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.
Today at the cafe, we have part two of A New Hope, written by Saneatra Polk. So, come on in and enjoy. Without further ado:
A New Hope Pt. 2 (c) 2025
Have you ever wanted to give up simply because you couldn’t see the bigger picture? That’s how I felt the further I walked east. There are fewer camps. The world around me turned into nothing but dust and the occasional flicker of sun or moon through the haze.
The voices were still with me, but quieter now—like they were watching to make sure I kept going. I still didn’t know why I was being sent so far, just that I was obeying.
Traveling east felt like climbing a mountain made of ruins. Old skyscrapers had collapsed into jagged hills of metal, glass, and concrete. Even with the abilities I got from the bioweapon attack—speed, heightened senses—the journey wore me down. No water. No posies. I wasn’t sure I’d make it much longer.
Then I saw it—a beam of light shooting from the ground into the sky.
One of them approached me and said someone was waiting to see me. A girl from the orphanage. Like me, she survived the biochemical blast. But instead of speed and voices, she came out of it blind… and able to see the future.
She couldn’t see me with her eyes, but she recognized me immediately in the spirit. She told me I had to keep going, no matter how hard it became. She said a message was waiting inside the box I’d been sent to find, and that I was the one who had to deliver it to the people.
The weight of it hit me: Why me? What made me worthy of carrying something meant for the world?
The Sky People gave me water and posies. Before I left, they told me that if I continued in the same direction, I would reach the Green People—and they would strengthen me for what comes next.
When I walked away from their camp, I carried something I didn’t have when I arrived: a sense of purpose. For the first time, I started to believe… maybe I really was chosen.
Have you ever felt like giving up—only to find unexpected strength or help right when you needed it most?
Happy Fall Season!!!!! Did you grab your favorite coffee, iced coffee, or chai tea this morning? Well, if you did, make sure you also check out writers, Saneatra Polk and Tannika Nikeya. They’re serving up poems and stories, creativity, encouragement, and inspiration.
📖☕️ So come On In! Dive into the Posies Cafe Series on YouTube as well as our other platforms for captivating short stories & poems. And stay tuned for this Friday’s new post. You don’t want to miss it!
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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.
Today, we have an awesome story by my bestie, Saneatra Polk. So come on in and have a sip of suspense and your favorite coffee!!!!
A New Hope Pt 1 (c) 2025
Have you ever felt pulled in a direction you couldn’t explain—like a whisper from God, or the weight of something greater than yourself? That’s how the voices came to Zayah. For weeks, they urged her to go east, toward a gold box hidden in the wasteland. She tried to drown them out with the bass of her battered CD player, but the voices grew stronger—until the music itself refused to play.
Zayah crawled from her tent. The air was heavy with dust, glowing orange under a pale white sun that looked more like fire than light. All around her, people emerged from tents, their eyes set on the rubble field where they would spend the day digging for scraps. Scraps meant survival—a doughy posie to chew, maybe a sip of water, maybe tea if luck was kind.
Zayah slung her knapsack over her shoulder, but instead of joining the slow line of scavengers, she turned the other way. Her heartbeat was fast. If anyone noticed, they’d ask questions, maybe follow her. They couldn’t know she had the power to sense treasures in the rubble, or that the voices had chosen her. They couldn’t know she was leaving it all behind.
East meant desert. East meant danger. East might mean nothing at all.
But Zayah took one last bite of her posie, tasting sugar and dust on her tongue. She pulled a strip of cloth across her mouth and nose for protection against the dust and stepped forward into the unknown.
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.
What Is Lingering (c) 2025
By Tannika Nikeya
It was another late night at the office, but Angela didn’t mind. She thrived in the silence—free from constant interruptions, free from Alison’s mile-a-minute chatter about boyfriends, politics, and vacations. Angela liked people, but conversations like that drained her, leaving her overwhelmed and overstimulated.
Being alone at her desk and immersed in her work was bliss, however, because it kept her busy. Her thoughts didn’t seem to be all over the place.
Angela buried herself in her tasks—not because she lacked a life, but because she loved the craft of marketing. Research, strategy, and planning were her passions. She aimed for perfection in every campaign, and each presentation sent her stomach into knots. Her mind raced beforehand, her body tensed—headaches, restlessness, sweaty palms, an upset stomach that sometimes lasted for days. Each time, she wondered if this presentation would be her last, the one to ruin everything she’d worked for. Somehow, she always made it through, only to start the cycle again with the next presentation.
By 6:30, the sun had long since clocked out. Angela sipped the last of her warm chai tea—her daily lunch staple, which also did wonders for her queasy stomach. She packed up her files, slipped them into her beloved bookbag (she preferred it over a stiff briefcase), and wiped down her desk in her daily Lysol ritual.
Coat on, bag slung over her shoulder, she stepped into the cold.
