From the Mixed-Up Google Docs of Sinha: Crow and Key
Something precious, something strange
Someone lost and someone gained
Which is choiceless, crow or key
Who is stolen, who is free?
A wee interview
1. When did you begin to write?
Ever since I was very small, I've wanted to tell stories. I used to dictate made-up adventures involving my family and stuffed animals to my babysitter. She would write them down and I would illustrate them. I remember wearing a princess dress and walking around my house, and in my head, I was narrating my actions in the third person, like I was acting out a book. Waiting to fall asleep at night, I would always make up dramatic stories. I think at some point I realised the stories never went anywhere because I always fell asleep before I finished them, and I decided it might be good to write them down.
2. What does writing give back to you? What is your ultimate writing goal?
I think I write because it gives me the ability to be inside someone else's head. Sure, I write a lot of descriptions and poems and things that aren't necesarily character-driven, but my favorite pieces to write are things that let me experience the world through someone else's eyes. I like imagining a situation that would be normal to me and then look at it from another angle, like seeing the sun shining through an open window and describing it from the perspective of someone who had never seen the sun. My ultimate writing goal is to sucessfully write stories that are driven by a character's experience of the world.
Sing a Song of Strangers
Sing a song of pennies,
Sing a song of pay
Sing a song of half-filled bowls and live another day
Sing a song of starving,
Sing a song of cold
Sing a song of marching death with nothing left to hold
Sing a song of horses,
Sing a song of trade
Sing a song of strangers whose soft footprints quickly fade
Sing a song of flour
Sing a song of sacks
Sing a song of children who remember how to laugh
Sing a song of soldiers,
Sing a song of hate
Sing a song of how’d they know, but you can’t hide, too late
Sing a song of questions,
Sing a song of when
Sing a song of family you will never see again
Sing a song of begging,
Sing a song of please
Sing a song of we were hungry, can’t you let us be?
Sing a song of fetters,
Sing a song of lead
Sing a song of blackness as they come to take your head
First version: https://theprose.com/post/424457/sing-a-song-of-something
Dancing in the headlights
Dancing in the headlights in the middle of the street
Beams from my running car cutting through sheets of heavy mist
We spin and we’re ghosts cloaked in fog
and angels outlined in rays of light
There is frost on the ground and winter on the wind, but
it smells like summer
We’re laughing and I don’t know why. I don’t know
(I would sew you this fog into a quilt so you could drape it around your shoulders)
(I would sew it full of raindrops so you could know how much I love you)
(I would weave it full of night so you could always be my sister)
how many days until tomorrow?
how many seconds until we grow up?
Hello, I’m Sinha!
My profile picture lies. I do not in reality have a small demon climbing up my shoulder.
she hovers on the edge of the cliff / wax wings and freckled cheeks and steely eyes (full of choppy grey water and murky depths and the distant echoes of wax feathers falling) eyes always tilted towards the sun / always seeing where she could go if only
she / had / wings
you / Icarus / toeing the line between girl and woman / hovering between here and something more
Icarus lives / and she has no fear, wax wings spread and sailing towards the blinding light / You have never known what it means to fail so failure is not a possibility / But if / when / your feathers begin to fall / one by one / Icarus lives / you have no regrets /
it doesn’t matter whether your wings melt / doesn’t matter if you plummet / lost beneath the sea /
so long as you came the closest / to touching /
"It's so dark in here."
"I miss the sun."
"Do you remember the sun anymore? What it felt like?"
"...Not really. Do you?"
"I remember it blinked sometimes."
"No it didn't...
It's summer now, outside."
"I've been counting. Scratching lines into the floor while you were asleep."
"I didn't hear you."
"You were asleep."
"Where are the lines?"
"Under my shackle, so they don't see. I count them, you know, over and over. That's how I know it's summer."
"Can I count them too?"
"I wish I'd never counted them."
"...How long is a day?"
"How do you know when to make the lines?"
I forgot there were days."
You didn't forget summer."
"It was warm."
"Maybe it's summer now. Maybe it's warm out there...
Were we warm? When we were outside?"
"I would like to forget."
"I don't know...
I want to forget how to talk."
#microfiction #weeklysnippets #summer
“I have something for you.” Jheri reaches for a blade sheathed beside her sword, draws it, arcs it through the air. Light glints off the metal. She holds it out to Rasa, smiles when she takes it. Rasa looks at the blade in her hands. It’s a sword, she realises, a small sword.
“You’re getting stronger, little one. A sword will protect you better when you fight.”
Rasa turns the blade, it is heavy. She glances at Jheri, shifts the sword to one of her hands. Is she really getting stronger? She tries to spin the blade like Jheri did, biting her lip in concentration, gloved palm wrapped tight around the leather grip. It is hard to hold right, hard to make move. But Jheri fights with a sword. She fought the demon with a sword.
Rasa touches the edge of the thin blade, the skin on her fingers breaking when it brushes the metal. She touches it again. Sets her teeth as it cuts her, watches her blood drip from the blade, the hurt makes her feel a little less empty. So sharp.
Jheri grabs her bleeding hand, holds it tightly for a moment, “Don’t.”
She crouches beside her and Rasa sucks her fingers, coppery blood in her mouth.
Jheri buckles the sword’s scabbard to Rasa’s belt. She takes the blade from her hand, tucks it into the scabbard. Stands. Wraps Rasa’s hand around the grip. Rasa feels the weight of the blade at her side, something twists in her chest. She reaches for Jheri, clings to the front of her cloak, tries to make Jheri understand with her eyes.
Jheri rubs Rasa’s hair, “Hey, Rasa.”
Dim light emanates from the forge with the molten orange of a dragon's stomach. The hammer strikes metal, strikes metal, strikes metal again.
In the heat of the dragon's belly, steel begins to take shape.
The Ballad of Solus
I prowl the world with a hand on my blade
I answer to few, I know nothing of friends.
Betrayal has hardened this monster they made
I bow only to chaos, a means to an end.
I do what I must to get what I need
I see only what I can take in their eyes.
I live for the day when my anger is freed
I smile behind the mask of my lies.
I will break you with words or I’ll break you with flames
You are nothing but what you can offer to me.
I’ll give you no mercy, I grant only pain
So pray for your death if you wish to be free.
I learned long ago there was only one way
The rest is a lie, there is no other life.
They bleed at your feet and you do as you may
Or they step on your back and you die by their knife.