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If you'd like to read more...
Poetry, short stories, novel summaries, and more can be found on Saya's Livejournal, Musings of The Black Flamingo.
Saya is also part of a wonderful writing community on LiveJournal called Runaway Tales and her contributions can be found under the [Author] Saya tag.
It starts with plunking (not music)
"Amazing," she breathed, four and fascinated.
It started with plunking (not music).
Shame, she never tired of Chopsticks.
The first recital was a nightmare.
But the second one was better.
And the third one was great.
Fingers quick and light, dancing, signing.
The music swells, swallows her whole.
They're inseparable now, only complete together.
Two halves of the same coin: music.
The first ribbon was beginner's luck.
The second ribbon? Practice, practice, practice.
The third? She knows she's good.
Her TV debut is at fifteen.
A national trophy bestowed at seventeen.
Her European tour starts in September.
The car crash happens in August.
Nerve damage, they tell her, operable.
She thinks of music going under.
Wakes with trembling hands and fingers.
The tremors don't stop, probably permanent.
Fingers no longer nimble; clumsy, stilted.
Her wretched sobbing lasts for hours.
Watches as her dreams slip away.
Doesn't stop her from longing, hurting.
She can't stand the sound anymore.
Black and white keys haunt her.
Twinkle, Twinkle makes her cry now.
She can't drown it, can't forget.
And she doesn't have a chance.
Nothing but shaky fingers, crushed dreams;
And a lifetime to regret it.
What is she supposed to do?
Who am I?
You ask me who am I; the answer is simple, fundamental as breathing, just as necessary, yet just as complicated to explain: I simply am.
Yesterday, we were strangers, because you knew me not. But does this logic follow one, to the other, that I, who am, knew not you?
I am who I have always been, whom I always shall be, yet; this is not the face I have always worn, this is not the name I have always answered to, this is not the life I have always lived. I am just as I have always been, but there is no guarantee that you will know me tomorrow, the day after, or from there henceforth to the end of the age; just as you knew me not yesterday, the day before, or any day since the beginning of time.
I knew you yesterday, I knew you the day before, I have known you since the beginning of time; and I will know you tomorrow, I will know you the day after, and I will know you from there henceforth until the end of the age.
I have been your company for many a year, and I will continue to be such, for many a year more. Yet, you know me not.
This is not the face I have always worn, this is not the face I always shall wear; this is not the name I have always answered to, this not the name I always shall answer to; this is not the life I have always lived, this is not the life I always shall live.
Yet, I am who I have always been, whom I always shall be. You are the one that knows me not, perhaps the logic follows one, to the other: I am just as I have always been, but you are different every day.
You cannot see it, just as you cannot reconcile what I am, what I have been, and what I will be. Cannot see how your perception has warped me beyond any recognition.
Who am I?
I simply am.
The better question is: who are you?
Bite Sized FictionStories of 100 words or less
It's been years since she'd seen them. Even longer since she'd considered them family.
But watching the empty coffin disappear slowly into the ground, all she can think about is gaudy Christmas decorations, Snicker-doodles cooling on the windowsill, and old Jazz tunes drifting off-key from the bathroom.
This town isn't home, these people aren't family.
But when a hand falls onto her shoulder and squeezes, the world blurs into a slapdash mosaic of monochrome light and tears.
It seeps out with every heaving breath; slithers its way out of me with every step, every motion... every thought.
And soon, I will be empty.
The needle's going down, down, down; I'm running on fumes and my body screams for rest (rest, and more rest). But the fight isn't over yet and I must run faster, stand taller, push harder, do more, be more to receive my reward.
Whether or not I want it anymore.
To Melt A Refrigerator Magnet Poem
The Dryads' Dance
The dryads dance in dizzying circles
Round and round and round they go
'Round the blazing fire to the lilting flute tunes
The wild dances of the elegant trees
Round and round and round they go
With leaps and twirls, kicks and spins
The wild dances of the elegant trees
The song of the night loud and strong
With leaps and twirls, kicks and spins
They call us to them, enchant us to dance
The song of the night loud and strong
Our last breath a laugh as we dance and we spin yet...
They call us to them, enchant us to dance
'Round the blazing fire to the lilting flute tunes
Our last breath a laugh as we dance and we spin yet
The dryads still dance in dizzying circles
Round and round and round you spin. Weaving in and out of swirling circles comprised of people, Fae, and other things you've only dreamed about; never dared hope existed. Vaguely you remember there is life outside what dances in the ring of the bonfire; but the memories are just as murky, just as faded, as the darkness beyond.
Laugh and twirl, laugh and twirl; this is your existence now.
And if you sometimes catch flashes of hunger behind bright eyes, or feel the tingling of exhaustion working its way up your limbs, or notice the way your breath catches and heaves, unable to keep up; you push those dark thoughts aside, because it is time to dance.
Still, you can't help but wonder if they'll ever find your body.