Short story
Carla was a stranger to me, but still I felt like I knew her. She stood in front of me. One glimpse into her crystal eyes and I saw a girl, sitting in the middle of a dark room wearing electric wires and cranberries. Some of those electric wires were broken with diminished flickers. Her wings were mangled. A sliver of sunlight peeped in through a crack in one of the windows but she was so cold that even sunlight froze on her skin. She was trapped. Trapped in 168 iron chains. Some of them laying heavy on her chest, barely enabling her to breath, hardly allowing her to move. The broken electric wires poked into her skin. She cried blood and still bleeded hope, a hope that some day she'll fly again.
Carla was still one of those people who believed in magic, who used to breathe magic as if it were the only way they could see the world. She was different from you, me or anyone who would say that being practical is the way of life. For her, there's only one way to live it- to breathe magic, to carve fireflies on bones and smell stardust in every wisp of soul.
She knew it was her belief in magic and miracles that made her so vulnerable in the real world.
I asked her, "How do you manage to live like this, miserable and damaged, ever so tormented by the chained vision which haunts you day and night? And how do you still believe in miracles when you know it has scarred you?"
