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 we have a poem titled:
Off Course
Written by Tannika Nikeya
The leaves gently dance to the ground, Their vibrant reds, greens, oranges, and yellows swirl around. The brisk, cold air greets each of us as we get in line. I stretch gently but firmly and await the time. With my bookbag on my back and my headphones on, I crouch down, I get in position like the moon at dawn.
I glance up briefly to look ahead. I put my head back down, And I start to feel dread. My stomach churns in knots. Down my forehead, sweat slowly drops.
Yet, I haven’t even begun. And then I hear the pop of the starter gun. I take off.
I don’t believe I’m ready. I try to catch my breath, But it isn’t steady. I jog at a slow pace. I smile through every race. I was taught to push through and mind my face.
With years of pain, Tears rolling down my face Like slow drips of rain. I get pleasure as they cheer me on, But then I lose focus once the praise is gone. I pick up my pace, And I begin to focus ahead. But I hear others on every side. I try to keep my attention forward. My expectations are high, but my confidence is lowered. Comparison is creeping up in my heart. My insecurities I can’t hide.
Fear grips me, Like we are running together, Holding on to me like a child to its mother In stormy weather.
I run ahead, remembering someone prayed for me And remembering what I prayed for. But I’ve come to the realization that I am weighed down. I can’t run this race with joy If I am trying to carry God’s crown. It is something I am not capable of carrying, So I am learning to lay it down.
With folly, I am running my race with heavy weights— Doubts and fears, Pride, grief, and past trauma God wanted me to release for years. Versions of myself I had to outgrow. He has been teaching me to trust Him And to let go.
His yoke is easy, And His burden is light. I could win this race If I believe He has already won And can make me right.
My leg begins to cramp. My head begins to hurt. I slow down, but keep pushing forward Because I have put in too much work.
But as I jog on, I trip on a rock. I keep going, And I approach an unfamiliar block.
Did I detour? Where is everyone? Did I get lost? My place in this race was paid for But do I understand what it cost?
I am getting tired I look ahead I could give up Or keep moving instead…
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:
Would You Stay?
Written by Saneatra Polk
I can’t believe I’m taking a five-hour drive into the dead silence of southern Illinois by myself. Born and raised on the South Side of Chicago, I’m a city girl at heart. But the city didn’t love me back. I am hanging onto my bare necessities by a thread. I overdrafted my account just to buy the gas that got me here. Miles away from the only home I’ve ever known, I am preparing to start my life over in a place that feels entirely off the grid.
I know most horror stories start at an old house in the middle of the woods, but I keep telling myself this house can’t be haunted—otherwise, my dad wouldn’t have survived here for the past twenty years. He walked out on Mom and me when I was six. I barely have any memories of him. Then, out of nowhere, his letter arrived. He said he needs my help, and in exchange, I can stay at his place rent-free. Rent-free echoes in my mind like a lifeline, masking the warning signs. I packed my small sedan with my last remaining essentials and drove toward the unknown.
The moment I turn off the interstate, the world shifts. Winding roads swallow me into a dense canopy of bleeding fall foliage. If it wasn’t for cabins peeking through the thick tree line, I would think I am the last person alive. The silence out here isn’t peaceful; it’s heavy.
Then the paved road ends. I turn onto a jagged dirt path that bleeds deeper into the shadows, finally stopping in front of a gray stone mini-mansion. It looms over the modest forest like a monument to a secret. It has a gaping basement and a dark attic, its architecture completely out of place. There is no turning back. Literally. My gas light is amber, and my pockets are empty.
As I walk up the stairs, the heavy front door clicks and swings open on its own. It reveals nothing but a pitch-black void. No lights are on inside.
Before I can even look for a light switch, a voice cuts through the dark from somewhere upstairs.
“My Miracle… is that you?”
A chill hits my spine. I frown at the sound of my name coming out of his mouth. If I’m a miracle, why did he discard me twenty years ago? “Yeah… it’s me.”
Deep in the upper shadows, a floorboard groans. “Everything you need—kitchen, food, bathroom, and bedroom—is downstairs. Make yourself at home. Only one condition.”
My heart beats fast against my ribs. I still don’t know what to call this stranger. “Yes… sir?”
“No matter what, do not come upstairs until I tell you to.”
The rule hangs in the air, cold and absolute. How can I help a man I’m not allowed to look at? “OK,” I whisper into the dark.
I spend the rest of the daylight hours unpacking by the dim glow of my phone flashlight. The fridge is stocked with fresh food, but a mounting panic makes me crave liquor instead. I tear through the cabinets—seasonings, canned goods, heavy pots—but find zero alcohol. My unease grows as I realize every single window in the house is completely blacked out, sealed tight with heavy, dark covers. The rustic decor feels less like a cabin and more like a bunker. With no TV to distract me, I lie awake in the suffocating dark, staring at the ceiling until my eyes finally cross with exhaustion.
Thud.
I bolt upright. The sound is wet, heavy, and echoing right against the glass.
Thud. Thud.
My breath hitches. I slide out of bed, the tile floor freezing against my bare feet. I creep toward the nearest window, my hand trembling as I pinch the edge of the heavy black curtain. I peel it back just an inch and force my eyes to adjust to the moonlight.
A pile of gray feathers and twisted necks rests on the sill. Dead birds. Dozens of them.
My stomach turns. How could this many birds blindly throw themselves against a window?
I didn’t sleep this night, or the next three nights. The house feels like an active trap, and I haven’t seen a glimpse of my father since the front door opened. By the fourth night, the dread turns into a volatile frustration. The rhythmic, wet thuds against the house are driving me insane. Determined to see what is happening, I march to the window and press my face near the glass, waiting for the impact.
What I see makes my blood run entirely cold.
The birds aren’t flying into the glass. They are raining down from the sky above the roofline—already stiff, lifeless, and dropping like stones.
Panic snaps my restraint. I sprint to the grand staircase, looking up into the pitch-black second floor. “Dad! Is everything okay up there? What is happening?!”
“It’s okay,” his voice drifts down, entirely too calm, too hollow. “Go back to bed, dear.”
Thud. Thud. Two more corpses strike the roof.
Driven by pure survival instinct, I place my foot on the bottom step. The old wood lets out a sharp, loud creak.
Upstairs, the quiet stops instantly. The air turns cold.
“Miracle,” his voice is no longer calm. It is a low, dangerous growl that vibrates through the floorboards. “Do not come up here.”
I stand frozen on the step, my heart beating in my throat. Every instinct tells me to sprint to my car and drain the last drops of my gas tank to get away. But as I stare into the blackness at the top of the stairs, a terrifying realization locks me in place: I don’t know what my dad is hiding, but I am already inside the house with it.
Hey Loves, now it’s your turn…
Write. Imagine. Continue….
the story!
To watch the video short for this week’s story, please click on the link below.
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.
