Lightning

She was wearing a lime green coat with dark piping. It was not an elegant coat. She loved it. The way it shone in the dark and flashed at people across cafe tables. The contrast of greens; the acid of the lime against the pine braids.

There was grit under her feet mixed with mud. The wind was screaming and leaves were scattering her face and her hair was flying unruly. She stepped over a puddle. As she looked down in the water she could see the clouds reflected there, all dizzy with their movement, and the silvery light and her face, pink and blurred. Not hard-edged and glass cold, a mirror to talk back at you like the boys on the street.

Who’s got an ugly mug? Boyfriend didn’t like you, eh? Lizard! Witch! Bitch!

She touched the scarred skin. It was tree roots and lightning, a flash of brilliance. In the puddle she looked beautiful; a real princess.

 

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The home of writer Bronwen Griffiths