Window Seat

In my bedroom, there were knotty pine shelves, embellished with adventure.
116 hardback books, neatly categorized from A to Z.
I settled into my favorite window seat, closing the tall curtain around me,
and willfully slipped away into a world of fantasy.

My mind traveled through centuries and back again…
I peddled on the streets of England alongside Oliver Twist,
tumbled into a Wonderland with a young girl named Alice,
braved the raging seas of Moby Dick, rescued Andromeda from the clutches of Cetus,
survived the silencing song of the Siren, and explored the shipwrecked British vessel known as Titan.

Unaffected by the banality of reality,
3,650 days of vivacious mortality,
unmentioned, and too little to be heard,
I run my tiny finger along pages adorned with gold.
I avidly search for that one special passage,
because I believe in dreams, unicorns, and magic.

Behind the curtain, I exist.
New to life, but fearless enough to imagine.


I am the chair that holds your bum.
I catch your clothes and other random crap
you throw on me.
The plush cushion of your massive buttocks is far warmer
than the half-worn clothes
you dump on me.

I long for you to collapse upon my suede fabric once more,
while you murmur endless vulgarities about your day,
Or gently touch my lacquered arms to move me while you vacuum
so that my bulging legs aren’t in your way.

I miss the days when I was your favorite chair.

Until the return of our era,
I will wrap your coat around me
and make do with the smell of you,
the residual heat of you.


Paints of dark twilight hues,
Slathered across in blunt strokes.
Blend with deft hands,
Cajole gently with jabs and pokes.

Backdrop begging for a few others.
Longing to hold an infinite embrace.
Friends of earth and midnight sky.
Worthy of a doe-eyed lover’s gaze.

Cascading moonbeam…
Drenching all in silvery white.
Restless twinkling stars…
Singing their mismatched might.

Silhouetted landscape as horizon.
Darkened oils of plateaued ridges.
The finest brush could only manage
To close the gap, I feather-stroked bridges.

Nearing completion, this stint on canvas.
Nuances of dawn for what I’ve begun
Usher the arrival of a new day.
All that I need now are a few drops of sun.

Chayning Elle Jenkins is a resident of Montgomery, AL  who is in her Senior year at Alabama State University. Although she has made the Department of History and Political Science a haven during her matriculation, a penchant for writing brings her to endeavor her literary pursuits at Dark River Review