consisted of three beds, each one of ascending order from largest to smallest, and like the small bowl Goldilocks preferred the small bed. For one, it gave neither too much rigidity, and yet comprised the necessary values of softness. From these equal premises, Goldilocks had equal obstructions to falter her path of rest, and hence she was provoked into a blissful sleep withal the reserve of unnecessary compliments.

Alas, the premise in existence of the house was fallen upon Goldilocks’ in temperance by the conductors of such affairs of household. The prospect of the demeanor without reasonable atrocities, as much as to oblige with act against her in anger, instead to ignore as fallen victim residing within the household. The Owners, each of stalky brows, act in prowess of seen ability to conjecture a fatal blow, yet each holds a paw of destruction at there own handicap. It was uttered from a bellow of Mr. Mind-Your-Worries Malevolence escaped into the bedroom with a riot at Goldilocks’ intrusion of the household. Mr. Mind-Your-Worries Malevolence then takes to leave Mrs. Persecution Malevolence into the house. Little Making Malevolence takes to refrain from both sides of the argument against Goldilocks and then decides to rebuttal from the forefront to take affect in the matter.

Goldilocks awakes to find the intrusions of the three Malevolence’s, merely to remain in confounded thought, to etch her way from the dispute by staying awry of the fight. With ado, she tiptoed to escape from the argument and races away from the forest and back up to Capital Hill.