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 feature is:
Lights Out Refuge pt 1
Written by Tannika Nikeya
With her bookbag slung over one shoulder and her dead cell phone in her hand, Radiance walked through the front door with her usual bright smile. She had forgotten to charge her phone fully the night before and had spent some of her school day scrolling through social media on mute.
Now she was home, ready to knock out her homework and enjoy a quick bowl of noodles.
She dropped her bookbag on the dining room floor, grabbed her charger, and plugged her phone into the outlet adjacent to the dining table. Then she hurried into the kitchen, stopping halfway when she remembered what Mom always said.
Always wash your hands when you get home, and change out of those outside clothes.
Radiance headed to the bathroom and washed her hands. Changing her clothes, however, could wait. She had only been to school and back.
In the kitchen, she filled a black pot halfway with water and placed it on the stove. Once the water was boiling, she pulled a pack of noodles from the pantry, opened it, and placed the uncooked noodles into the pot.
She grabbed a black glass bowl, emptied the chicken seasoning packet into it, and waited for the noodles to finish cooking.
A few minutes later, she carried her bowl to the dining table and pulled her tablet from her backpack to work on her assignments.
Her mother emerged from the master bedroom, stretching her arms overhead before releasing a long yawn.
“Hey, boo,” Mom said with a smile.
“Hey, Mom.”
“I was taking a nap. Your little brother is still asleep, thank God. That boy was being fussy earlier!”
Mom had been home since giving birth six weeks ago and would soon be returning to work. For now, she and the baby were still adjusting to their new routine. Whenever he slept, she tried to get some rest, too.
Radiance powered on her tablet.
Suddenly, sirens blared outside.
Mom hurried back into the bedroom to check on the baby. Fortunately, he was still asleep, although he had begun to stir.
She grabbed her phone and returned to the dining room. An emergency alert flashed across the screen.
It wasn’t a storm warning or an alert about a missing child.
Emergency alert SEEK IMMEDIATE SAFETY.
WIDESPREAD POWER-SYSTEM FAILURES HAVE BEEN REPORTED. A COMPLETE POWER GRID FAILURE IS EXPECTED WITHIN THE NEXT TWO HOURS.
Mom stared at the message.
“Wait. What?”
“Wan, wan!”
Radiance’s infant brother awoke.
Mom rushed into the room. She soon returned, cradling little Jeremiah Jr. in her arms. She rocked him gently while rereading the alert.
“Something about the power systems failing within two hours,” she said. “What does that even mean? Your dad is still at work. Let me call him.”
She had barely begun dialing when the front door swung open.
Dad rushed inside, his expression tense.
“It is a mess out there!” he exclaimed, throwing his arms outward.
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.
So, I think I am going to start a new series titled Throwback Thursday Poetry Time showcasing my older poetry. Come alongside me as I reintroduce my older poems and muse over my writing throughout the years. Let’s take a little trip through the archives. ✍🏾📖
Today’s poem comes from my first published book and is its namesake.
This poem was written during a season where I was learning to build my confidence as a writer, my voice as a person, and share with others a gift I thought was only for me.
Writing throughout the years became a place where I could explore emotion, imagination, healing, faith, and creativity. I began to understand that poetry isn’t simply something I write. It is an art form and a gift—one of the ways I can share what God has placed within me with others.
And when I wrote this poem, I believe I wanted to convey that expression and creative writing has allowed me to not only express myself and explore emotions and ideas, but also take the things I was afraid to say aloud and give them words through writing, especially poetry. It carries a freedom to do so also. I wanted to give myself permission to release the words of creativity, lessons, encouragement, wisdom and stories. That is a captive being set free.
I was just thinking about how much fun it was to create, collaborate, and write our previous series. Looking back at those stories brings back so many wonderful memories!
Which series was your favorite? ☕ P’osies Cafe Series 🏡 Valley Hills Apartment Series
Or was there another story or character you enjoyed most? I’d love to hear your thoughts! Your feedback always inspires future stories. ✍🏾💜
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!
Jas removed the last clip-in extension from her hair and stared at her reflection, a full head of curls framing her face. For a moment, she could almost see her younger self standing in the same bathroom, smoke curling from a hot comb as she fought humidity and prayed for a life far away from Valley Hills.
Back then, she thought escape meant freedom.
Now she understood: no matter how far you run, God has a way of bringing you exactly where you need to be.
A loud bang at the door shattered her thoughts.
“Jasmine Marie! Open this door!”
Jas froze. Only her mother used her full name.
She opened the door slowly, but her mother pushed inside anyway.
“You move back and don’t tell me?”
Jas admitted softly. “I didn’t know how to face everybody.”
Her mother crossed her arms. “Face us for what?”
Jas looked around the apartment, boxes stacked against worn walls.
“After Joseph died everything fell apart. I spent so much time running from grief, running from this place.” Her voice cracked. “But I think God brought me back for a reason.”
The anger left her mother’s face almost instantly.
“I told you a long time ago,” she said gently, pulling Jas into a hug. “You can always come back home.”
Outside, tenants had gathered beside the building around folding tables crowded with food and laughter. One by one, old faces recognized her.
“Jas?!”
“Girl, is that you?”
Then someone asked the question she’d been dreading.
“Where’s Joe?”
Jas swallowed hard and told them everything.
When she finished, nobody judged her. They prayed with her, hugged her, fed her, and promised to help restore the building together.
Tanya handed Jas a bowl of baked macaroni and cheese.
One bite in, warm and familiar, and for the first time in a long while… Jas felt home.
Sis, you can always come back home. And sometimes, home is a place where a new you can still have hope and love.
