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Sarai Writes

In addition to singing and performing, Sarai is also an avid writer in her free time. She writes fictional stories as well as poetry. Below are samples of a few poems and stories. I'm still working on how to keep this section short but keep the text formatting. 

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Short sample taken from a longer story about Amina. Because of past events she is emotionally tortured and physically scared. Through her work as an event planner she stumbles into a dangerous situation left to her after a colleague and rival is killed. ---------- I’m dreaming that I’m my mother and I’m stunning. Deep earthy skin that glows gold and reflects even the dimmest light with deep dark doe eyes, tight kinky coils, a mouth like Cupid’s bow, and an athletic but somehow still soft body. In my dream my mother self is fucking a beautiful man. At first we are slow and tender, me on my back enjoying it. Somehow I can both feel everything and see it like I’m watching from above. Our coppery skin mixing and melding, shimmering gold, indistinguishable from one another on top of folds of luxurious feeling fabric in a rich royal cobalt. When I’m close he brings out a little silver hatchet that gleams in the low light, I look him in the eye as he brings it down, hacking pieces from me. Silently My eyes ask why, and he whispers in sweet tones, his mouth dripping honey, because I love you. And because this is the love I know I arch my back in pleasure as he ruins and takes me apart piece by piece. He raises the little hatchet that has made quick work of me, high and as he brings it down I start awake, clutching the raised scar just above my left hip. For a moment I think I’m bleeding but realize it’s just sweat. The dream was just an echo, I tell myself over and over, as I sit on the side of the bed fingering my scar, catching my breath. I touch the screen of my phone and it lights like a beacon, it’s 4:59am only one minute before my alarm. The droning of mild traffic, foreign languages spoken slowly in warm and happy conversations; the splashing from a play fountain bookended by a child making sounds of delight with himself at narrowly escaping the water. A monk or friar, I don’t have the first clue how to tell the difference, is walking with a parishioner deep in conversation. Life, the soundtrack for my morning coffee at the only decent place I’ve found in this tiny place, going on all around me. It should sound like a thunderous cacophony, but none of this can match my inner turmoil and despair after that dream. It quiets a bit with every sip of my cappuccino. I feel like if anyone took the time to really see me, they would see the desperation in my tawny almond shaped eyes. I’ll leave this beautiful place in two days, I just have to make it until then, I think as I down in one gulp the shot of tequila I ordered with my coffee; the inner turmoil quiets to a low hum. Until then, a wedding. "I cant go through with it." The cupcake of a woman sobs into her pristine white hanky at me "I don’t actually love him." "Oh sweetheart” I coo,"please stop crying, you don’t have to go through with anything.  How in the world did this happen?! Usually I can spot the brides who are going to run from a mile away. Those are the events I don’t want anything to do with. Somehow if the bride runs out it is suddenly the planner’s fault.  "I'll even let you borrow my car. Let me go get my keys” I say to her as I hop up from the couch and head for the door. I successfully make it down to the garden where five-hundred guests are busying themselves finding their seats and running into friends and family they haven’t seen in years. I spot the pair I’m looking for at the lemonade spritzer fountain. "Mr and Mrs. Meindl." I say in my most charming voice. "Oh Amina, everything is so beautiful.” Mrs. Meindl says wrapping me up in tight hug. “You’re so pretty dear she continues. If you stay away from the konditorei for a few weeks maybe you’ll be having your own wedding soon” she continues with a testing squeeze of my soft waist. "I'm so happy you’re pleased.” I smile ignoring her comment. “I'm about to go get the groom and his party since Ulli is all ready.” Bitch I think. “Once the wedding starts you’ll be so wrapped up and then with the reception…why don’t you pay me now so you can just enjoy the festivities?" I say with what I hope is a calm and charming and sincere expression.  If they find out she's running there goes my twenty grand. "Oh sure!” Mr. Meindl says reaching into his pocket. “I have it all ready for you.”  I take the envelope with thanks and open it right in front of them. I know it is tacky but after a few times being shorted and never getting the difference, you learn a thing or two.  "Perfect, I say pocketing the bulging envelope. "Hold tight. I mean you should make your way to your seats soon.” I zip up the pocket on my pink silk pants so as not to loose the cash and head back up to the bridal chamber. Usually a few minutes alone is all they need to calm down and do the right thing. Which is honouring your commitments and not pissing away tens of thousands of dollars, for the low end weddings. This one is more like 300k since they decided to fly everyone to Italy from Texas. I hesitate with my hand on the door knob, do I want to know? Yes, I’d like my last wedding to go off without much of a hitch. Finally, I knock. Nothing. I open the door and see the bride laying on the couch, a man kneeling in front of her, spreading her wide, as he eats her out. At first I think its the groom and that I’ve stumbled in on a stollen moment, but as soon as that thought forms I realise it is the best man, who happens to be the grooms father, “Oh my god!” Tumble from my mouth before I can stop the words and slip out unnoticed. The two on the couch erupt in fear at being found out. “Uh, I didn’t see anything,” I say holding my clipboard in front of my face. “Found it.” The best man says miming holding a contact. “Gee thanks,” says the bride taking air from him. “I’ll be going” the best man says blowing past me. “So, about before” the bride starts with a light giggle, “I’m fine, totally ready!” Without saying a word I pour a glass of champagne and down it, then pour one for her as well. “I’ll go tell him you’re ready. Why don’t you go