Her lungs were a bellows with no air. Pacing, hands darting, thoughts racing, catastrophes forming. Unable to settle, yet wanting to hide. Instead, she sought, her quiet place. Stillness. Breathing. In. Out. If chaos screamed, she let it scream, let it fade away while she focused on breathing. Her lungs, expanding, contracting. Her thoughts quieting. Her shoulders relaxing. Her in control. ©June 2017, April 2021 Christina Anne Hawthorne
Christina Anne Hawthorne
Alive and well in the Rocky Mountains. I'm a fantasy writer who also dabbles in poetry, short stories, and map making. My Ontyre tales are an alternative fantasy experience, the stories rich in mystery, adventure, and romance. Alternative fantasy? Not quite steampunk. Not quite gothic. In truth, the real magic is in those who discover what's within.