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Powder knew her skull must be broken because of the sound it made when she tried to draw in her breath. The air rattled inside of her and escaped quickly as though it were afraid to enter her body. She waited in the total darkness for something to happen—for someone to come and take her spirit away or for her spirit to turn into a ball and rise out of her throat like Cross' had.

But her eyes rolled open and Powder realized it wasn't dark at all. The Stage had disappeared and she was lying on a large thick carpet. Motes were drifting chaotically through ribbons of sunbeams streaming out of a window in the ceiling that had never shown daylight before. Powder waited for the throbbing pain to kill her off but it wasn't growing. In fact, it was lessening.

The end. Alright, let's get this over with.

The pain stopped. The motes kept drifting. A brighter burst of sun lightened the room and Powder blocked it with her hand. Her arm moved freely and she marveled that she couldn't feel the heat of the sun's rays on her palm.

She was opening and closing her fingers when a peculiar sound caught her attention. She froze. It was near her. Powder moved her fingers again. The sound was coming from her hand... her hand that moved slowly, her hand that was mostly numb.

Her hand that had little slats at each knuckle.


No story has a beginning or an end.
A writer's duty is merely to pick the best starting and ending points.
If someone's story—or your own—ends sadly, then it's not over.
Part II is on its way.


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Much love —
H C Saunders

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