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.
From the Mixed-Up Google Docs of Sinha: Weaving
She watches from the floor as skilled, calloused hands weave a bright blanket. Sometimes, she is allowed to help hold the yarn. (She always strokes the unfinished blanket, she wants it to remember that she helped).
The blanket is almost done, spreading over the taut strings of the loom. Red. Cream. Blue. Pink. She hides beneath, pretends it is her own little tent.
She makes the tassels, they are red and cream and beautiful. She shows them to everyone. She carries them in her pocket until the blanket is finished. They look even prettier sewn on.
She wants the blanket with her everywhere, it is so big she can barely carry it, but she staggers around with the fabric bunched in her arms. “Look at my blanket!”
She runs to hide beneath the loom, dragging her blanket behind her, tripping over the pretty tassels. She leaves a bloody trail in her wake. Footprints from her small shoes glisten on the floor, red and sticky. Blood on the blanket. Blood on her hair. Her breaths are loud in her ears, she shoves the crumpled blanket against the wall and buries her face in it.
They drag her from beneath the loom. She sobs, clinging to her blanket. They pry it from her little hands, she watches it fall, stained with smears of red.
From the Mixed-Up Google Docs of Sinha: Time
A child walks the dirt road, feet bare and caked with dust. Her goldenrod yellow cape is much too long, dragging on the ground, creating swirling patterns that mark her path. In one hand she carries a bronze scythe, the handle carved in ornate patterns. In the other, a clay bowl full of black oil. On either side of the road, fields of dew-laden sunflowers rustle and lean, heads facing east to catch the first rays of the rising sun. They watch the child travelling eastward. Unsurprised, they have seen this sight before. They do not ask, do not answer, only bear silent witness...
Amazing People Whose Things You Must Read
HelenaTherese is the embodiment of sunshine and contagious joy. Her pieces will make you come away with a new appreciation for how beautiful the world is
Read this and I guarantee you will smile: https://theprose.com/post/400652/just-the-two-of-us
I will never fail to be surprised at PaperbackFish's ability to freeze feelings into words
I've read this piece at least 10 times and it destroys me every time: https://theprose.com/post/417878/drowning-because-maybe-you-ll-meet-me-down-there-at-the-bottom-of-the-ocean
HandsOfFire is an artist, that's all I have to say about it
I could never pick a favorite post, but here's one that will steal the air from your lungs: https://theprose.com/post/435507/the-blue
If you haven't read one of DoveRaptor's poems, I quite truly have no words. Just read all of them as soon as possible
This is painfully relatable and beautiful: https://theprose.com/post/415101/soda
JaneF writes absolutely everything, and writes it all absolutely wonderfully
Here is something amazing: https://theprose.com/post/358886/roses-and-thorns