Kendra Potts
Stories (11/0)
Saving Alcaydia Chapter 1 -Remembrance
There weren’t always dragons in the valley. I remember the days when the bones of charred corpses didn’t crunch and crack beneath the soles of my boots. I remember when the land was rife with fruit bushes and tall oak trees. I remember when kids would dance and play with the fae in the cool springs, during the high heat of the day. Now those rivers are dried up and the fae no longer frolic. The soil has turned to ash and dust, unable to nurture the crops we sew. We no longer gather in the markets of the valley where the Firedrake roams. Or frolic in the countryside where the five-headed Hydra dwells. We don’t dare tread the mountains, where the Wyvern lies in wait. And we absolutely avoid the worst of them all; the Lightbringer, who keeps an eternal lightning storm brewing in the corner of Alcaydia and spits balls of electricity at anyone who dares to approach. And trapped like livestock in a feeding pin by a barrier of death that surrounds our island, to make matters worse. The deer and game don’t sprint through the valleys like they used to, ready to be hunted for suppers or sacrifices to the gods. Instead, the few that remain duck and cover beneath hallowed caves, hiding from the violent cascade of flame that comes from the dragons’ snouts. It's incredible, to look into the eyes of a doe and see it pray for respite from the brimstone that haunts our land. Not that it matters anymore. The gods don’t hear us, they’d never dare to reach out to this cursed and wretched place, devoid of joy and faith and love.
By Kendra Potts25 days ago in Fiction
a hedonistic love of biblical proportions
All at once, I was flung into the air like Elijah, up to heaven. But I didn’t land on a white cloud. No, I didn’t find my footing on the solid gold floors of a grand throne room. I wasn’t ensconced in a room of alabaster walls and marble ceilings, with clay statuettes of God’s sacred creatures. I didn’t kneel at the foot of your maker, tucked neatly on the ground in front of an altar, ready to sacrifice my will for his way. No, that’s not what transpired. Instead. I was flung into the air and landed on a bed of thorns. Suddenly, all at once. My free will abandoned. I was brought to my knees by the strength of your presence. The sting of your love hurts like a thousand yellow jackets. Like swimming though a burning bush of blood-stained roses. Ensconced in a room where the sweet musk of your scent is suffocating. And the towering white walls are muddied with the joyous, jaunty yellow hue that is your mirth. And the room sits rife with clay statuettes of your god-like bust. Is it entrapment if I never want to leave? How can something sting and soothe all at once? How a mass of inhibitions can be so freeing? Is this how David felt when he spied on Bathsheba? Why can’t you be my Boaz; a safety net to land in. Instead, you’re my Delilah, the sweetest temptation that leads to damnation. Why is this forbidden and dangerous thing so tantalizing? Like licking poison off the tips of your strong fingers. Whose heaven compares to mine?
By Kendra Pottsabout a month ago in Poets
Sacred Shadow Woman
I first saw the transformation in my own shadow. The embodiment of Scorpius, she moved differently, with the confident strides of a sorceress and the lithe figure of a succubus. She would sway with the breeze and remain tall in sinking sands. She welcomes the rain and winds. Even in the midst of a great storm, she’s grounded. Unmovable at the edge of an erupting volcano - as the air burns and blisters around her, and the grass wilts and withers in the violent presence of heat, she stands still. When the frost goes firm like shards of glass beneath her feet and the strong gales of winter become icy and cuts to the core of one’s bones - do you think she submits? In the face of the most ferocious blizzards, her power remains second to none. Do you think she yearns for heat? Do you think she prays for the respite that a hearth would bring? For what temptation does the warming flames of man stir in a priestess? From ice to fire, the blistering heat of the sunlit air, and the unholy apparitions that dally and wait in the desert sands would haunt any mortal, but she is no slave to mortality. And when she decides to move, mountains move with her. Her stomp shatters the stony crust of the Earth, her trot uproots old oaks of many millennia. Verdant forests bow in the face of her splendor. And the enchanted beings that hide in the shadows of night and surf on the beams of the sun, bless her steps. She scoops up some earth, and drops it at her feet, and rock formations of grand and opulence form in the way. Although, the earth she has the power to destroy, she breathes life into. She is not only powerful and unmovable, but she adopts to what force she needs to be. She gently floats on the surface of the most aggressive seas and penetrates the rough crests as the rays of the sun do, but she doesn’t fade away as she approaches its depth. She continues to be a beacon of light in even the deepest trenches of each of earths oceans. And just as the world bows to her, she also bows to it, and humbly serves the sacred, the stout, and the feeble creatures of the realm. For the blessed beings of this earthly plane, answer eagerly to the call of her siren song. And under her spell, unites in worship and extolment to the great mother. She dances with the winds no matter how strong. She tangoes with even the most uprooting tornadoes, an ethereal dance of enchantment. With limber limbs and sensual movements, all she does is meditative; an offer of empowerment to the Goddess she serves. Both light and dark becomes her, evil and good elates her, peace and turmoil follow in her wake. She embraces all gracefully. Led by the god’s to be a mystical force, an arcane empress, who is she? Where can I find her?
