The Wind Itself
Once upon a time there was a wind.
It blew and blew.
It blew itself out.
Then, of course, it stopped.
The wind laid down, curled around, and breathed. Only small breaths.
And so doing, kept being itself.
The Shadows
The light shown on Anya’s fingers. It curled around her palm and danced. This, she thought, was the sheer pleasure of having magic. But in the midst of her play, a shadow grew. It was not unexpected; it was the cost of doing magic, for it always begot shadows. But it never ceased to offer discomfort. If she could find a way to practice her craft and leave behind the adjacent darkness, she would. Anya was not fond of the dark, or shadows, or of the sense of unease that grew whenever she let the flickering brightness dance. But, too, there was a feeling of wholeness in her work. How could that be, such fulfillment when darkness lay about her? A constant wonder—the weight of it only born by extinguishing the light for a time until she could bear it again. Today was such a time. Anya took the light, and threw it at the darkness....