to the holding room with your bridesmaids. I head to the groom’s suit, dodging all questions on my way. I rap swiftly on the door which immediately swings open and the best man steps out and into my personal space. “I don’t know what you think you saw,” “I didn’t see anything,” I say cutting him off Just two more days “Because if you tell him whatever you think you saw it would ruin him.” He goes on. “Theres nothing to tell, because I didn’t see anything.” I insist You know that thing that people do, especially men who are trying to intimidate a woman, where they get uncomfortable close so you concede your space and step back? That is what this prick is doing now. Unbelievable. “I just need to be sure you’ll keep your mouth shut,” he takes a step forward so I can smell the bride’s on his breath. “If I wanted him to know, he’d know already,” I say taking a step forward catching him off-guard. I reach past him to knock on the door. “Are you all ready?” it is an interesting feeing to move through life knowing you’re completely alone. Knowing there is no-one who cares if you’re well, who loves you, who'll bring you soup if you’re sick, let alone come to the rescue in some shit like this. I've moved through life with this knowledge since I was seven. It makes you cold and hard. It is impossible to trust anyone or depend on them.  In high school however, I learned how to pretend. How to act like everything is sunshine and butterflies while on the inside you're praying that the subway you’re waiting for will derail and take you out. Greet the world with a bright cheery smile and they’ll never notice you’re dying inside. The sound of my suitcase wheels hitting the cobblestone in the entry of my building is usually the happy sounds of arriving back home, the place I feel safest, but right now their drumming and endless echo off the vast walls just sound hallow and lonely. The ancient elevator chugs to a stop and the gate unlocks. I manoeuvre myself and my giant bag into the tiny space and close the gate and push the button for the top floor. The clang of the gate is louder than expected and I’m started as the sound echos in the empty and dark entry. My apartment is dark, lit just enough from the street lamp to find my way, which I know by heart. Something about that sound of the gate to the elevator, I’m drowning in my past, and it's all I can do to not find a place to hide. I drop my purse and keys by the front door with my suitcase and peel off my clothes and hair on the way to my bedroom, overcome by an immense sense of loneliness and panic. You’re ok, I tell myself, Just breathe, in and out, in and out. I take the stairs to my loft bedroom and I’m naked by the time I reach my bed, and huffing and puffing like I’m in labor. In and out, in and out. My bed is still unmade from the the morning I left. This little insignificant thing makes me crumble, and just like that I’m crying. At some point I fall asleep but have nightmares the entire night. I wake up early still crying and groggy, but I know I have to get a jump on the next event and I have to get up. I find my robe and trek down to where I dropped my things the night before making no effort to pick them up, put them away, or tidy them. Finding my phone I see I have one new voicemail from shortly after I landed. Hi Amina, It’s Jesse. We saw on Instagram that you're doing a wedding in Rome and since we haven’t heard anything from you about our anniversary party which is in 4months since we sent the deposit, We talked to Glen and switched to Karen. Glen said we should contact you. This way you can enjoy Rome! Bye. I know this is a little rejection and in the big scheme of things it doesn’t matter, but this was the thing. It was the next thing to keep me tethered. And without it and with 4 months of nothing why not do it today? I cry through my eucalyptus shower, all while I’m combing conditioning and braiding my hair. I want to have a pretty face when they find me so I do stop crying for long enough for my waterproof makeup to set and I go to the closet and find my favourite dress. (Cobalt with colourful peacocks on the hem, it reminds me of the dream a few days ago that I can’t shake) and open a new wig (an endless supply on the shelves of my closet). I cut the lace and stratigecly place the combs in my braids and fix the front. I look as perfect as I can. My skin not as deep brown as my mothers, is just as flawless as hers was, but I dont have her athletic figure. I’m soft and curvy with long shapely legs elongated by my nude heels.
Since I don’t have any food in the house I decide to order from my favourite new overpriced hipster place around the corner. Finds phone *text* Missed calls All from Glen Without thinking I call him back, he answers on the first ring. “its about time I’ve been calling for over an hour” “What do you want Glen? Reassign more of my events?” “Look they always wanted Karen to begin with. There was nothing I could do” “Bullshit” “I come baring gifts” *My interest is piqued” “Miranda was hit by a car. She has an event next week. Do you want it?” “Whats her fee? “60k” “Is this how much everyone else is making?! And you pay me this bulllshit I made in Rome?" “No, it’s a special family, they’re very connected and very discreet. No instagramming, no fb, no tiktoking, moon chatting or whatever new thing you're doing this week, any of the details of their event.” “OK, what is their event? “your favorite, a wedding” “can you get them to do 10% more on my fee?” “You’re just being greedy, I’ll send you the address, they’re expecting you at the father’s office at 11:30” *click* Well shit — Ding — *adress text* — Ding — *are you back yet? - Jake Just seeing his name pop up on my phone makes me wet. FOCUS — Text — *I’m so wet rn* *why do you ask, are you hard?* *I am* I grab my keys and coat and catch my reflection in the mirror and see the sadness in my big brown eyes. It catches me off guard a moment, puts me right at the precipice threatening to drag me down into it. My eyes wide, I take a few deep breaths, put on my coat, throw my bag over my shoulder, a smile on my face, square my shoulders, and march out the door, not today. — Ding — *have dinner with me* — Text— Ok! Don’t tell me what to do *Why should I?* And with that I pop my phone into my bag and hop on the PATH, instantly regretting that I don’t have on sneakers.


