Pretending To Breathe - Short Story

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                                                             (**I have no plans to write this in full. It's simply an idea. **)

"You were born not breathing - in fact, you didn't breathe until your first birthday."

That's how my mother always began the story of my birth. We would sit out together under the stars and she'd tell the tale. The tale of how I never once took a breath, or even cried when I was born. Though all the windows were shut, a breeze wrapped around both of us and mussed her hair. That's when she knew - I would never truly breathe, but I would be hungrier for the air than most people ever are... 

That first year, she told the people of the town she was off to visit her sister in the mountains, and we lived alone in a hunting cottage. That's what she tells me. 

I vaguely remember her teaching me to breathe. The steady beat of: in - out - in - out - until it became almost second nature. When I was maybe four, after we'd moved back to town, she taught me about the different kinds of breathing. We practiced panicked fast breathing, and deep gasps after running, and regular breaths for keeping up appearances. Whenever we went out of the house together, she'd gently tap me on the nose and say, "Remember to breathe, Fenn." For those first few years, I thought that was normal.

I was about six when I asked her about my father.  To her credit, she didn't lie to me and say he was some great man, off in the world... She simply told me they met one day when the King's soldiers went through town - and she never saw him again, or knew his name... 

On my tenth birthday, as she again told me the story of my birth, I asked her if she knew what I was.  I was different - I was beginning to realize how strangely different.  I felt the wind wrap around us, and I pulled it closer so that it swirled through the Asp trees. It was comforting... I understood it was something I shouldn't have been able to do.

 She didn't answer me for a long moment. Finally she said, "I'll tell you when you're older." In her tone there was no room to argue... But I could see in her eyes... she was afraid.

When I was thirteen, my mother married the baker, Tovis Keff. He is a good man, though I've never brought myself to think of him as a father.  Next month they are expecting their first child, and I am both excited and afraid for it... So much has changed in the last couple years, but I feel no closer to the answers.

Who am I? What am I?

Sometimes I go deep into the woods and let the wind roar through the trees. My mother wouldn't approve. I know that... but then, she'd probably rather I do it there, than unleash it within the town. I've done it before accidentally on a smaller scale... after that, she didn't let me out of the house for two weeks. She told everyone I was sick, until the air around me stopped dancing, and I was in control. 

Yesterday I turned fifteen... and my mother again didn't tell me what I am... She said I am better off not knowing. Tonight I sit on the edge of a cliff and look down into the darkness that the moon can't quite reach. Tomorrow I'm going to the King's Tournaments. I will become a soldier, and I will travel the continent until I find out what I am... Maybe I am dangerous, but don't I deserve to know? 

I stand up, feeling the breeze lap at my unkempt hair. The air covers my arms in goosebumps. I walk to the edge of the cliff - and jump.  The wind wraps around me, slowing the plunge, angling me gently. I let it fill my body with a thrumming ache as it howls up through the trees.

And then -

I stop pretending to breathe.

~Ophelia - Marie

Jorthan - Short Story

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(**I have no plans to write this in full. It's simply an idea I wrote out this afternoon in one shot. **)

I remember the first time I killed him.

I was only eleven at the time. We were training with light swords – weaving around each other and striking with wild force. We had nicked one another several times – quick scratches and small slices – but nothing that was a winning blow.  Nothing that kept us from fighting.

This was one of our fiercer fights. I was sure I could find a way to disarm him.  Master Kaff was over twice my size and in his late twenties, but I was faster than he was. It was my Talent. He had been training me for about six month, since he first found me. He still kept me at bay most days.

At one point he stopped our sparring with the flick of his hand. I paused respectfully and lowered my weapon.

“You are holding back, Jorthan.” Kaff folded his arms and glared at me. “You almost had me, but you didn't strike with enough force.”

I felt my shoulders droop.  “I didn't want to cause you harm, Master.”

He simply looked at me for a long moment before he raised his weapon. “Again.”

I hated his disappointment; the way his eyes had taken me in and dismissed me. Everyone around me looked at me with awe. Kaff looked at me with acceptance – someday we would be equals on the field... That day, I saw a flicker of scorn.

My attack was vicious. I sprung at him and fought him with all I knew. He had taught me everything I knew about weapons, but I had also taught myself how to maximize my speed. I was a blur as our blades crossed, and our feet slid in the sand.

And then... 
Suddenly.

He stopped fighting me. He had rolled to the ground, and I plunged my weapon towards his chest. We had practiced this move over and over. He had taught me how to deflect, and get back up until I was sore all over. But this time he didn't move or try to block me. The blade went through him and straight into his chest. 

