Ella
The power comes slow, at first, and I feel like a dry terracotta pot into which the first drips of rain begin to fall. But then, as my body beings to take in the power, to soak it up like thirsty clay, the power starts to fall into me like a summer storm. It soaks every bit of me, splashing against my tired soul like a cooling salve.
But then, even when I feel I’ve had enough, it keeps coming, and coming. The storm of power in me grows until it becomes a monsoon, until it fills me, overflows me. Until it reaches my throat, threatening to fill my mouth, my nose, my lungs. I tilt my head back, desperate to keep above the tide, but it’s ceaseless.
I gasp, struggling, but I can feel it trickling around the edges of my mouth, finding its way in despite my efforts –
If only I’d had m