A few poems. The skin on my hands and the flesh on my hips have been softened with butter. I have been cushioned with drinks and dinners with friends on long summer nights, candle lit and peppered with the aroma of spices and laughter and big toothy smiles. I am soft and fragile, quiet and warm, and often smell of cardamom and sweat and olive oil. But when strangers see me Pockets button Purses zip And hands flutter to wallets hidden in coats as I walk by. From cattle to criminal and you can’t see anything different. Sometimes I try to remember just one nice thing my grandma said to me but never can. I walk into the courtyard in front of the opera house where I long to work. A mother and child happily playing, kicking a soccer ball back and forth, their grocery bag and the mother’s purse sitting nearby. I smile at the scene. Upon seeing me she rushes to the bags and continues kicking with them slung over her shoulder. I wait for the conductor I’m having coffee with. --------- Just friends We talk on the phone at night when I can’t sleep and I pretend not to hear you touching yourself, because we’re just friends When I touch myself or use my vibrator I remember your mouth and hands on me but we’re just friends I hang up the phone and get back in bed with my husband. My lips burning and aching with desire, but not for you because we’re just friends. The only problem is, for me you are sex. Personified. You are orgasms, you are arms holding me, tight and in place. You are a mouth suckling tender and aching places. You are the measure against which every other lover has been compared and assessed. How do you match beat and time to the music in my head? It’s as if you can hear it when you’re inside of me. ----- For the woman whom 100 and 3 years were not enough You confessed to me on your 103rd birthday that it wasn’t enough time and you’d like 103 years more. You want to see and know what will happen. You loved tv, the paper, fried chicken and you were the original bougie Black girl sporting 20,000$ hand bags since before I was born. You made your own money un-bought, un-bossed and unbothered but only after what I now know felt like a lifetime of domestic work. A maid. A black maid. A black maid to white families, you always knew you were more. More than a mother. More than a wife. More than a nigger with airs. You had “the nerve” and you crafted your own reward when the world was too small and close minded to give you one. We were cut from the same cloth. A large one, and it feels like we two used up every last bit of the fabric. When you said you wanted 103 more, I thought my god, why?! Now I wish you were here and would be here always. It’s as if the ground or the air itself has disappeared.

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DALL·E 2023-06-01 13.42.56 - romance novel cover light-skinned black female scientist who


Elin is a recent ivy-league grad who thinks she has it all; a great job lined up, an adoring fiancé, and a solid group of friends. She's mistaken about everything. With the help of her sisters and therapist she puts her life back together and starts online dating, but gets unwanted attention. ------ Posting this sample in a few days. It needs proof reading.

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