We both screamed. His was a death cry that echoed off the stone walls. Mine was a cry of sheer terror. His eyes went wide, rolled back, and he was gone. 

I stumbled back, yanking my sword with me. Blood welled from the wound and I dropped the weapon. 

He was dead. I had killed him.

I flung myself to my knees. My hands went uselessly to his chest, trying to stop the blood. My body shook and my stomach heaved. “Master! Master!”

I only remember bits after that. There were two of Master Kaff's trusted servants stationed in front of the door so we wouldn't be disturbed. I remember both men bursting in. Ven grabbed me from behind in a bear-hug and moved me from the body as I screamed. Ballis touched Master Kaff's neck lightly before saying, “He's dead.” He scooped up the body and nodded to Ven as I struggled. “Take him to his room. I'll take Kaff upstairs.”

Ven put me in my room and locked the door behind me. I curled on the floor and shook. Then I screamed. Then I raged about my room, throwing anything I could up against the walls.

He was dead. I had killed him. 

Somehow I made it to the next morning. I cried myself to sleep in gut-wrenching sobs that tore at my insides. Twice I threw up before falling into an exhausted sleep full of terrible nightmares.

When I awoke early the next morning, I stumbled down to the practice yard in a daze. It didn't even register that my door was unlocked, or that yesterday was real. It was a nightmare... As I reached for the door, I saw blood on my hands.

I yelled and stumbled back. Someone grabbed me from behind and shoved me through the door into the practice room. 

I landed in a roll, spinning around to land in a crouch with a dagger raised. Bloody sand clung to my hair and bare arms. I almost dropped my dagger as I saw my attacker.

It was Master Kaff. 

He was wearing the same bloodstained clothes from the day before. He pulled his own dagger out and lunged at me with a yell.

He was dead. Alive. Some sort of ghost. I was certain he was there to kill me. I fought for my life – slicing at him and bellowing at the top of my young voice. Many times I bloodied him with deep gashes. He cursed and only came at me harder.

It seemed like ages, but eventually he pinned me. His blade rested in the hollow of my neck, and his full weight pinned my shoulders painfully. My breath came in and out in shallow gasps. My vision went gray around the edges.

“Always fight like your life depends on it. Always fight to win. Fight to kill.” He stood up, then grabbed me by the arm and hauled me to my feet. “Go get your sword. We're going to fight again.”

That was the first time I killed him. The next time I killed him by my own skill... The time after that, he killed me.

My Master is a Visen. So am I. Only head wounds truly kill us. We are one of the last few Masters and apprentices – we will become unstoppable. 

~Ophelia - Marie Flowers

Lullaby Rest

Original Picture from Flickr, Gary Simmons

This is a poem I wrote for a short story. The first verse was for a short story and then I wrote the rest of it for a friend.

You can read the short story here: Dreamer

Lullaby Rest

4/27/13

Rest, little one,

Quiet your cries.

Listen to the sound

Of gentle lullabies.

Tomorrow is coming

So lay down your fears.

May the light of the dawning,

Dry all of your tears.

Dark is the night,

Hidden away

Wishing for dawn,

In the midst of the day.

For life is a mystery,

Of things never known.

Of tangled history

Elusive and windblown.

Yet, here I will stay,

Close near you now.

Though deep are the shadows,

That may cast you down.

Love growing stronger,

For you, friend of mine.

I will stand by you,

A small light to shine.

~ZA

Copyright © 2013 Ophelia M. Flowers

The Key (My First Short Story)



This is my little sister. :)
She doesn't match the description of the
girl in the story but - Oh well. ;)

 

    While I was cleaning I had the thought of a man trying to buy something and a young woman refusing because she said it was her heart. This short story is a result of that random thought.

 

(I'd like to say thank you to Elizabeth and Jonathan for giving me helpful advice while I was editing.)

 

 

The Key

 

 

   CLOSED.

   Nathan leaned back and ran a hand through his hair. Now what was he supposed to do?

 

   The lights were still on so he peered through the glass. Maybe someone was still there. He pulled the door handle and to his relief it swung open easily. A small bell tinkled above him and he shut the door behind him. The shop seemed empty though an old record player in the corner rattled out Christmas carols and the whole place smelled like cookies.

 

 

   How quaint.

 

 

   As he stomped the snow from his boots, his gaze wandered over the odd assortment of antiques that filled the room in an organized chaos. Surely he'd be able to find the perfect gift here.

