by Tannika Nikeya

Fall For You | Fall Fiction Fill-In Series

Welcome to our new 🍂Fall Fiction Fill-In Series🍂 where we invite you to finish the endings of our stories and poems. So, come join us and have fun because…

It’s your turn to….

Write. Imagine. Continue….

Today’s story is:

Fall For You

By Tannika Nikeya

Jemma Janae quickly grabbed her long bath towel and closed the lid of the towel warmer. She didn’t want to lose the warmth and coziness of the towel. She dried herself off from her hair to in between her toes, then threw the towel into the dirty towel bin. She smoothed on shea butter lotion, slid her favorite burnt-orange, feathery sweater over her head, and put on her favorite boot-cut blue jeans. She slicked her hair back into a ponytail with a little leave-in conditioner and edge control. But before she proceeded to the kitchen, she paused to take a deep breath, closed her eyes, and slowly exhaled.

She had started a new practice of slowing down.

She opened her eyes slowly and glanced at her prayer board, where all of her neatly written scriptures were displayed. She read a few out loud and then closed her eyes again.

“God,” she said, “it says Your peace surpasses all understanding. I need peace today. And I need Your help with this house and my next steps in life. Whew, too much. Help a sister out. In Jesus’ name, amen.”

She was embarking on a new journey—living alone for the first time, building a career, and caring for a house that needed so much of her time, all without her beloved parents, who had passed away back-to-back two years ago. She had not dated in years. Her last relationship had ended with a returned ring and a heartbreak, but it had also catapulted her toward the beginning of a healing journey.

She opened her eyes and stood up, stretching her arms as high as they could go, turning to the left and then to the right as she heard slight creaks and pops.

She chuckled.

“Um-um, is this what thirty-five sounds like?”

Her mother had always told her to stretch daily and that her body would thank her later as she got older.

She glanced at her phone, grabbed it, and bounced down the stairs to the kitchen. She placed her phone on the kitchen counter, clicked on the red app, as her nephew called it, and typed in Sade. She selected “The Sweetest Taboo.” It was her mother’s favorite song and now hers, too.

It was the perfect song for a warm day with a gentle breeze—a day full of orange, red, yellow, and barely-green leaves.

Jemma Janae began to dance slowly to Sade’s silky-smooth voice, putting one leg and foot forward at a time, stepping like she had seen her parents do when listening to old jams.

Filled with worn wooden cabinets and dingy lavender floral wallpaper, the kitchen was outdated. She imagined it had once belonged to a loving grandmother and had been filled with so many good meals. The scents of her kitchen not only greeted Jemma Janae but competed with one another, yet somehow remained pleasant. Lemon-scented floors and pumpkin spice candles filled the air and made her kitchen seem even more homey.

She walked to the fridge but then changed her mind. She ran upstairs, grabbed some socks, ran back down, slid on her brown boots, put on her brown faux-leather jacket, grabbed her small umbrella that she could just throw into her small backpack, and headed out the door with her backpack and camera.

As she stepped outside of her fifty-year-old house, a sour, unpleasant smell greeted her, completely different from the pumpkin spice and lemon scents that had filled her kitchen. Yet, ignoring the smell, she began walking down the street to the little coffee shop.

She glanced back at her old, quaint home. She was so grateful to have purchased her own house, and no matter how long it took, she promised to revive it again.

She had saved up for the down payment and worked with her real estate agent to find a foreclosure, the fixer-upper kind, because she couldn’t afford those pricey homes.

She was grateful, but she pursed her lips and remembered that this home needed more than a little updating and remodeling. She had some plumbing issues, and sometime soon, she would have to get a new roof.

“Watch YouTube videos, they say,” she thought.

She had tried watching the red app to DIY her own repairs and remodeling, but it was an epic fail every time.

Capturing the red cardinal sitting on a branch, singing away, with my camera? I got you.

But fixing a toilet? Nope.

Putting together an ad or marketing campaign? I got you.

“But doing all of these DIY house repairs? I suck,” she admitted to herself.

So, her mission was to find some affordable contractors—ones who wouldn’t charge her an arm and a leg and just because she was a single woman.

She ordered her iced mocha and apple-cranberry muffin and crossed the street to the park. Today, she had the day off, and she would get a chance to capture some nature shots.

Fall was the perfect season for nature to deliver its live poetry.

The rising sunsets, the changing colors of the leaves, and the squirrels and birds going about life as usual all gave her something to capture.

