Quillrosetellsstories - Quill Rose

FRIDAY FOLLOWS

blogs to watch // blogs we love

@soulflwremix photographs, old & new 👇🏿

2. Dreamy scenes: @chaseantonio 🌙

3. @grits for high fashion 💄

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)

People in Dark Academia.

The ones who stay up late at night to finish their favourite books, fingers tracing the lines as they whisper the words. The ones who strut the hallways with their head high as if the world was buring behind them. The ones who write in the dark, tears rolling down their cheeks because oh, they feel too much.

Short Fiction- Untitled

In the backyard sat a camper van, spacious enough to fit a family of eight, a trampoline, and a large above-ground pool. Their house was one of those rich, suburban houses, with a white mother and father and their three children- two boys and a girl. Seven bedrooms, three bathrooms, a decked-out kitchen perfect for hosting holidays, and a special living room for hosting Bible Study on Wednesday nights. Toys piled up and the latest video games were always around. It was a house my family dreamed of living in, and we did live in it. Downstairs sat an uninhabited basement, fully finished with a small kitchen and living space, and three of the house’s bedrooms. This was where my family of seven moved. The best part about the house wasn’t the pool and it certainly wasn’t the trampoline; it was that we were not homeless for the five months that family allowed our stay.

I just wanna get out of my head and find peace

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.

Racist people 🤬🤬🤬🤬

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.

If they don’t need you, it’s okay. You do not live for other people.

Rachel Forrest // Unknown // S. C. Lourie