   Sarah liked antiques and said they all had a story - him, he just saw the price tag on someone's old junk. Still, he knew she'd give him that look if he presented her with some fancy necklace or new dress.

 

 

   'Christmas is time to share gifts from the heart, Nathan.' He could almost hear her saying that. This was their first Christmas together; he had to get it right.

 

   “Hello?”

 

   He stepped from the doorway and began to look around. A vase caught his eye and he strode over to it. Its smooth surface was a pale blue with flecks of darker blue scattered over it. A small brown bird was on one side with its beak wide open as if singing. This was perfect!

 

   He sighed with relief. This wouldn't be as hard as he had thought. Lifting it carefully with one hand, he examined it closer. Oh great, it had a chip on the lip. With an irritated sigh he put it back down and started looking around for something else. If he was going to get her some odd piece it shouldn't be broken; he had to draw the line somewhere.

 

   Nathan made his way around an old bookcase, stopping briefly to pick up anything that caught his attention. Still nothing looked right.

 

   Then he saw it.

 

   Sitting on a small table on a large piece of white flannel was a glass manger scene. He touched a fragile lamb with one finger and smiled. They didn't have a manger scene at home; Sarah would be delighted. He picked up the tiny baby Jesus, no longer than the first digit of his thumb, and laid it in his palm.

 

   His eyes strayed to Joseph who stood almost protectively by Mary's side. Just like him with Sarah. Nathan smiled. Their son was going to be born in a few months; he would make a good father.

 

   A sudden movement by his feet made him jump backwards. He looked down and saw a small girl peeking up at him from under the table with a doll under her arm.

 

   He stopped, his eyes drawn to the key hanging around her neck on a delicate chain. He'd seen that key before. It looked just like his mother's key. When he was younger she always wore it around her neck; he had almost forgotten about it. It was so simple. So pretty. That would be a gift from his heart.

 

   He put the baby Jesus back and crouched down to look into the girl's dark eyes. She sat up on her knees and held out a plate that held two cookies, one of which had a bite out of it. “Do you want one? My mommy made them!” She grinned, revealing one of her front teeth missing.

 

   He gave her an awkward smile and shook his head. “No thank you.”

 

   She settled back and took a large bite of the previously whole cookie. Crumbs tumbled down her striped sweater and she said around the mouthful, “My name is Jessa, I'm six. What's your name?”

 

   “Umm, I'm Nathan.”

 

   “Hello Mr. Nathan.” She swiped a curly blond strand of hair from her eyes.

 

   He shifted, already getting uncomfortable in this position. How did one go about buying from a child?

 

   “Jessa, uh, may I see your necklace?”

 

   “Okay.” Her small hands reached up behind her neck and she fumbled with the clasp. A moment later she handed it to him.

 

   There it was. His mother's key. He felt a wave of nostalgia and he blinked back the wet film that suddenly threatened his eyes. No need to scare the child.

 

   “I would like to buy this from you.” He held up the key, letting it dangle and turn. “Maybe you could get a nice little present for your mommy.”

 

   “Oh no, Mr. Nathan, it's not for sale.” She crawled out from under the table and stood. With a slight wince he did too. Pointing out a display case that held some jewelry, she continued. “Those ones are nice. Gran'ma says I can't play with them.”

 

   She reached out and pulled on the chain. He let go reluctantly, leery of making her upset. She fastened it back on.

 

   “But I'd like this necklace. How about forty dollars?” More than it was probably worth, but now that he had found the perfect gift he didn't want to lose it.

 

   She shook her head. “It's not mine. It belongs to my father.”

 

   Ah, so this had been a gift. No wonder she didn't want to sell it.

 

   A sudden thought came to him.“What if I get one of those necklaces in the case and trade with you?”

 

  Her eyes lit up. Yes, he had figured it out! She was too young to appreciate money, but a trade she could understand.

 

   To his disappointment she pursed her lips and shook her head. “You can't buy this key. Nobody can.”

 

   He rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. What now?

 

   “So the key belongs to your father?”

 

   “Yes.”

 

   Nathan looked around, wondering again where the shopkeeper was. “Where is he?”

 

   She raised a hand and pointed an index finger upward, then turned back to crawl under the table to retrieve her doll.

 

   Nathan soon found the stairs and climbed them. He would speak to the man. Surely they could come up with a reasonable price.

 

   The hallway at the top of the stairs was dark but light shone out from under the first door.

 

   He knocked and stepped back, preparing what to say.

