Sinjin Chronicles 2

At night I can hear the wind talking to the hills. At least that is the sound that looms largest in my mind’s eye. I don’t know why the howl and the hiss and the faint undulation that sounds so very much like someone speaking should swell with darkfall, the wind gauges and tech installations report no significant change in wind speed and direction after dark, and yet I’d swear to you that the sound increases. It thickens, intensifies, forming a great dark mass that churns and undulates somewhere deep in my limbic brain. Layers and layers of sounds and shifting rhythms that fool the brain into thinking that it hears voices imbedded within the maelstrom. But it doesn’t, not really. As much as your brain tries to pull some sense of language it can’t so you are left with the aching and pervasive and unsettling feeling that something of cosmic importance is being said just outside your ability to comprehend.

Sinjin Chronicles - Day 1

It is only natural that they should have forgotten me by now. I mean come on, it has been nearly ten years earth solar time that I’ve been out-bound, and seven years, five months and twelve e-solar days since I landed in this hell-hole. The time passage alone  is enough to forget, and on top of that, why would you want to remember the daughter/sister/aunt that besmirched the fine old family name by landing herself on the United Systems most notorious prison planet? That the charges are treason and murder must make it all that more excruciating. One wonders how they can possibly carry on. And yet by all reports they do, and well if the latest gossip of the Sur-ply Ships carries any shred of truth.


Now, all that being said, the name is the thing and I still have one, Sinjin is still me and I am still she. Not that I much resemble myself these days with hair bleached white as bone and skin burnt the deep red-brown of a Nicoben nut. Gone is the fresh-faced, by the numbers, star recruit, plucked from the ranks and onto the Republican Star Guard by virtue of a fine family name and a pretty face - though I like to think being top of my class in hand to hand combat and adaptive intelligence had something to do with it. But that’s probably just pride speaking. Ever my downfall.


Hey, I still have all my teeth and most of my fingers, which is more than most of my fellow prisoners can say. And believe you me, the end of my right pinkie finger chewed off by the Red Beast in a quad fight three months into my 15 to 20 stint was a very small price to pay for the rep that came from pounding his well-larded ass into the salt pan of the yard.