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!
This week, we will have no featured story or poem as it is Mother’s Day weekend. The writers and ladies of Valley Hills Apartments Series pray that you have a blessed and beautiful Mother’s Day.
We also send our sincere prayers up for those who have lost their children or who have lost their mothers.
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!
A Poem for a Flower
Written by Tannika Nikeya
Hello, I am Rose. I moved to Valley Hills Apartments last year. In the middle of the night, I found myself hauling in bags of all I had managed to quietly take with me. And it wasn’t much at all.
Today, I sit here by my kitchen window, slowly sipping my hot chamomile tea. My eyes follow a cardinal, happily chirping along a tree, and then drift to a soft white flower sitting alone amidst the grass. I exhale a long sigh.
I wonder if the flower is lonely, like I had been.
I had once sat alone just as quiet as that little flower—but brokenhearted and lonely. I endured gaslighting and chaos, and felt every petal of my soul being stripped away until I became a shadow of myself.
But as I sit here in my kitchen, something shifts.
I begin to write a letter to a flower…
from the depths of my heart.
In the backyard all alone Sitting in the mud and dirt Among rocks and stone Your leaves withered, withdrawn Wishing you were placed On a manicured lawn
The acknowledgments, the daily sustenance You once received Have dried up like your leaves Your wardrobe is dull—renewal must begin within You may not be the prettiest flower Feeling like you are about to break, not just bend, in the wind
How long will you wait For someone to water you to grow To tell you to soar To give you value Just because they walked through nature’s door?
Stand tall—get up on your feet Encourage yourself Stretch in hope You’ve got goals to meet Air to breathe Rooms to impact You don’t have to shrink Let the sunlight hit your face And take your joy back
Your worth is not predicated On what they say, see, or do No one can validate Or invalidate you
You’ve known seasons of hiding Of feeling like you died Until the true Lover of your soul Breathed—and brought you back alive
You’ve lost hope Wanted to run away But you learned to be still When noise and storms surrounded you He quieted you and you began to heal
They said you had no value Said you wouldn’t last long Said other flowers were prettier And although you felt weak, you remained strong
The trees whispered about you; They gave you a different type of shade, Shifted their leaves so the heat can make you weary and fade
But you are not doomed Look up to heaven Receive your true Lover’s grace to bloom
It’s not over Life is just starting He stays close To the brokenhearted
Each day you rise—just walk At your pace Wipe your face Rest… yield Dance in the field And brighten the day Let the birds see your resilience in every way.
They may stop to admire you Take in your view But remember who you are Deep within you
Some may try to pluck you Or take you along But stay rooted Remain where you belong
Even when others walk away Stand still; know you’re divine Humble posture Fearfully and wonderfully made You are His design Continue to grow in His perfect time
Sis, there is courage within you. See yourself the way God does. Your worth is not determined by others. He deemed you worthy before He placed you in your mother’s womb. So show up today… and begin to bloom.
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!
The Diva pt 1
Written by Saneatra Polk
Jas Monroe closed her eyes and replayed the memory of her husband leaning in, pressing a kiss to her forehead. For a moment, she could smell his cologne, feel the warmth of him.
Then the water turned cold.
Reality snapped back fast. Jas stood alone in a shower that couldn’t even hold its heat, staring up at the same popcorn ceiling she used to pray her way out of. She had seen the world, lived in luxury and somehow landed right back at Valley Hills Apartments.
She cried, “God, why am I back?”
She wrapped her robe tight and stormed into the hallway.
“Excuse me, have you seen the maintenance man?”
The woman posting a flyer turned, studying her. Head tilted as she was trying to recall something. “Diva?”
Jas blinked. No one had called her that in years.
“I’m Tanya,” the woman said, smiling like she’d just solved a puzzle. “Saw you pull up—black car, big coat, all that hair. I said, yeah, she a diva. But you live here?”
Jas recognized the woman from decades ago. Tanya and her family lived in 3B. Same eyes. Same voice. Same building.
“Yeah,” Jas said, quieter this time.
Tanya handed her the flyer. “The landlord was the maintenance man and we haven’t seen or heard from him in months. The building is falling apart and we’re organizing.”
Jas took it, avoiding her gaze, and slipped back inside her apartment.
There were boxes everywhere. She opened one at random. It had her husband’s navy blue khakis and matching navy blue button up shirt in it. A man who built millions and lived simply. A man who would hate what this place had become and what she had done trying to outrun grief.
She didn’t come back to Valley Hills by choice.
But as she looked around, something shifted. The question wasn’t echoing anymore—it was answered.
Jas stood, gripping the flyer.
“Okay,” she said softly. “I understand.”
Tonight, she would tell them everything. She wasn’t just back.
She was here to rebuild.
Sis, stay tuned for pt 2! If you are enjoying this series so far, please like, share, and subscribe.
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.
In this new series, the ladies of Valley Hills Apartments share pieces of their lives through short stories, prose, and poetry. Some moments may make you laugh. Some may make you pause and reflect. And each piece will leave you with a little encouragement.
Because sometimes the best wisdom comes from women who have walked through the valley and are still learning to keep their eyes on the hills.
Come on in and meet the ladies of Valley Hills Apartments!
From the Valley to the Hills
Disclaimer: These short stories and poems are works of creative expression, written by writers, Tannika Nikeya, Deandrea Moore, and Saneatra Polk, and are intended to inspire and encourage young ladies and women. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events is purely coincidental.
Additionally, this series includes AI-generated visuals used for presentation, created by Tannika Nikeya, Saneatra Polk, and Deandrea Moore.
