Second excerpt from "The Unfortunates" Iris

Iris
   Your favorite thing to do when you weren't working or sitting in your garden was to sit in the alley way that was your original place of residence and read the walls and listen to the rhythmic rhyming of the little girl at the back of the street. Sometimes during your visits, you would actually get to witness some artists coming to the walls and spilling words onto them with a can of paint. Just by looking at their faces you could tell that whatever they were writing, it came from deep within them.
   You longed to be able to join these people that could make colors fly from jars, but you just didn't know enough english to make anything useful. That was, until you realized that you could write in your native tongue, which was latin. After that thought, you ran to Mordecai's shack and took one of his cans of bright red paint while he was humming and spinning at the loom, too preoccupied to notice your presence. You left some change in its place, unable to bring yourself to steal. You were brought up on very strong morals that steer you through your confusing life. 
   The next night, you stepped up to the walls filled with words when no one was around, even the singing girl. You held your left arm up to the wall, in your hand the can of red. You pressed down on the top of the can with your middle finger like you had seen the other artists do so many times. Bright red shot out of the nozzle and splattered the wall. The squirt took you by surprise and you jumped back from the surface, the can clattering to the cement ground. You held your hands over your mouth and looked around, praying that you didn't draw any attention to yourself. When you made sure you were on your own, you retrieved the can from the ground and repositioned yourself, prepared for the blast this time.
   You closed your eyes and let a sigh escape through your thin lips. You pressed down on the top of the can once more and let your arm guide the spray for you, making loops, dots, and sharp lines. You opened your eyes when you were finished and read what stood before you. The word 'primula' shown through the dull paint surrounding it, in the most dainty and thing penmanship you had ever created. You let a smile sprawl across your features.