flowers bloom in the rain
Above, the sun comes in intermittent sunbeams through the clouds. Flora glows in it. She stands with her arms folded, bracelets chiming when she shifts, curls tumbling forward in the breeze. Her grin is easy and crooked, her movements as smooth as if she were born with a dagger in her hand. The way she twirls the blade, how effortlessly she narrows her focus to something no bigger than a coin, makes it clear this isn’t just skill—it’s instinct. Watching her, it hits me all over again how lucky I am she’s my cousin, that someone so dazzling, so precise and sure, is family.
I try not to let my frustration at myself catch flame, holding onto her words instead. Don’t conquer the whole tree. Just one tiny spot at a time. It’s more than advice about knives to me—it’s a way to look at my approach to being independent and making a difference. Just one small spot at a time.
I set my stance, heart thrumming with the roll of the ground, and narrow my eyes to the knot in the bark. My first throw lands nearly true but slips free, falling uselessly to the earth before reappearing in my hand. My lips press together as I heft the knife, like a promise. Again. Just the knot. Nothing else.
The blade cuts the air in a clean arc, strikes hard into the bark, and this time sticks right at the very edge of the knot. Not Flora’s perfect dead-center, but close enough that triumph bursts through me like sunlight. I can’t help it—my grin splits wide, my whole body bouncing a couple of times. “I hit it! Not dead center, but I actually hit it.”
The dagger appears back into my hand, warm with the echo of the strike. I look at Flora, and my grin softens into something almost shy. “So what’s the likelihood of me getting things in a line today?”
[ training 2/4 ]
I try not to let my frustration at myself catch flame, holding onto her words instead. Don’t conquer the whole tree. Just one tiny spot at a time. It’s more than advice about knives to me—it’s a way to look at my approach to being independent and making a difference. Just one small spot at a time.
I set my stance, heart thrumming with the roll of the ground, and narrow my eyes to the knot in the bark. My first throw lands nearly true but slips free, falling uselessly to the earth before reappearing in my hand. My lips press together as I heft the knife, like a promise. Again. Just the knot. Nothing else.
The blade cuts the air in a clean arc, strikes hard into the bark, and this time sticks right at the very edge of the knot. Not Flora’s perfect dead-center, but close enough that triumph bursts through me like sunlight. I can’t help it—my grin splits wide, my whole body bouncing a couple of times. “I hit it! Not dead center, but I actually hit it.”
The dagger appears back into my hand, warm with the echo of the strike. I look at Flora, and my grin softens into something almost shy. “So what’s the likelihood of me getting things in a line today?”
Theea
growing up is a pain
