WM Entry 1 : The Girl In the Red Shoes

The Girl In the Red Shoes

I am above and behind her, stood on a hand rail, she does not see me or if she does
then I am ignored. She is at the beach today although it is covered by the sea, a
tumultuous stormy sea that is lashing against the front. It is not yet spring, the air is chilled
and the sea icy cold, lashing against the stonework of the sea front
sending up great plumes of white water.

It is its violence that has drawn people here today and the girl laughs with joy
as she runs back from a crashing wave that chases her along the slipway, wobbling
on heals that are too big for her, a bag of chips held high in her right hand.

There is a story in her shoes, for those that would read it. The girl can only
be eleven or twelve, but these are women's shoes. Bright vermilion red, tied with
ribbons of the same hue and teetering on six inch heals.

Her father watches from further up, not wishing to get wet, but not fully abandoning his daughter to the elements. The shoes say this: This girl has no mother. For what mother would allow her daughter to wear such ridiculous things? And even then, what mother would risk them getting damaged by the sea?

The father is dressed in a leather jacket and has a long pony-tail of gray hair, an
aging hipster. These shoes are an indulgence on his daughter. She is dressed
inappropriately for her age, much too old. I wonder if the father knows this, that
he has dressed his daughter like a slut? Or if he is genuinely unknowing in what
a young girl should wear? Or more likely it is a confused fusion of the two, a lack
of understanding coupled with a desire to see her dressed like her mother for
reasons he has not yet dared to examine.

She is not pretty. She has an overbite and hair that is much too frizzy but she is
beautiful in the way that all young are beautiful. She runs back from the rushing
sea, nearly dropping her chips.

I am watching her intently now but I am still unnoticed by either of them. I hold
myself back because the father does not look like the sort of man that would allow
any mistreatment of his daughter. I remain where I am, studying my prey. She is
happy, whatever happened to her mother has not affected her, or perhaps she is
 happy in this moment only, running away from the sea and then forward again as it recedes.
Perhaps this is the first happy moment she has had with her father since the loss of her mother?

Behind her, in the distance on the slate dark sea are the supply ships that go out
to the oil platforms. There are at least a dozen of them, I am familiar with them
all being a creature of the sea myself. She has not noticed them, but her father
has, he splits his glances between her and the ships. He wishes he was out there
and not here. He gets no enjoyment from this.

But this does not bother the girl in the red shoes in the slightest, she laughs
and squeals with happiness as the mighty waves crash against the front. Then
finally she mis-judges her run and is caught head on by a wave, promptly soaked
to the skin her chips dashed against the cobbles.

Her father laughs, not unkindly, and she laughs too, holding her arms out in a
bedraggled fashion. He goes to get her a blanket from the car. This is my chance...

The sea lurches in again and scoops up the chips like a giant hand. It swallows
up every last morsel, an endless juggernaut of untamed greed. They are all gone,
I have no reason left to study the girl in the red shoes so I lift up into the
air and with a flick of my wings soar out to sea. I have forgotten my appetite
now, I want to fly out to the ships and enjoy the wind through my feathers.