LOL. so I saw this was in Wild Cherry Orchard and I was like "OH. I have an idea, Dag will smear her face with cherries!" and then I red your post and was like "Oh wow, frankie did that too." And then I looked back at the title and thought, "AHHH. FRANKIE IS PSYCHIC."
so get out of my head!
oh and warning: dag is apparently retarded. or maybe it's just me

Maybe they had been sisters in another life, or maybe they were both far less original than they thought, but both white girls wore red stains like carelessly drawn lipstick about their muzzles.

In the dregs of a puddle, Dagrún gazed back at a dirty, distorted reflection of herself, all the while thinking: damn girl, looking fine. Alright, the red splatter about her scout was an accident, and if you stared at it hard enough it looked like blood... but the child thought the contrast between the berry stain and her silver fur was both striking and lovely... in an I'm-going-to-eat-you-face kind of way. It made her look dangerous — which she was most certainly not. In reality, she was just a runaway child playing dress-up in the forest and eating whole branches of berries as if she were just a bottomless walking stomach. With an air of languid ennui, Dag strolled through the copse, staring up at the jewels of blood that sparkled high above her reach. Jealousy sparkled in her cinnamon glare as her eyes darted from one bird fluttering about the branches and then another. The could reach all the berries their heart desired! I wish I could fly... Maybe then I could escape this stupid body.. For she was always so tired. But just then a spark of laughter ripped her attention away from her wretched, wingless prison of a body. She hadn't realized there was someone here. With the restraint of a rodeo bull, she shot off towards the source of the noise, just a silver streak weaving through the trees.

When she stumbled across the white stranger... she didn't really know what to do. Mouth hanging open, the silver girl stared dumbly at the other girl... the other girl who wore a red face just like her. Inflamed by the audacity of this stranger who hadn't asked to jack her sense of style, Dagrún regarded the older girl with an accusatory glare. "Excuse me, I'm the only one allowed to wear red." These, at least, were the rules that she'd made up in her fashionista world. But... maybe that was a bit rude —mother was always telling her how rude she was. Hastily, she added, her tone slightly apologetic, "I mean... it doesn't go well with your eyes." Which were only a shade different than her own. Whoops.

i'm sorry i'm so horrible about posting

"No one had to make me queen of the orchard!" She retorted with an alarming quickness — but her tongue had always been sharp and ready. "No one makes queens. They're born." Well isn't she stupid.. And Dagrún had been born a queen. She had that air of entitlement, that unshakable pride that lingered in the reedy tones of her voice....

But Dagrún didn't look like a queen.

All she could possibly have had going for her was that pearl white coat — but she had gone and stained it with red berries. She was spindly and small, sickly and pitiful. Her nose, if one looked past the rouge, seemed caked with snot and oozed unhealthily and some rather questionable goo had congealed in the corners of her eyes. Her breath was always ragged, always thin, as if she were threatening to die of asphyxiation at any given moment. Dagrún looked more like an uppity street urchin than a queen, but she acted the role with ignorant grace nonetheless.

"And a queen is always here first. I was always here first." Clearly, they were going to have to set some ground rules, because this copy-cat seemed a little unhinged if truth be told. "And your eyes are whatever color I say they are." For good measure, she added with definitive snort after a pause: "So there." With far less grace, the little queen suddenly stretched out in the same cat-like manner that this haughty stranger had, also reclining to her haunches.

She wore a challenge on her face.