She normally didn’t take photos of people without their permission, but there was a couple here or a person there who didn’t mind. And that brought so many stories to her camera and photo albums.

One day, she fantasized, I would love to feature my work in a gallery. I am not getting any younger.

As she sat on the bench, sipping and savoring her favorite iced coffee and finishing her apple-cranberry muffin, her eyes traced the life around her.

A guy was instructing the others about their work as Jemma Janae lifted the camera resting against her chest, its strap looped around her neck. She glanced around, looking for the story and beauty she would capture that day.

A perky couple held hands and smiled at one another as they walked along the trail. A mom pushed her infant in one of those new, modern strollers while glancing down at him and flashing a big smile. A dad helped his toddler bravely tackle the slide. Two small birds flew playfully around and chirped happily. An elderly lady carefully walked her big, fluffy dog, who wanted to stop and smell everything. And a squirrel busily hid something in front of a big tree.

But what she didn’t notice was the team of guys wearing bright orange vests, huddled together with their coffee cups in their hands.

They had a little time before they started work on the street and the sewer below, right in between the park and the café.

No one had a clue—not even Jemma Janae.

She adjusted her camera lens and prepared to take a picture when suddenly, the same guy who had been instructing his team stepped into her lens.

He had his hard hat in one hand and his cup of coffee in the other.

And he was handsomely smiling straight through the lens of her camera.

She lowered the camera from her face, smirked, and gave her head a half-shake.

Hey Loves, now it’s your turn…

Write. Imagine. Continue….

the story!

To watch the YouTube Short:

https://youtube.com/shorts/SMCw7nZWPlw?is=tsqH8suFuosIgxRT

04.17.26

by Tannika Nikeya

Valley Hills Apartments Series: Sleeping With My Sister’s Man

Sometimes, the best wisdom comes from women who have walked through the valley and are still learning to keep their eyes on the hills. Welcome to our new series: Valley Hill Apartments!

Sleeping With My Sister’s Man

Written by Deandrea Moore

Her name was Carmen. She was beautiful on the outside and in–a homegirl to men and women. Men found her attractive and intriguing, but never knew what to do with her, so they always opted for the route of using her. They treated her like a shiny trophy, something to be won and placed on a shelf to collect dust. A thing that’s value was wrapped in bragging rights. Carmen had a habit of being picky while simultaneously being an expert in picking wrong. It was something she had down to a science. It was like they had a sixth sense that let them know that she didn’t really value herself or have high standards. Although, she was a master of ‘faking it til you make it.’

So here comes this guy showing interest in her and at first Carmen plays it cool, hard to get. She tries to ignore him and mind her own business. He’s persistent, cool, and collected. So he not only catches, but holds her attention. This was a big deal considering sometimes her attention span could be short. She decides to give him a chance. They start having more conversations which leads to them hanging out. After a few times of hanging out they eventually open the door to adult activities. Now she’s in what one would call a trance–a state of delusion if you will. It’s got her thinking she likes him more than she actually does. She’s ignoring red flags and not thinking clearly. The door they opened had different things waiting on the other side. For him it was the feeling of uninterest after getting what he wanted.

For her it was heartbreak, especially because he’ll give up on true pursuit and never get to know how truly special she is. So since he never had real intentions for her and her self-esteem was down by the river, he treats her like a secret. Lucky for him she can keep it. Mind you there’s nothing wrong with Carmen. She just didn’t value herself enough to make him commit and claim her. So she lets him get away with treating her like that.

Now this is where things get sticky. The whole time she’s sleeping with him she’s unaware that this man is actually her sister’s. Knowing her even if she knew it was her sister’s man her thought process would probably be: “What would you have me do? I was sleeping with him before I knew about you. I mean you’ve got eyes, you can see. You know what he looks like. Plus, I didn’t chase him, he chased me.” Silly logic, I know. It makes sense to someone though. It made sense to Carmen. She wouldn’t care that it was her sister’s man. Getting her needs met and having her ego stroked were much higher on her priority list. And you wouldn’t be able to tell her this man wasn’t hers–delusion had already settled in. Him leaving her with forehead kisses only sealed her delusion. What her sister didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her anyway.

