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A Story by Archia

About a blind girl who then gets her sight


My name is Calla. It means beauty, in Greek. I never thought I lived up to this name, though I was told I did. It’s not on the outside that matters, it’s what’s on the inside, I was told. I still did not believe them. I always thought the world was full of colours, colours that I made up in my head. I was told the sea was blue. Blue they said, soft, calming, light. Except for dark blue, they said, that’s dark. So that’s what I imagined, soft calming. The sea sparkled they said, little diamonds flashing everywhere. I told them I didn’t know what diamonds looked like, but I could imagine them. I don’t know if I imagined them right, but they were right in my mind. I was told that trees grew from the ground, they had brown trunks and green leaves. Brown, dark, rough, not the most favourite colour. Green, bright, calming like blue, one of the most diverse colours they told me. I asked what a leaf looked like, so they gave me leaves. Some were rough, some smooth. They were all different so I couldn’t get the right picture. So I made up a picture in my mind, of all the leaves. Are trees beautiful? I asked. Some are, most aren’t though, they told me. But my tree was beautiful, absolutely beautiful.

They put shapes in my hand to show me how things looked. I learnt what an apple was, what a flower was. They drew pictures in Braille to show me how bigger things looked. Bumps on a page showed me everything I see.

Someone once asked me what I saw. I told them I saw nothing but what I imagined. Don’t you see black? They asked. Light, dark? Nothing, I answered. Her voice was soft and high, like an angel’s voice would be. You do not know what I look like? Her voice grew softer. You are beautiful, I said. You do not see me, you do not know. You are kind, you have not run away or tried to help me, I told her. That does not mean I’m kind, she was upset but I did not understand why. You are beautiful I told her. So are you. We became friends after that, my first friend who understood I did not like to be worried over.

When I opened my eyes I heard nothing. I was not deaf, but I heard nothing. I heard the voice of the doctor, the voice of my mother. But I did not hear the beeping machines, nor the footsteps pacing outside. I was deaf. The man leaning over me had the voice of the doctor, and I knew it was him. His clothes were light, bright, but his skin was dark. So dark, smooth, almost shiny. I held up my own hand, expecting the same. My skin was fair, light, not at all like the dark beautiful skin I had seen before. But my skin was beautiful in its own way, soft, beautiful. The colour was like what I had imagined the sea as. The sea that was said to be beautiful. And although my skin didn’t sparkle or shine, it was beautiful.

They took me to a mirror. I didn’t understand them when they said, are you ready to see yourself? I had always seen myself, just like I had always seen everyone. But that was on the inside, not what everyone else saw. When they put me in front of it the first thing I noticed wasn’t myself, but the way that light seemed to dance in the mirror, stooping around its frame. Then I noticed myself. My hair was short, straight. I had five fingers, that moved when I willed them. My mother and father stood behind me, I couldn’t see them, but I could hear them shifting nervously. My mother came and rested her hand on my shoulder, her skin like mine. I asked her what colour this was, pointing at my own hand. She told me it was tan, like orange. Orange. I had imagined this colour as blue, not orange. I looked around then, trying to find something that was orange in my mind. I asked what colour it was, pointing at a toy lying on the ground. Green, they told me. I played with the toy in my hand, green. It was orange though, in my mind, orange.

Things were odd to me that day. Colours danced all through my eyes. They told me what everything was when I pointed, what the colours were. I found that grass was pink to me. Pink grass, orange sky. Nothing fit where it was meant to, it was all wrong. They told me it was normal for me to feel confused, that I would get my bearings quickly. I wasn’t sure if they were right.

I was sitting in the hospital one day, in the waiting area. Not waiting to go in though, waiting to go out. A girl came and sat beside me. She looked at me and smiled, then turned her head away. We sat there for awhile, her tapping her foot slightly, so slightly that few people could hear. I knew only one person who always did that. I turned to her, watching her turn to me. Am I still beautiful? She asked. Her face was covered in large swollen scars, configuring her nose. Her left eye was half closed, showing barely the pupil. Her left arm was identical to her face, going down to show a stump where the thumb should have been. It was all red, the colour I had recently learnt. But she was still beautiful. Behind the scars and the lumps, she was all beauty. So that’s what I told her. Do you think fire is beautiful? She asked me. I told her, yes. She frowned at that. It’s odd how a beautiful thing can form an ugly curse.

My parents took me to the sea. I told them I wanted to go, but really I was scared. I couldn’t imagine the sea to be blue, to me it was orange, tan, my colour. But I kept that to myself, and let my parents lead me eyes-closed to the sea. They asked me if I was ready? With the wind blowing through my hair, and the strangest smell coming to my nose. Standing like this, with my eyes closed I could hear everything. A dog barking nearby, leaves swinging in the wind, sand whipping round ankles. I’m ready. My eyes opened slowly. My first thoughts were that they were right; the sea did sparkle. But what I saw was not an immense of blue, but an immense of myself. In my eyes the sea was still the colour of my skin, not the new colour here. I held up my hand to the sea. They were the same colour, if only to me. My fingers sparkled as I moved them, finding its way up my arm. I was the same as the sea. Whilst the sea sparkled, so would I. Whilst the sea moved, so would I. Whilst the sea was beautiful, so was I. 

