“I was following the pack
All swallowed in their coats
With scarves of red tied round their throats
To keep their little heads
From falling in the snow
And I turned round and there you go
And Michael you would fall
And turn the white snow red as strawberries
In the summertime”
-“White Winter Hymnal” by Fleet Foot Foxes
Sinfi
The caravan was broken. It had never been broken before. It had been burned, cracked, cut, and bruised, but never broken. But now the red and gold pieces had caved in, fallen over and up, crushed ships in a dark, white-capped sea.
Sinfi’s blue dress lapped around her ankles, chasing her, demanding that she follow the others.
The others ran ahead, colors dancing a fast, rich, dangerous dance. The yellows leaped and turned white. The reds stomped and turned black. The oranges twirled and turned grey.
But the dance behind them followed, faster, richer, more dangerous. The broken wood turned to flame, the flame danced, but it did not turn white, not black, not even grey.
A small solo lilted away from the fire, his voice rising and falling in tiny pants and
fast heavy footsteps. Sinfi fought against the current: the crowd, her dress, the fire. She reached back.
“Hurry Hanzi,” she urged. “Run.” His dark eyes reached for hers, but his feet
stumbled. They were right behind him.
They didn’t dance. They struck. Hanzi’s head fell to the white-capped waves, red
capped sea. Neither would part, and neither would hold back the Pharaoh’s men.
Sinfi let the current carry her, and she moved on, a steel skiff that knew how to
brave a winter storm.
Hanzi was gone, and the caravan was broken.
Nihilistic Porcupine 