She was curled among the grass roots surrounded by the overgrown nettles. Untamed .
Her hair matches the faded colour of the
pile of dried wheat as it was ripped from the earth ; left to starve .
She was vulnerable
The wind petted her back soothingly as it passed: it acknowledged that the only moisture that the plants would receive will be her tears in abundance .
The bluebells were bereft of life and its colour resembled the bruises that the girls fingers had left in her arm .Her fingers, wet with with tears. She had began to rock herself gently , barely raising her head from the ground .She listened with her mood somber as the floods of grievances overwhelmed her .The hair on her arms had began to stand .
Her shuddering turned to shaking and to spasms. Emotional convulsions as she clutched at her chest.
In the midst of this, the debris on her head once was a collection of well kept golden threads . Her hair had gotten gradually darker as the wind returned but this time it belonged to the monsoon.
It came rowdy and uncivilised.It came enraged and savage . It’s clouds pelted the rain as it banged on house roofs and clawed at windows. The plants were the only thing that nourished in this revolution.
She wore the rain well .
The girl stood up and the thunder cackled whilst he light in flashes the sky like a warning signal. The girl had began to walk-she was coming .
The lightning’s reflection was in her eyes and the thunder rippling through her body.
She began to run
Short story ❤️