My name is Calla. It means beauty, in Greek. I never thought I lived up to this name, though I was told I did. I believe them now.

© 2016 Archia

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Featured Review

Not bad. I think you could have formatted this differently as at current it looks very unattractive, but the story is good and you've definitely gotten your message across. Your word choice and use of language is natural and you've avoided stiltedness very well. Well done.

Posted 5 Years Ago

1 of 1 people found this review constructive.


Very informative explanation of gaining sight. Is your world better for it? It sounds like it, and you did not lose your concept of "beauty" which shows when you finally "see" a burn victim. I liked this: There were some minor grammar issues and some parts lost the flow, but overall a very perceptive piece. Write more, please.

Posted 1 Year Ago


1 Year Ago

Thank you so much for reading, I really to show the idea that beauty isn't just what's seen on the o.. read more
Carol Cashes

1 Year Ago

You succeeded, in a unique and literary offering.
I like the repetition of My name is Calla in the beginning and the end of the story. Very well-written and emotional story! Thank you for submitting to the Inspiration contest!

Posted 1 Year Ago


1 Year Ago

Thank you so much for reading, and for holding the contest
You perfectly explain what you see when it's only dark in your eyes. I love this idea and story, and your word choice makes it flow really well. An eye-opener to those who can't see.

Posted 2 Years Ago

This was awesome!
I have a story a little like this in my book I'm writing. Not exactly like this at all, but it involves someone's sight being restored.
I really like the narrative. It would be a bit easier to read if you put the dialog in quotations and spaced or indented the paragraphs.
Good job.

Posted 3 Years Ago

Your story has copied over twice for me. Also, the paragraph about being deaf didn't much sense to me, my final piece of advice would be to add some more spacing as I found reading it difficult.
Over all I really liked your story even though I might not have described it the way you did.

Posted 3 Years Ago

Extremely well-written, very inspirational and it really teaches us something. Really captivates the reader despite the cliche beginning. Writers often use the "My name is _____" method to start. Well done!

Posted 3 Years Ago

I don't quite understand the repetition. But, the story is well developed. My mother was born blind, from Congenital Nystagmus, and later received her sight -- Gee, that makes it sound like someone gave it to her wrapped up in a box or something (I guess it kind of was -- a faith-healer prayed for her and she could suddenly see light).

Anyway, she was a little girl at the time. But the way you write about how Calla saw, not black, but nothing and how different the world looked compared to how she'd imagined it… that's very accurate and rather poignant. I like that Calla wasn't terrified by everything she saw. My mother apparently jumped and shied away from every shadow or sudden light. She kept closing her eyes and still trying to navigate the world without her vision. So lovely that Calla's vision was completely clear, but still keener than most folks -- Lovely that she still saw the beauty in her friend.

My mother was apparently frightened of everything she saw. Of course, she didn't see with the clarity of your character. When her sight came to her, it was just the end of seeing nothing. She was still visually impaired; she was cross-eyed too, had a lazy eye, and was very myopic. But, once she could see light and shadow, doctor's corrected the cross eyed and lazy eye conditions. After many surgeries, she was able to leave the blind school for regular public school by the time she was in high school (unrelated factoid: she went to blind school with Ronnie Milsap -- he was her childhood sweatheart). Mother used to wear these telescope glasses -- they had lenses like a jeweler's glass, on a flip down hinge -- for reading, like miniature binoculars. Then, in the early 90s, they were able to partially correct the Congenital Nystagmus and most of the myopia. She can actually read now without glasses (with the book right up to her nose, though).

NOTES: I recommend you set dialogue out in quotation marks and open up the format. Double-space between paragraphs, shorten the paragraphs. As one of my college professors used to say to us in his twanging accent, "Whi-ate spa-ace is you-ur frie-end!" And, make another pass for copy edits. I'd recommend rethinking or restructuring the repetition -- I really don't understand the reasons for the repetition.

I'd, personally, like to see more with the friend, both before and after Calla gained her sight.

Posted 3 Years Ago

This is very imaginative, and like Helen Keller with the sight. Why it's not always the same girl! She must be beautiful. Life is so strange; we never quite understand it. At least I don't now I'm 35. Maybe it will be different later.

Posted 3 Years Ago

Exquisitely beautifully worded, in fact breathtaking in its lovely descriptions. Exactly what I imagined it would be like to be blind all one's life and suddenly be able to see. Congratulations on such a wonderful story; I truly love it.

Posted 3 Years Ago

A sweet story that has a lot of beautiful subtext and colors in it that make it a spectacle to read. Thank you for submitting it into my contest, it was a joy to read!


Posted 3 Years Ago

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52 Reviews
Shelved in 12 Libraries
Added on December 12, 2011
Last Updated on March 16, 2016
Tags: blind, colour, beauty



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