The Flames Are In Her Eyes

July was particularly harsh that year.

Storm clouds were a constant presence in the sky as the bitter wind swept 

through the grey streets; in its wake, plastic bags spiraling through the air.

The ocean remained ever tumultuous as it heaved and swirled in a violent clash of water and rock when it drew too close to shore.  Panicked birds were catapulted from left to right, up and down, as they fought ceaselessly against the buffeting winds.

Heaters and electric blankets, water bottles and air conditioning were the working class’ defence against the wet and cold �" some were even donning thermals. Steaming mugs of coffee and hot chocolate were clutched between tight fists as they waited impatiently for their trains to arrive. Ugg boots were hidden beneath desks along with fleece blankets and small heaters; employees finding any way to combat the cold.

It rained so much that Sydney had become a world of soggy front lawns and bursting waterways. Scarf wearing men and women ran from shelter to shelter, umbrellas thrust above their heads in defence against the never-ending wet.  Children were bundled up in thick woollen coats, their little hands hugged by warm gloves as they were hustled into cars by parents fearful for their health. 

Everyone was moving so fast that they failed to notice the girl.

She sat in the same place every night and every day, her fingers turning blue and her face gaunt. On her feet were old sneakers that barely kept her feet dry - held on by fraying shoelaces. Below her, a weather faded towel was spread out in an attempt to keep her dry as she clutched her legs to her chest.    

Staring up at the distant stars with briny tears caught in her long eyelashes, her green eyes were filled with despair so profound that the very air around her felt heavy and gelatinous. They were so very far away, those small lights that seemed to mock her every night as she lay shivering and alone - the nights when the clouds made it impossible to see the stars were the worst.  

Her dreams used to shine within her eyes like those stars, but that luminescence had long ago died away - leaving her empty and hopeless as she lay prone upon the frosted pavement. She used to fantasise about spotlights and crowds, microphones and record deals.

But all she wanted now . . . was a blanket.

It was a dream that would remain ever a fantasy, though. She wasn't brave enough to own a blanket, not where she lived. People had been stabbed over a lot less on these streets �" where the world was so cold that a hot meal was cause enough for murder and even though she felt more than lifeless inside, she wasn't yet ready to die.

For her passion �" though it lay dormant within her �" was a spark ready to erupt into flames, all she needed was a match. But life had dealt her a matchbook empty of matches. So she remained curled upon the floor; a felled bird looking to the distant skies with desolate eyes.   

She was as nameless as that broken bird. People hurrying past saw not a girl, but an unfortunate soul who had lost her way. With dirt clinging to her face and clothes that had long ago needed to be replaced those walking by felt pity, sympathy, superiority . . . but not . . . empathy.  

To them, she was just a dirty street kid.

If only they had met the girl she used to be . . . if only they gave her the chance to become who she could become. 

Reviews

[Mirra]

"If only they had met the girl she used to be . . . if only they gave her the chance to become who she could become. "

I love how you end it. Just the right work I need right now, this inspired me. Thank you.

I like the subject, though I've read a poem with the same subject but this one has a different touch to it. I also like how you introduced her, I empathize with her and felt a million blessed. I just hope people see the same girl I see as I read this. Clever write!

[NoelHC]

I want to know her back story, what caused her to be on the streets, abuse at home, drugs, mental illness, poverty what caused her to be this way. A very well written piece, the opening painted a very good picture for me. I hope you pursue this line Tash. Great work.

[A. Amos]

I like the concept and subject, would be interested to know which direction you take this tale. You're a talented writer!