microfiction
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choke
“You need fresh air,” my grandmother says. Her dementia is so aggressive, she reverts back to childhood sayings. A time when things were simpler.
I don’t correct her. I don’t tell her there is no more fresh air–it’s stained with pollutants that cause suffocation in minutes.
We stay inside. Massive air conditioning units pump an ultra-filtered but stale atmosphere into the industrial housing facility.
“Thanks, Gran.” That's all I can say. She also doesn’t know that I’ve been holding my breath for years.
Ever since they took control.
You can’t breathe freely when you’re forced to live like someone else.
like the witches before her
The girl ran through the woods, moonlight guiding her path, her brother growing heavy in her arms. He collapsed to the ground when the bee stung, no breath touching his throat.
The forest witch was her only hope. Ancient magic from the earth could cure all ails.
The witch had been young once, like the girl. But she was old now, like the witches before her.
“What will you give?” she asked.
“Anything,” she answered.
The girl watched the witch walk away, holding her healthy brother’s hand.
But she couldn’t follow. She was old now, like the witches before her.