Downtown Chicago greeted her with sharp air and quiet streets. A few stragglers hurried by, their breath forming little clouds in the moonlight.
Angela walked quickly, three blocks to the Red Line. The Red Line was not for the faint of heart. At certain times, it was super crowded—noisy teens, someone smoking on the train, unusual smells, and uncanny individuals. It was often reported as dangerous, either by the news or even Chicago residents. But Angela was a native, and she loved Chicago. And although she felt a level of comfort in the familiar chaos, she stayed alert. Some of the other riders—never too many unless there was an event—had become familiar faces. Like her, they were just trying to get home after a long day’s work.
Her long black hair peeked out from her winter hat as the train pulled in. She stepped aboard and immediately sat down near the doors. Usually, she rode up front with the conductor, but tonight, fatigue made her careless. Her stomach churned from the cream-of-mushroom soup and Caesar chicken wrap she had eaten for lunch.
At first, the train car was empty. She scrolled her phone, glanced at the tunnel ads reflected in the glass, then back down. That’s when she felt it—someone else. She looked up and froze.
A woman sat at the rear of the train car. Long black hair, stiff posture, eyes fixed straight ahead. For a moment, Angela’s chest tightened.
The woman began sliding down the seat. Angela’s pulse quickened. “Hey—are you okay?” she called.
But when she rushed down the aisle—there was no one there. Am I seeing things? Am I just exhausted?
The lights flickered. The train jerked to a stop. Angela stumbled off at her station, heart thudding. Usually, a few people got off with her, but tonight the platform stretched empty. Too empty.
From the corner of her eye—movement. The same woman stepped behind a subway beam.
“Hello?” Angela called. Silence.
Her instincts screamed “don’t be that girl in the scary movies,” but footsteps suddenly rushed behind her. She bolted toward the escalator—only to be grabbed.
Angela spun around, ready to fight, but it was just a bewildered homeless man. “Here you go, ma’am. You dropped this,” he said, handing her the black-and-gold water bottle her best friend had given her. Shaken, she thanked him and hurried up the escalator. The man was gone when she looked back.
At the top of the escalator, she saw her, the woman, turning her head slowly toward her.
Angela’s skin prickled as the escalator kept going up. Angela forced herself upward, and when she reached the top—nothing. No one.
She walked the blocks to her apartment, trying to shake the dread. But on the stairwell inside the building, the sound of footsteps echoed behind her. Slowly and fearfully, she looked down.
Through the window at the bottom of the stairs, she saw the woman again—head bowed. When Angela blinked, the steps were empty. But the reflection in the glass…
The woman looked up. And she had Angela’s face.
Angela staggered back, her heart pounding. A quiet thought rose in her mind: Maybe I’m just exhausted. Maybe it’s all in my head.
Panting, she rushed inside her apartment and bolted the door. She managed to inhale a few breaths and released them slowly. And then she repeated her new coping mantra:
“He did not give me a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind. He did not give me a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind.”
Inside her bathroom, she filled a small cup with water and swallowed her medication. She steadied her breath, watching herself in the mirror—slower, calmer. Phone in hand, she called her mom for prayer. Fear would not claim her. Not tonight. She would face the recurring dread—steady, present, unafraid. Yet in the mirror, her reflection lingered, watching her breathe.
What do you think was really lingering? ☕📖 Share your thoughts below.
Video:
Prayer
Father God,
I lift up anyone who is dealing with mental struggles or battling mental illness. I ask that You grant them grace and courage to seek the support and even the medical help they need. Day by day, strengthen them to overcome. Reveal the root cause of their struggle—both naturally and spiritually—and bring healing in the hidden places.
Lord, Your Word declares, “For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind” (2 Timothy 1:7). Help us not to embrace fear as our identity but to stand firmly in the power and peace You freely give.
Your Word also reminds us that “the weapons of our warfare are not carnal but mighty in God for pulling down strongholds” (2 Corinthians 10:4). So, in Jesus’ name, we pull down every stronghold of fear, depression, anxiety, and confusion. We take every thought captive and make it obedient to Christ (2 Corinthians 10:5).
Let us hear Your Word for faith comes by hearing and hearing by Your Word. Father, we trust Your promise that He who is in us is greater than he who is in the world (1 John 4:4). Deliver us from the evil one, and remind us daily that Your power is greater than any force in this world.
We seal this prayer in the mighty and matchless name of Jesus. Amen.
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, Saneatra, and fellow writer will join me at our virtual 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.
Think of this as your favorite local cafe, but instead of coffee, the aroma is of fresh ink and well-worn pages. Pull up a chair, get comfortable, and let’s get started. We’re thrilled you’re here.
Stay tuned for our first work of this series!!! In the meantime, check out my bestie on Facebook and Instagram: Saneatra polk as well as on TikTok, Saneatrap.
Tannika Nikeya 