Storm

She was a quiet girl. Not shy, just quiet. She didn’t talk much, mainly because people normally didn’t like what she had to say. It was all right. People just treated her different.

She saw the world in colours. It made much more sense to her that way, and she liked how they interacted with the glass. That was something else – the glass. No one else could see it, or at least, she thought no one could. She’d stopped asking, a long time ago.

None of it really mattered to her. All she needed was herself, the silence that the glass so beautifully encased and that never-ending swirl of colour. So one could say she as quietly sad, too. Quietly sad, but content. She had decided a while back that if she could see herself, she would be a shade of blue. A mixture of a sunny day and that colour you could sometimes see before sunset, before the reds and the oranges and the purples crept in.

So she carried on, alone in her sea of colour but never truly lonely. And little did she know, a storm was peeking over the horizon.

It came upon her in an instant. It made her jump – she knew it was loud, but she couldn’t hear anything. The rain poured down, streaks of tears running down her protective case of glass. It was an odd colour, too. Not clear like usual, but light people. Lavender, maybe.

The rain lasted for longer than she had thought possible. But she made herself walk through it. There must be a reason, she told herself. There must be.

She lost track of the days, but finally the rain stopped. And out stepped the silhouette of a boy, his tousled curls winking cheekily at her, his eyes gleaming the same colour as the rain. She caught his gaze, but they didn’t greet each other. It didn’t seem necessary.

He didn’t have a colour.

That was weird.

He walked slowly towards her, and she willed herself not to flinch.

And then he was in front of her, so close they could almost touch. Still they said nothing, the most comfortable silence she had ever shared before. He looked her in the eye, and placed a palm on her casing of glass. She watched in amazement and shock as it cracked underneath his hand, golden light racing uncontrollably through the glass panes. He smiled kindly, and she couldn’t help but smile back. The cracks kept running, arcing above her head and coming to rest on her back, before continuing their journey.

The glass fell at her feet, tiny golden crystals catching the light this way and that. She looked down, then back up at him. His hands were now clasped in front of him, his body glittering but still.

It was then she realised the reason for the storm, the rain. It brought him to her, her very own piece of lightning. Terrifying, but beautiful. Full of life, of colour, of silence.

About Author

Yen-Rong is a Brisbane-based writer, and is of Malaysian-Chinese descent. She is the founder and editor in chief of Pencilled In, a magazine dedicated to showcasing the work of young Asian Australian artists. When she is not writing, you might find her on Twitter @inexorablist, drinking tea, or chasing after her cat, Autumn. Her website is here: http://www.inexorablist.com.

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