I’ll let you in on one more thing: Carmen’s sister wasn’t related by way of biology. They didn’t share a parent of any sort. She was her sister-in-Christ. The same God died for both their sins, so that made them kin. Carmen’s ‘sister’ hadn’t even found the man yet. That didn’t matter though. God never intended for them to get together. That was somebody else’s husband. Her husband was out there somewhere, but God wanted her to wait and save herself for him. Many of us are out here moving like Carmen. We don’t value ourselves or our bodies, so we allow men access that wasn’t truly earned. Opening doors that are harder to close than we think. We are sleeping with our sister’s man and delaying the process of not only the man meant for us to find us, but of him finding our sister. Once Carmen understood this she could navigate dating with intention and think of herself as something precious–to be treasured and stewarded over.

Sis, navigate dating with intention and remember that you are precious. Trust that you are not meant to be hidden, borrowed, or confused with someone else’s place. What God has for you will be clear, covered, and committed.

Video Snippet: https://youtube.com/shorts/FiYDaiiW-h4?si=o3RPEfjSfDhAgtrc

04.10.26

by Tannika Nikeya

Valley Hills Apartments Series: Come See About Me

Sometimes, the best wisdom comes from women who have walked through the valley and are still learning to keep their eyes on the hills. Welcome to our new series: Valley Hills Apartments!

Come See About Me
Written by Tannika Nikeya

“I’ve been crying
‘Cause I’m lonely (For you)
Smiles have all turned to tears
But tears won’t wash away the fears
That you’re never ever gonna return
To ease the fire that within me burns…”

“Come see about me”

My name is Amani and I just moved into Valley Hill Apartments. My mother used to play music every Saturday. It motivated her through mopping the floors, washing our laundry, and cooking Sunday dinner. But the song she sang along to the loudest was “Come See About Me” by the Supremes. I often wondered if she reminisced about good times with my dad, but the times I witnessed were not so good.

Today, that song popped up in my mind and I began to sing it just as loud as she once did. I sat in my oversized lounge chair with my cup of tea looking out of the window of my small apartment with unpacked boxes.

I find myself in a new place, in a new city, but I am still lost. I am tired. I am carrying mountains of debt. I owe myself exponentially. I am stressed. I have health issues for which my doctor apathetically prescribed pills I can’t even pronounce. And in fact, I need more medicine, the kind that only one doctor can prescribe. I sip my tea, breathing heavily through my nostrils reflecting on how no one wants to help me or even let me rest on their shoulders. But after all, no one knew I was hurting, mad, disappointed, in need. I always keep my mouth shut and regurgitate, “I’m fine.”

I made myself invisible so others could be seen, time after time. After all, I am to be seen and not heard, but somehow my toxic trait said, “go a little deeper and not be seen at all.” After all, you don’t want to be perceived as prideful. So, I refused help—thinking they would like me more.

I live in purpose and I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished, but I realized some of my achievements were starting to adorn my worth like a heavy gold chain around my neck. Then, one day, an old lady reminded me that my worth isn’t predicated upon what I do or the titles I bear. She reminded me that I am already valuable–fearfully and wonderfully made. I inhale, then I exhale.

I glance once more around my apartment. I may not have it all figured out. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed and tired because I keep trying to lift loads all on my own, without wisdom and in my own strength. And sometimes I think I have to keep moving without resting, feeling and being. I instinctively pick up my cell phone. “Call Lina,” I command. I need to check on my sister.

“Are you okay?” I ask. We end our conversation with a plan to meet up for lunch at a restaurant with our favorite food we enjoyed as little girls. I hang up the phone and tap the reverse button in the camera, flipping it to face me.

And I can hear the woman clearly as she stares back at me through the lens.

“Come see about me,” she sings with all her heart, trying her best to imitate the pitch of the lead singer of the song.

“I hear you just as clear as I hear the rain tapping on my window,” I compassionately inform her.

With hope and with clarity, I respond further: “I see you. I will love you as I love others. I will not neglect you. This next season is yours.”

Sis, stop trying to pour from an empty cup. It’s okay to see about you too. When you do, you show up to your God-given arenas more authentic, more capable, more grateful, and fully present.

Video Snippet: https://youtube.com/shorts/3-L3b65pdIQ?si=xsRQNJqjhaO4057w

Thank you for coming along this new series and stay tuned for next week’s story or poem!

12.02.25

by Tannika Nikeya

Jackey and The Stranger at the Bus Stop (Available on Kindle)

📢My New Kindle Book is LIVE!

Introducing:

Jackey and the Stranger at the Bus Stop

Jackey is met with the growing distance from her high school sweetheart. As he is drawn deeper into street life, she faces the erosion of their hopes and dreams.
One day, while waiting at the bus stop for him, a stranger appears. This encounter brings fear, confusion, and a challenge that forces Jackey to confront what love, loyalty, and her own survival truly mean.

