The white wicker rocking chair creaked as it tilted with agonizing slowness forward, back, forward, back, forward, back. Its occupant stared into the distance, tender eyes shielded from the sun by the porch
Anytime the crows are singing, The fields are full and barely clinging To their ripened form. 'Tis when breath is full of flavor Of all that's good to seek and savor When the
The problem with a dreamer Is I dream a web of Futures for myself— Five full lifetimes of Potential, Scratching the surface Of the vastness of Impact Or Service or Knowledge— A craving
If the world stopped spinning, Maybe you would hold me for a minute… And there wouldn’t be the what ifs of tomorrow Or the should haves of yesterday Or the maybe wills
I am trying to remember. How did I heal After Mama’s death? I have not forgotten Truth, but a tad, Faith to believe the Truth. The churches tell me to remember Where
Songs are like birds in my chest Unlocked by warmth and laughter, Bursting free in a fast beat, Alone and free in the empty sky, Suddenly I’m breathing. Poems are like dark
I’m a terrible artist. Truly—I’m awful. I cannot draw, sketch, or paint an image to save my life. But there are many times when I wish that I could. I’
I used to Come home from school, Drop my books and run Through fields and woods. Boundaries big As the horizon. The horizon hefted by hills— Hills I took in stride, Bare feet
I wonder if the life I long for is swimming somewhere among the stars. Something about outer space fascinates me. Maybe it’s the knowledge that I am but a speck in an
We sat in the middle of the floor like three points in a triangle. String lights gave the room a soft glow. We ate ice cream straight out of the carton with plastic
“Lillian, come on!” Uncle Richard calls, and I run, my arms swinging wildly at my side. In his hand I see something green and flat and large. “Coming!” I call through panting breaths.
To read the past part of “The Princess of Montaigne,” check out Volume 2, Issue 7 in the Inkwell Literary Magazine’s online archive. “Lindsay! Hurry it up! If you’re not down
A faint smile played on Lua’s lips as the night breeze ran its fingers through her silky black hair. It’s a full one tonight, she observed. Perfect for werewolves, falling in