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 roof. Eyelids blinked slowly, the only sign of life beyond the gentle rock of the chair. Forward, back, forward, back, forward, back. Life buzzed around the chair,

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 love…or both. She sighed as she gazed at the moon and stretched her stiff limbs, then lay flat on the roof of her house. It felt

Today is the day I’ve longed for; today is the day I get my revenge. The thought almost makes me giddy, but I force myself to be calm as I glance over the page of the magazine I’m pretending to read to make sure he’s still there. And he is, standing before the register, ordering a salted-caramel

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 here in five seconds, I’m leaving without you.” Lindsay’s mom, Sharon hollered from downstairs. “I’m coming!” Lindsay dashed across her room to her bed

“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. I lean up against the trunk of the crabapple tree that graces the top of my favorite hill. Uncle Richard laughs. “I’m decades older than you,

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 spoons. It was Friday night—roommate night. There was so much to celebrate. A birthday. A successful speech given in speech class. A science test conquered. It

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’d draw my first Christmas with snow. Snowflakes—big, wet, and fleecy—tumble and swirl down to the ground. They cover the ground and transform the world

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 endless universe. Maybe it’s knowing that my problems—in the scope of everything—are small and insignificant. Maybe it’s a feeling that I don’t

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 molasses Sickly sweet slowly oozing over my tongue, Thick in my nostrils, I choke, Until the words stand on pages, My mouth tastes like grieving.       Stories are

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 Papa is going. I remember. To that terrible place—Away.   Words are so mighty, and the churches Do not know. They pour vinegar On open wounds, so

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 fairly flying, And the wind rushed with me… Now my feet have traveled far From those hills. Here the hills mask the horizon— Hide horizon behind buildings

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 of today. You’d talk with me, And we’d laugh, And time would stand still with us, Even while the sun started to set… And while

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 like a drug And cotton candy. Anticipatory adrenaline Beckoning success, The changes of The world’s tectonics As I aid mankind in motion— Toward what? As I

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 season's warm.     When spirit's at a higher station Held there by shared expectation Of the joyful throng     That sings a bold and gleeful chorus No more able