To download a copy of Jackey and the Stranger at the Bus Stop, click on link below:

https://a.co/d/2lftjmg

This urban fiction short story blends Romance, Mystery, and Urban storytelling as Jackey must decide if she can hold onto the familiar or embrace the unknown.

A Personal Note: This was one of the first stories I ever wrote for a college class, and sharing it now is a way of honoring my creative beginnings and embracing my evolution as a storyteller.

11.08.25

by Tannika Nikeya

📖☕️ P’osies Cafe Series: Mr. Daniels & His Cup of Coffee pt 2

Hey Friends, welcome back to the P’osies Cafe Series! We apologize that P’osies Cafe was closed yesterday. Some things came up and we got a bit delayed. Nonetheless, we are open today and have a new treat here at the cafe: part two of Mr. Daniels and His Cup of Coffee.

Enjoy!

But Kimberly didn’t think he was rich at all. She had watched him on numerous occasions pull out coins and count them slowly, then hand them gently over to her or one of the baristas in exchange for his routine coffee.

And today was the same. Mr. Daniels limped in, gave his usual nod and proceeded to the line. When it was time for him to order his morning coffee or shall we say daily coffee. He would sip on this one cup his entire stay. Kimberly appeared from the back with a stack of cups in her hands. “Hi, Mr. Daniels, good morning!” “How are you today?”

“I’m well, Kimberly,” he slowly replied. “I hope all is well with you, today.”

“Oh, Mr. Daniels, this morning has been rough.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that Kimberly,” Mr. Daniels empathized. “But don’t worry, things will work out just fine,” he continued.

Kimberly let out a sigh and then released a smile. Mr. Daniels, in the midst of paying for his coffee, pulled 16 quarters out of his coin pouch. He laid them down on the counter, counted them one by one, and then picked them back up and handed them to Lesliana. Lesliana was another daytime crew member but also a full-time student at the local college. She seemed shy and timid but always smiled big. In fact the daytime crew at the P’osies Café, no matter what happened at the cafe or in their personal lives, never hesitated to smile. That was what set them apart. Their smiles were just as warm and inviting as the café.

After Mr. Daniels received his coffee. He sat down at his usual table. He set his coffee down and picked up the newspaper that was placed on the table by Kimberly earlier anticipating his arrival. While the steam rose from his coffee, he opened the newspaper to read or browse. No one knew if he read the newspaper thoroughly but he sat there quietly. Not one word.

The chimes on the door eagerly announces the next set of customers coming in one by one. A rosy cheek woman with a baby in the stroller who too had rosy cheeks. Two teen girls giggling, excited about the day ahead. A tall teen boy with glasses and corn rows whose face was buried in his phone. A petite woman with long hair, dressed in a mustard color blazer, long leather black skirt and leopard heels. She quietly and confidently walked in. And then a buff man wearing an expensive blue suit, white shirt and carrying a briefcase and talking on his phone came into the café.

Mr. Daniels slowly looked up at the man. In fact, everyone turned their attention to him as he came in because he was loud, a little too loud for the morning time where people had only been up for one to a few hours.

Some of the daytime crew felt relieved when he received his coffee and exited the café. But five minutes later he was back. He frantically rushed in even louder than when he came in before. And the chimes retreated back to their resting position just as quickly as they did when he rushed in. His briefcase swinging in his hands. “Where’s my wallet?” he belted out.

“Excuse me sir,” Lesliana softly responded.

“Where is my wallet?” he repeated. “I remember having it here at the counter.”

Kimberly walked over to the cash register and Lesliana. “Sir, we can surely take a look around the store right quick. Are you sure this is the last spot you had your wallet?” asked Kimberly.

“Come on, I know when I last had my wallet.” He retorted impatiently.

The man announced that he will call the cops.

“That will be fine sir but while you do that I will continue to check the floor. Can you retrace your movements?” She asked him.

Kimberly took a deep breath and told Lesliana to help the next customer who had come in after the man. Kimberly stepped from behind the counter and began to walk around the store looking at the floors and tables.

The man turned red and demanded his wallet, his voice high and grating. Kimberly grew worried. She frantically searched for the wallet of the man with the expensive blue suit, her eyes darting under tables.

Just then, Mr. Daniels slowly rose. Every joint seemed to creak a silent protest, but he moved with quiet, deliberate determination toward the belligerent man. Mr. Daniels didn’t speak until he was right beside him, and then, he gently extended an old hand holding a black leather wallet.