   A petite elderly woman opened the door. She blinked at him but didn't seem startled to see a stranger standing there. “Yes?”

 

   “I, uh, is Jessa's father here?”

 

   The woman turned and waved him into the room. “He isn't back from work yet. If you'd like, you may sit here and wait.”

   The cozy room was pretty bare. A warm fire glowed in a fireplace and two chairs were drawn up beside it. Near the window was a table covered with crayons and sheets of paper and three straight backed chairs surrounded it.

 

   Nathan frowned. The girl had said her father was up here. She must have just been mistaken, but he didn't have time to wait around.

 

   Sitting down in the chair she offered him, he decided to go straight to the point. “I'd like to buy that key your granddaughter wears.”

 

   She lowered herself into the rocking chair opposite him. “I'm sorry. It's not for sale.”

 

   “I'm willing to pay forty dollars for it.” He said quickly.

 

   “Young man, that key belongs to Jessa and it won't be sold for any price.”

 

   He sighed. Maybe it was a family heirloom? Maybe he should give up and buy the manger scene instead. Sarah would still like it and it would make a nice gift. But before he did he had a question.

   “What makes the key so special?” he asked.

 

   She smiled at him and began to rock. “Why don't you ask her?

 

   He turned his head and saw Jessa standing in the doorway. It wouldn't hurt to ask one more time. “Why won't you sell me that key?”

 

   “Because it's the key to my heart.” The little girl, half a cookie in hand, walked over and crawled into her grandmother's lap.”

 

   “The key to your heart?” He furrowed his eyebrows. What was that supposed to mean?

 

   Jessa nodded, then said in a sing-song voice,

 

   “This is the key to my heart,

   My Father holds it for me.

   Someday when the right man comes

   He'll ask to marry me.

 

   This is the key to my heart.

   It can not be stolen or bought.

   For my heart is held up in Heaven,

   And I'll keep it safe as I ought.”

 

   She finished the rhyme and grinned as if pleased with herself. “ Gran'ma says my key sym- symb -” She furrowed her brow and looked at her grandmother.

 

   “What was that word again?”

 

   “Symbolizes.” The lady began to rock the chair again.

 

   Jessa grinned. “Yeah, my key simblizes that Father God can help me keep my heart safe until I get married.” She cocked her head at him. “Are you married Mr. Nathan?”

 

   He swallowed. “Umm, no.”

 

   “Then who did you want my necklace for?”

 

   Nathan winced. The naïve child, a stray strand of blond hair falling over her eyes, caught him in her curious gaze. How was he supposed to answer that? “For- for Sarah.”

 

   “Who's Sarah?”

 

   The lady gently lifted Jessa from her lap, saving him from answering. “Run downstairs and get Mr. Nathan a cookie would you?”

 

   “But he said he didn't want one.”

 

   The lady laughed. “Then I'll eat it for him. Now run along, and bring up the tea kettle too, would you?”

 

   As the child disappeared out the door, Nathan stiffened, expecting the woman to start asking questions but she only picked up needles and a skein of yarn sitting beside her chair and started knitting.

 

   His thoughts began to wander. Sarah had given him her heart. He'd never loved someone as much as he did her. He'd only known her a year but it seemed forever.

 

   A line from child's rhyme flitted through his memory.

 

   'Someday when the right man comes

   He'll ask to marry me.'

 

   He meant to marry Sarah, he really did – soon. After they settled in a bit more. Her parents didn't approve and his, well his were both gone. What mattered was that they were happy, right?

 

   He leaned back in the chair and let out a low sigh. God wouldn't approve. He'd always said he would be different from his dad. He didn't curse except on occasion, he went to church, he provided for Sarah. Their child was due in the spring and he knew he would not leave like his father had. But there was one thing he had done just like his father.

 

   He stood and paced to the small window and looked out over the snow covered buildings. Colored lights blinked and it had begun to snow harder. His stomach clenched and he leaned his forehead against the pane.

 

   God? I'm sorry for all this. . . I didn't mean- I shouldn't have. He closed his eyes. Please help me make this right.

 

   Ask her.

 

   The voice made a shiver run down his spine. A gentle peace made him relax.

   Yes, Lord.

 

   He turned back to the the old woman and found her watching him with a slight smile on her face, almost as if she knew.

 

   He took a deep breath and let it out. He knew the perfect gift to give to Sarah. It would be from his heart.

 

   “I've changed my mind. . . I'd like to buy a ring. Two of them.”

 

 

~ZA

 

 

Copyright © 2012 Ophelia M. Flowers