By Micah Baker
She wiped the blood from her sword, a quick motion, wrist flicking, eyes peering intently into the wounds before her. The cuts were clean, effective as the precise lacerations of a surgeon. And while blood welled up from the incisions, a healing happened. She cut away the fog of fear and insecurity to flash a mirror into the true hearts of her friends. And they saw themselves through her eyes–waifs shed their coverings to reveal the iridescent wings of nymphs and quiet, unobtrusive gentlemen opened their chests and purred, shaking their glorious manes. With the strength and power of years of training, practice, and the insight of experience, the slashes of her blade were dizzying and she reveled in her strength while she felt the power and surety of having honed her skill until she and her sword had become one being. As she danced nimbly through the fray, she laughed for the pure joy of who and what she had become. And for a brief instance her mighty sword looked like a fairy godmother’s wand bestowing gifts beyond measure.
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