Quillrosetellsstories - Quill Rose

River Flows in You

Bare feet slip through mossy banks

On the other side of a bubbling creek, filled with watercress,

Is a deep path

Leading to a breathtaking waterfall.

“This way,” a teacher says,

Shoving a fistful of fresh-plucked watercress into his mouth.

Students and staff follow, in order of their eagerness

The sharp snap of the plant dances on every tongue.

Hidden and rocky though the path may be,

Treasures await the fresh-faced explorers

A waterfall spills into the creek, misting the group,

As they all file into a hidden cavern behind the rushing waters.

Teachers don’t lecture the students as they fill their cupped palms and stick their little feet in,

Most never having felt such overwhelming, refreshing freedom in their short lives

Staff watches as happiness spreads across usually bleak faces,

Knowing they’re creating core memories for themselves and their students.

When I mutter, “I wish I was a waterfall, strong and powerful and cool,”

It is Mr. A who turns to me to teach the most valuable of all lessons this day

He never lies, and with the intelligence of a middle-aged man from the middle-east, replies:

“But you are, that energy flows through you, too.”

Forever Writing,

quill rose

The Way Smell Evokes Memory

            On a hot summer afternoon, after a day of playing in the sun but before retiring to play video games, my mother would always shower. She loved spending time with us on those rare free days when all five of her girls were home, and she wasn’t working one of many jobs she held down simultaneously to provide. Our job was to set the living room up, since she didn’t understand and wasn’t willing to learn how to work the equipment. She would emerge in a puff of steam and a waft of perfume. Unwilling to wear shorts outside, those days she was even willing to don a light summer nightdress. We each peeled off at different times in the night, smart enough and independent enough to dictate our own bedtimes. With a yawn, I’d announce my departure. My mother was never short on hugs, pulling me in and holding me, understanding of the importance of that contact. Rich vanilla and rose and a creamy, heavy shea butter: the last things I’d smell for the night.

            When riffling through the cabinet before moving out, I discovered the exact lotion she would use. Her ‘yes’ when I asked to take it was distracted, unaware of the significance. Although, I don’t use it much.

i always send emails!

FRIDAY FOLLOWS

blogs to watch // blogs we love

@soulflwremix photographs, old & new 👇🏿

2. Dreamy scenes: @chaseantonio 🌙

3. @grits for high fashion 💄

Her Falling Star

Content Warning: self-inflicted violence

Estrella refused to look away from the sky, especially once she made her last wish on the star that shot across. She waited for another. Too late; her breath quickened. Starlight streamed down hollow cheeks. Estrella refused to take her eyes off the sky, even after the trigger was pulled.

“you gotta love yourself, baby. if you don’t, who will?”

— sharon g. flake, the skin i’m in

quill's secret to writing: old Dance Moms reruns

I just wanna get out of my head and find peace

Remembering the great activist & artist, Valerie Maynard (1937 - 2022)

nytimes.com

Valerie Maynard, Artist Who Celebrated Black Identity, Dies at 85

A sculptor and printmaker aligned with the Black Arts Movement, she tackled racism and oppression while reflecting on African American cultu

“No Apartheid Anywhere” (1995)

Instagram: co.nfused