Akash (a creative non-fiction piece inspired by the true events in the life of a young girl) -3/5.
Akash had deep-set eyes and sunken cheeks, a body work-hunched and picked-through -that of a crow’s working the scraps. He was sitting, arms around knees, like a perched Bowerbird on a sack filled with used plastic bottles. His trash pile — piled high to an uneasy top with the only things in this world Akash knew how to save — empty water and whiskey bottles,blackened newspapers, used syringes, wadded aluminum foil, rain boots stripped to their soles by monsoons, broken colored strings, snarled shoelaces, and torn plastic casings that once held condoms.
Somewhere in the darkness, there were six stout puppies, maimed in one of the tortures to which children who had much seemed to subject what’s no longer favored. He placed all such puppies in his trash pile eyes-closed.It was as safe a moment as Ashwini was going to get. She bolted past the pimp’s shed and rounded the corner behind her.
Be brave. This was the wisdom of her mother and of Ashwini Hanmanth Hane, a belief so fiercely held that it seemed almost as ritual. She had quick-moving eyes and strong shoulders, and a voice crinkly like aluminum foil — the husky type that earned more than its fair share of attention when pushing through people-choked slumlanes for her siblings. Almost everything about her was unrelenting save the down-turned lips and the dresses that stuck, sweat-damp, whenever she wiped her forehead of sweat.