Moira meets Collin

[``Constantine]

Moira was sitting on the bench-swing that she had had installed on her porch last year, and she was enjoying the last moments of daylight. Well, it was more like she had draped herself over the wooden surfaces, and was lounging about, being a general lazy-puss.
Of which, she felt, she had earned. Today had been one of the most awful days she had had in a while. Kantana had moved out, with all the pomp and drama of one who truly believed they had been wronged.

Which was ridiculous. The rules Moira had come up with had been clearly laid out, and completely reasonable. The main thing had been that every human inhabitant of the farm had to take turns making breakfast, and help with the farm chores.
So how was it Moira's fault that Kantana hadn't wanted to get up early in the morning, or do the dishes? I wasn't as if the rules had been sprung on her; Moira had made sure that the sparse but important rules were known to Kantana before the girl had moved into the farm.

Well, now that Kantana was gone, it was just Boomer and Moira. Boomer was Patrick Nordrum, musician and drifter. He was actually out of town visiting an old friend, and would be gone for another few days.
Duke, his beagle pup, had been left behind in the care of Moira. The tiny, spotted puppy was adorable, from his droppy ears to his over-sized paws; he was almost irristable.

At the moment, Duke, as well as Buddha and Ginger, Moira's two dogs, were sprawled across the porch in that lazy way that dogs always seemed to achieve without remorse for their slothfulness.
Marley, Moira's ginger-tabby Hemingway kitten, was snuggled against Duke, and they were snoozing that blissful sleep that the youthful sleep.

Suddenly, Buddha's head swung up from the floor, and he looked down the gravel road that lead to town. Ginger, in turn, looked down the road, and then sprung up and off the porch, enthusiastic to go and investigate whatever she had sensed.
Moira spared a glance in the direction of the two canines attention, and had to swint. In the dim light of the end of the day, she had a hard time making things out, especially with her near-sightedness in her left eye.
But, what she did make out was...a person and a horse, walking her way?

[``Constantine]

My name is Walker, comma, Moira. I was given this name by my mother, a woman who very much admired the Scots. My name, in the old language, means much the same as Maire, Moirai, Mary, or any other variant of this particular name: The Star of the Sea. Poetic, is it not?
My name, rather than the apparent "Moy-rah", is pronounced "More-rah". Yeah, the 'i' is silent.

The spelling and pronounciation of my name has been a source of irritation and aggravation on my part. No, I don't mind my name .In fact, I see it as a far cry better than Anne or Sue, or some other such boring name. What gets on my nerves is how people, after reading it, pronounce it Moy-rah. I usually restrain myself; after all, how could they know how to pronounce my name, being the ignorent lot that they are?

It annoys me more so when they spell my name as 'moria', to which I must think irritably 'I am not a mine.' Moria is a fictional mine that was created by J.R.R. Tolkien in his famous Lord of the Rings trilogy. And while I do not dispute that the Mines of Moria were awesome, they are something entirely different than me. To say that I resent the fact that people spell my name incorrectly in such a fashion is putting it mildly.
Maybe I'm being unfair in my reactions, but for gods sakes, my name only has five letters in it. Surely it couldn't be that hard to remember how to spell?

Some people, as I have found, are inclined to be the annoying type, catching thrills in the act of aggravating their fellow human. Sadly, when it comes to irritating myself, I make it quite easy to poke. I get very much riled when people mess with my name, be it the do something accidently, or intentionally. Granted, my reaction is more so when the act was intentionally; if I am called 'Moy-rah', 'Moria', or even 'Moron' (as some have discovered), I get what is known as pissed off. This such action is not good, as I have a temper, and have been known to get violent (In fourth grade, I assulted a fellow classmate who had revealed a secret I had entrusted her with).

I suppose now I must dig further into the fourth-grade episode, lest you believe me to be some horrid monster who gave in to the violent impulses that raged within her.
In fourth grade, I had moved to where I now am; I was in a whole new town, with different people and different lifestyles. It was, I had believed at the time, a very fortunate thing that I already knew one of the children that I was to be a classmate with: Gloria. Gloria's mother was married to a man named George, who was a lawyer. Incidentally, as my father was a lawyer, the two men knew each other, and had gotten together at numerous occasions. My mother knew Glorias mother, as well, and so it was only natural that Gloria and I became friends.

I had moved into this strange, scary new place, and had naught a friend, save Gloria. Well, I met a boy who was a few months older than me (the oldest in the class) named Patrick; Patrick was blond, blue-eyed, charismatic, and good-natured, and I was attracted to him. One day, I told Gloria this. I swore her into secrecy, and made her pinkie-swear not to tell.
However, the next day, after school, I was confronted by Megan and Rachel - two other girls in my class that I did not particularily like - about me liking Patrick. Gloria was there too, a silent spector in the procedings. I managed to rein in my anger, but then, when Gloria taunted me with something I snapped, and launched myself at her, and wrapped my hands around her neck and throttled her.

No, I did not kill her. I let go, and walked away, leaving the shocked Gloria, Rachel and Megan in my wake. I spoosed I had shoked them: I, Moira, the calm, composed, cry-baby from the big city, had acted in a moment of such violence that they were flabbergasted.
My reason for "choking Gloria", as the incident was to be later called and referred to as it was thrown in my face time after time after time again, was not as you might think: oh, I was a little mortified that anyone would know the fact that I liked Patrick; it was to be my secret crush, one that I would enjoy for a time and and it would fizzle away. But then I told Gloria, whom I believed to be my friend, and she flapped her mouth to the biggest gossips in the class, and I just flipped.

The true reason behind the henious act was that I was hurt, betrayed. I had given Gloria my trust, my confidence, and she had thrown it away in order to be 'liked' by some of the other girls; she wished to curry favor with the more "popular" girls, who had lived in the town and gone to the school for their whole lives.
I give my trust freely, too freely, and it comes back to bite me in the ass. Time after time I would fall. I learned my lesson, I did. ::Trust is a valuble thing, not to be given willy-nilly to any and all. I must guard it, as I must guard my heart; otherwise, I will crash and burn::

What does this tell you about me? That I am a spoiled, willful child? That I am idealistic? I feel and give intense loyalty to those I deem worthy of it: my friends, my family; and in return, it goes without saying that I expect the same loyalty back. I give with all my heart, and work, and work, and work. The round-about is that I expect, demand, that I be given my just due.
Rather naive of me, don't you think?