Froqueen_

Snow on Poetry Lane

Down University Avenue,

            Past the Cub Foods

            And the Caribou coffee

Lies Poetry Lane

The words are etched

            Onto immoveable concrete

            A community’s love bared to the world

Yet the sky tests the citizens,

            Opening a flurry of thick flakes

            Fitting to the compressed letters

            Slowly taking up space.

The prose stands out in white

            Glittering under streetlamps

            And porch lights.

Feet clad protectively shuffle along the lane

Pausing at the words

            Before stepping

                        Unreading

                                    Packing the snow in deeper.

Gobs of white yet fall

Burying Poetry Lane

            Burying the hearts of those

            Brave enough to cement the truth

Until one gloved hand

Warmly brushes aside the blanket

            Shedding light on the community, and

            Poetry Lane, at least for a moment.

A Journey, New Home

In front of me are two steps.

Once taken, two more appear.

Will there ever be

more than two

visible at one time?

Behind me is one step.

On a road I already walked.

Will that step

be any different

if I took it now?

I know what I already walked.

I can strain to see what I have yet to traverse.

Is it better to retreat to the known

when I see one step further

in the unexplored?

Forever Writng

quill rose

by Milada Vigerova

by dtkagan

Excerpt from Otherworld: Volume One

Cluck. Jo looked down, one foot raised. Underneath sat an orange and white chicken. It tilted its head at Jo’s foot, blinked beady black eyes, and clucked again. 

         “Is that-”

         “Roast!” A deep voice called. Surprisingly, the chicken answered. It flapped its wings as it went running down the path. The chicken named Roast squeezed between two fence posts to dutifully return to its owner. 

         “Sorry, we’re just passing through,” Jo called to him. 

         He put his hands to his pointed phyrra ears and yelled, “What?” 

         Jo walked closer. “We’re just passing!”

         “Oh, well welcome. I’m Kho, this is Roast.” Taller than most phyrra, Kho was only a couple inches shorter than herself. He had sandy chin length hair, honey colored skin, and dark freckles dotting his face. A wispy beard decorated his chin and jaw. His clothes were dirty and patched over, and his hands were closed around a pitchfork that he set to the side to scoop up Roast. Kho lifted the chicken’s wing gently, waving it up and down. 

         “Hm,” Maven grunted over Jo’s shoulder. “Never seen that before.”

         “Her brother Toast should be around here somewhere.” Kho looked around the yard, shading his eyes against the sun. 

         “Toast,” Lola echoed over Jo’s shoulder. 

Cluck.

A brown and black chicken looked up at Lola from behind her. Toast drew back his head and pecked at Lola’s ankles with all his might. When she shrieked, Jo had to cover her mouth to avoid laughing. Not everyone else on the team had the same courtesy.  Kho looked between them.  “Where are you all… from?” 

“We’re… well…” Jo trailed off, unsure how much to share with this random farmer. 

“We’re headed from Lekonis,” said Lola carefully, “towards Ipbo. We hear they’re debuting airboats for the holiday.” 

Kho looked between Glade sweeping their tail behind them to ward off attacks from Toast, and Iila, who was trying on her most winning, and most terrifying, grin. “Alright then.”

The sun beat hot on the farm. Animals were sheltering under woven awnings and lapping at water gratefully. Jo thought about her own empty canister. “Would you by chance have water for some friendly passersby?” 

Kho looked apprehensively at the weapons at their belts and slung across their backs. He shrugged and waved them forward. “Thought you wouldn’t ask.” He didn’t sound happy; in fact, Kho’s voice was trembling.

Follow my social media @https://linktr.ee/rose_tells_stories for more

NaNoWriMo Update One

I want to keep updates posted of my progress this month but I find that I'm not keeping track based on word count, but on chapters. I do want to share my breakdown though--

100,000 words total

5 sections of 7 chapters each

20,000 words per section

2,900 words per chapter

This is the outline I'm using, so when I've finished a chapter I assume it falls into this estimate. In the end I'll run a comprehensive count. As long as each chapter is near 3k, I don't fret and move to the next.

So far, I have 8 of 35 chapters finished and it's the 7th day of NaNoWriMo. I could pick up the pace...

Amelie

In a cinderblock bathroom an hour’s bus ride out of the inner-city, there’s a full-length aluminum mirror hanging by two screws. Unrelenting rain pounded on the roof as a girl, twelve, peered into it. Her arms shook, weak from the exhaustion of pulling her way up cliffs. Amelie was on a hiking field trip with her quirky charter school, who believed that traipsing through forests during a spring rain storm was more of a teacher than a chalkboard. The laces of her only pair of tennis shoes lay untied, dripping with mud, but her fingers had grown too icy in the rain to tie them up again. The hem of her jeans was torn where another student had stepped on it while Amelie helped them up a ledge. Her only jacket was dripping onto the floor and torn in several places from burrs and the scrapes of passing sticks. Luckily, Amelie’s shirt was unharmed, but was too flimsy to stop the creep of cold from chilling her to the bone. Her stringy curls would certainly take hours to untangle. Amelie shivered, and looked into her own eyes. Truly the star of the entire appearance was Amelie’s wide grin and the bright, wild look in her eyes that only true adventure could bring.

Forever Writing,

quill rose

The Way Smell Evokes Memory

            On a hot summer afternoon, after a day of playing in the sun but before retiring to play video games, my mother would always shower. She loved spending time with us on those rare free days when all five of her girls were home, and she wasn’t working one of many jobs she held down simultaneously to provide. Our job was to set the living room up, since she didn’t understand and wasn’t willing to learn how to work the equipment. She would emerge in a puff of steam and a waft of perfume. Unwilling to wear shorts outside, those days she was even willing to don a light summer nightdress. We each peeled off at different times in the night, smart enough and independent enough to dictate our own bedtimes. With a yawn, I’d announce my departure. My mother was never short on hugs, pulling me in and holding me, understanding of the importance of that contact. Rich vanilla and rose and a creamy, heavy shea butter: the last things I’d smell for the night.

            When riffling through the cabinet before moving out, I discovered the exact lotion she would use. Her ‘yes’ when I asked to take it was distracted, unaware of the significance. Although, I don’t use it much.

Watching old AJR concert is my secret to writing