arms and carried her over to the fireplace. I lit a fire and made her a hot drink, finding some blankets I could use to help warm her up. Her lips were blue, and she was shivering, yet she had the courtesy to thank me, warming my old heart. As I sat down beside her, she told me what had happened. Her father was some sort of a travelling merchant, and as a widower, he had to take her on his journeys. But this time, their ship had been in a terrible storm, out of course and trapped in heavy currents, it had shattered against the cliff. She told me she’d been carried to shore by the waves, and somehow managed to climb up to the top of the cliff, hoping there would be someone there. That night, I let her sleep in my bed, as I walked down to the shore looking for other survivors. I found none, not even bodies. The only evidence of there ever being a ship was a single piece of wood that carried the inscription “Ophelia”, said by the girl to be the name of the ship. She seemed to be the only one left, the sole survivor. When I returned home, she was still sleeping. Unable to sleep, I scraped the bottle of my inkwell for the last drops of ink, continuing my story of the shipwrecked girl, as I suddenly realized that the events of the day were actually quite like what I’d written earlier. I took it to be an odd coincidence, but was inspired by my own acts to continue the story. I wrote about how the man went looking for other survivors as the girl slept, but found none. That’s when I started wondering… how did I want the story to turn out in reality? So I wrote a couple of lines about what happened the next day in the story, but in the end I had to realize that the ink wouldn’t hold much longer, so I decided to stop for the night, and try to get some sleep.
When I woke up the next day, I realized that I didn’t know the girls name yet. When she woke up, I sat by her side and gave her breakfast, asking of her name. She said her name was Cassandra, and that she was 10 years old. Cassandra… It was the same name I’d given the girl in my story… And she was of the same age. I left her alone to eat her breakfast… I had to go out. I walked along the cliff and enjoyed the ocean air for a while. The things I wrote about Cassandra seemed to happen. I had suspected it the day before too, so I’d written a test. I wrote that after breakfast, Cassandra almost choked, but the man walked in and saved her. So I waited a while, before walking back into the house. As I opened the door, I saw Cassandra, she stood coughing and crying and her face had turned blue. I had neglected to write any details about at what point I’d walk in, so she seemed to have been choking for some time, and it looked painful. I cursed myself for the idiotic test, I could’ve written something completely different, but I chose this. I ran over to her, hitting her back with my hand. She coughed up a large chunk of food. I hugged her, and told her to be more careful from then on. Knowing she was all alone in the world, and that I somehow had to be her creator, I asked if she would like to live there with me. She said she’d like that, and she smiled at me. I hadn’t written that smile, and I remember that smile very well, and very fondly. Later that day, I went to the village, bringing home some ink. When I got home however, I didn’t write. I wanted to know what happened if I didn’t write. I wanted to see if she’d react at all, or if she would just go on as if I had never written a word. I hoped for the latter, that she would just go on as a normal kid. But of course, I was wrong. Walkingblind Magazine
Published on Oct 6, 2010