The man stopped mid-sentence, his jaw hanging. “Who the hell are you?” he snarled, his eyes narrowing at the old man’s patched coat and worn shoes.

“And how did you get my wallet?”

Mr. Daniels held his gaze—a gaze that held no judgment, only patience.

“You dropped it here on the floor as you left,” Mr. Daniels stated simply. Then, his voice softened, carrying just enough weight to cut through the man’s anger. “Whoever is patient has great understanding, but one who is quick-tempered displays foolishness. I understand that you lost your wallet, sir, but please be patient and kind.”

The man snatched the wallet back. He looked down at the soft-spoken old man, ready to unleash another loud, dismissive retort. But something in Mr. Daniel’s eyes—a depth that seemed out of place in a coffee shop, or perhaps the sheer, unruffled calm—captivated his attention.

The man didn’t soften completely; the impatience was ingrained. Instead of arguing or shouting, the man merely gave a curt, tight nod—a visible effort at restraint.

“Right,” the buff man muttered, shoving the wallet into his inner suit pocket. He looked around the cafe, his face still flushed, then spun around and walked out the door, mumbling something under his breath.

“Thanks, Mr. Daniels,” Kimberly said with a relieved smile, watching the door swing shut.

Video:

10.24.25

by Tannika Nikeya

📖☕️ P’osies Cafe Series: Mr. Daniels and His Cup of Coffee pt 1

Welcome, loves, to the P’osies Cafe Series, a new gathering for lovers of language and narrative. Our name, a playful blend of “Poetry” and “Stories,” perfectly captures the essence of what we’re about. In this series, my best friend and fellow writer will join me at our writers’ cafe with our laptops, pens and paper, and a couple of iced mochas or chai lattes. We’ll be sharing our own work—from whispered verse to sprawling tales—and we invite you to listen, reflect, and get lost in the power of storytelling.

Mr. Daniels and His Cup of Coffee pt 1

Written by Tannika Nikeya

An hour after the sun rose to announce the morning, “Here Comes the Sun” by The Beatles serenaded the small café on the corner of a quiet street. As the song played, the sun smiled on the café, beaming its light through the big front window with its sign: P’osies Café.

It wasn’t a major coffee spot, but it was a quaint and cozy “mom and pop” shop in the neighborhood—a true staple.

Warm colors, potted Pothos and Fiddle Leaf Fig plants, and dim lantern-style light fixtures hung over some of the tables. Unique abstract artwork adorned the walls. The wood tables and chairs added to the cozy charm, complemented by faux fur throw pillows in autumn hues of yellow, orange, and red.

One by one, customers walked into the café, the door chimes eagerly announcing each entrance. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the air. A new spice—pumpkin—hinted at the arrival of a new season.

Some customers came in with smiles and cheerful greetings; others offered polite nods, still adjusting to the morning and mentally preparing for the day ahead.

As each customer entered, the daytime crew greeted them with warm smiles and hearty good mornings. Some even had custom greetings for their favorite regulars. But when Mr. Daniels walked through the door with a slight limp and a soft nod—just as he did every morning at 7:45 a.m. sharp—the entire morning crew chimed in together:

“Hello, Mr. Daniels.”

And Kimberly, as always, asked,

“How are you this morning?”

Kimberly was one of the managers and the supervisor of the daytime crew. She had long locs and a beautiful smile—one that included both her eyes and her mouth and illuminated her rich, dark skin. Mr. Daniels often reminded her that she was beautiful and that she had the loveliest smile.

“In life,” he would say, “a smile from the heart and a joyful laugh are just as potent as medicine.”

Kimberly loved when Mr. Daniels shared his wisdom or stories from his younger days—sometimes about life, sometimes about the war. He was a sweet old man, kind and gentle, who looked fragile and poor. She would often tell the baristas to give him his change back, but he always refused. He would not take his drink if they didn’t accept his payment.

Every time he visited the café, he sat at the same table. He wore the same old brown jacket with patches, the same brown slacks, and the same white shirt. His black shoes were worn and cracked—just as weary as his jacket. And he always ordered the same coffee: almond milk, no sugar.

Most of the daytime crew thought he might be homeless because of his worn clothing and how he stayed for hours, sometimes until the crew clocked out.

Gregory—the one who kept everyone laughing—would always joke,

“That man ain’t homeless. He probably got a one-bedroom with a closet full of money. He’s rich, how much you want to bet?”