Roots Histoires

This is poetry drawn from emotions we all may have felt - the quiet thoughts that sometimes slip through our minds and become real in our actions.

Before light bent the horizon, before names turned to dust, there was Kplir. A world of vast forests and iron peaks, of rival peoples bound by pacts older than fire. A world torn between stone and flesh, ritual and war. Humans, Dwarves, Elves, Orcs, Centaurs - five lineages as blind to each other as they were at war, each carrying its own demise without seeing it. Then a breath rose. Not a prophecy. Not a king. Something older. A name one dares not speak too loudly: Owa. He did not seek to unite. He sought nothing. He walked. And in his wake, the ground trembled - not with power, but with memory. For this is not the story of a hero. It is a crossing. A tear in the fabric of the world. This is the story of a world wearing thin. Of a world that remembers too much. The story of a felled tree whose roots still sing. Of a continent that falters and is reborn in fragments, between dead magic, sacred ash, and silences that carry seeds. The Ashes of Wey is not an ending. It is the last breath of an ancient world - and perhaps the first heartbeat of one yet to come.

"Letters of Connection: From Strangers to Family" follows Emily Turner, who, after discovering her birth records, exchanges heartfelt letters with her biological father, David Reynolds, a librarian living with his partner Sam and four cats. Through their correspondence, they forge a deep connection, ultimately deciding to meet in person to solidify their newfound bond and embark on a journey of belonging and love.

Life begins. Life ends. Life goes on. The stories in between deserve to be shared. We're all roots here. Roots growing from love. Love from trust. Trust from connection. Connections like roots which binds us together. It is also known as fate.

A cursed forest hides a skull entangled in roots, feeding the trees with the dead while the earth trembles with something that refuses to rest.

A little about me, and where I am from.

An average girl with a twisted family tree.

Roots music master Thankless Joe dispenses love advice to a troubled young man.

Mold the mind. Feel the heart follow.

𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐌𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐇 || A diary and some notes written by a black girl who didn't fit in anywhere.

Estella is out of college and out of a job. She begins to regret dropping out of Stanford after her fathers death, especially after she learns life at home is just as hard as it is in college when you have to deal with all the changes happening around you. After a mental breakdown and a trip to see her mother, Elle takes on a journey of self-discovery and finds herself giving happiness a second chance. Only this time, she has some help along the way. Landing in the other side of the world in Sydney, Australia, Elle meets someone who not only shows her how to look at the glass half full, but helps her challenge herself into finding out, Who is Estella Dawson?

The essence of a tree lies in the underground, its livelihood is sustained by the roots, making hidden components actually the most important ones.

Roots music legend Thankless Joe dips his wise toes into the world of ballet.

The village avoided the ancient well, though no one remembered why. Its water was stagnant, covered in a thin veil of green, yet it never dried, never overflowed. Children who lingered near it claimed to hear splashes when no stone had been thrown, and at night, faint ripples disturbed its surface without wind or hand. Long ago, the earth cracked open around the well, revealing what lay beneath. A skeleton stared upward from its depths, limbs twisted, surrounded by broken jars that had once carried offerings. The bones rested upon a bed of moss that pulsed faintly, as if it were alive. Its hollow eyes seemed fixed on the sky, watching eternally, waiting. Those who dared to peer too long swore the water darkened, shadows rising from its depths to tug at their reflection. One farmer tied a rope around his waist and leaned in to recover one of the ancient jars. The rope went taut, jerking violently, and when it was pulled back, it was frayed and slick, but empty. The well fed on curiosity. Each year, someone vanished-a child, a traveler, a drunkard stumbling home. The ground around it grew damp with unnatural warmth, as though the earth itself had veins of blood. On moonless nights, bubbles rose from below, carrying with them a foul stench of decay. The skeleton never changed, yet its position shifted subtly with each passing season. Some days its hands rested at its sides, other days upon its chest, and sometimes, it reached upward, fingers extended just beneath the surface. When the villagers gathered one morning, they found the moss had spread beyond the well, curling into the soil like roots searching for new hosts. The skeleton was gone. Only the jars remained, resting on the surface of water blacker than the night sky, reflecting nothing at all. The well no longer waited. It had begun to climb.

Sequel to Roots. In working progress.

I thought I knew Puerto Rico. I thought I'd memorized every scent, every sound, every sunset. But then I brought you - my child, wide-eyed and curious - and the island opened itself in a way it never had before. In this deeply moving short story, a father returns to Puerto Rico, not as a son or a restless man chasing his past, but as a parent sharing a piece of home with the next generation. What unfolds is a tender reflection on family, memory, and legacy - on the way places live in us, and how they bloom anew when seen through the eyes of our children. "Puerto Rico isn't just mine anymore. It's yours too." A story about coming home, and bringing someone with you.