By Kendra Pottsabout a month ago in Poets
Prom During Your 20 Somethin’s
Every time I look back, I see something new… Well, remember something old. And it burns, no butterflies, just bile. I still can’t say her name, it starts as a lump in the back of my throat, moves forward with the weight of a rock, and then just sits there on the tip of my tongue, unable to proceed forward, but to damn difficult to swallow. Boy, why are you back here? Your presence is oppressive. But why aren’t you here? Your presence is missed, or mislaid. My heart believes the latter, but I constitute that to me being a damn dreamer. Your name prickles my skin like needles, yet it’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. Like the sound of the rain on my roof, from the safety of my room, or the sound of the rain on the roof of my car, while swervin’ down I-4. Extreme peace or extreme chaos, those my only two options with you. I feel you in all the music I listen to, and it’s so aggravating. You’ve ruined SZA for me. Music is my escape. Are you possibly my music? Are you possibly my escape? Boy no, you’re a pest, a love bug flying in my face, or one of those huge nasty palmetto bugs that end up in your living room, no matter how clean you keep it, because we live in Florida, and its gross here. You’re like that swarm of gnats I run into while jogging. I wish I’d run into you. But only when I’m ready. Only when I can flex and stunt. Only when I control the stops and call the shots. See control, see that’s my problem now. I swear I’m like a mini SZA, with zero control during these 20 somethin’s. How are your 20 somethin’s? Are you having fun on The Weekend? Losing track of time because of Broken Clocks? Drew Barrymore hits a little too close to home when I think of us, and what we were. Or maybe Supermodels…. Hell, Normal Girl? Pretty Little Birds probably… and Garden.. and as much as I hate to admit it, The Weekend is kinda accurate as well. We were a mess. Do you think of us, and how we were? Actually, never mind. I don’t want to know. It don’t matter. I’ll be good regardless. I swim just as well as I fly. And sinking’s not an option. You taught me that. You taught me a lot. You wanna know what Ive learned? Go listen to Prom. Welcome to your 20 Somethin’s Yvette, it only gets (redacted) from here.
By Kendra Potts11 months ago in Poets
A Czar's Final Rites
To whomever reads this letter, Heed my story, my prayer, my rites. I assumed no more heartache, or nightmarish settings would come after we all rose from the great war. That compared to the war, this trial would surmount to little, a facile moment. I assumed that our bond was stronger than any prophecy, any divine path. What a fool I was. It’s been a fortnight. A fortnight it’s been since that dreaded brown paper package arrived on the steps of the oratory. A brown paper package, concealing a stone chest. A stone chest concealing a half-finished prophecy. An omen of death delivered by an unknown assailant, cloaked and cowardly. I wish I could live to see him, so I could cut him down for bringing this wretched curse to our haven. For him to bring both carnage and chaos on our heads and depart before it falls on his; in death, I’ll dream of cutting him down, I swear by all the Gods.
By Kendra Potts11 months ago in Fiction
The Late Dawn
I’ve found myself lost within a black mass. Twisted mahogany vines entangle me as I flee. Great webs of verdant jungle dance with the wind. A dance of demons leaving me dreary. And as I pant, my heart palpitates. And I panic, unable to accelerate. Not able to enunciate a scream or cry, as I feel myself asphyxiate.
By Kendra Pottsabout a year ago in Poets
