Emmanuel Idaago Odogo

Emmanuel Idaago Odogo: Lagos, Nigeria

Poetry is my thing. It lets me express myself in the most creatively captivating way. In poetry, every word is heavily pregnant, and can be beautifully understood in different ways; even in ways different from the poet’s, but equally beautiful. As a poet, I can express myself and still be my non-talkative self.

Connect with the Author here.

Writing Genre: Cyan Ciar

My name is Cyan and I am currently a high school senior. My preferred genre is fiction. I know that’s a very open-ended genre, but that’s what I like about it. I don’t stick to specifically fantasy or horror, I go all over the map. I like writing fantasy because I can make anything that I want happen, but I also like writing realistic fiction because then I can portray a piece of my life and the real world into a story and it can still be fiction but relatable and believable at the same time.

Claremore, Oklahoma

A Voice from Nigeria

Hannah Faleti I. has spent a lifetime in Nigeria. She is currently living in the cosmopolitan city of Ibadan, north of Lagos and the Gulf of Guinea.  She begins law school in March of 2018 at Obafemi Awolowo University where she hopes to become an advocate for civil rights. Her poetry and writing reflect the grand dynamics of her homeland of Nigeria. Hannah will curate a weekly series of postings from Nigeria for Introvert Press.

 

Rape cases are getting worse in Nigeria. Nowadays, men believe their hungry libidos will be satisfied when they force themselves on young girls (1 year and above). It’s really sad, tainting those ignorant, innocent girls.

 

TOUCHED

I’m the newly molded clay.

I’m the new shimmering fabric.

I’m the new seed, bringing more.

I’m the precious stone, untouched.

As the clay, the flood has come to wash me away.

As the fabric, pain has come to rip me apart.

I’m no longer the seed, the wind found me.

No longer precious, the stone has been touched.

I’m the wall that bears the cracks.

I’m the broken pitcher, who shall pick me up?

I’m the withered flower, trampled, destroyed.

I’m the Queen, I’ve lost my kingdom.

As the wall, I shall soon fall, soon crumble.

As the pitcher, the grasses shall choke me in.

As the flower, years shall make me vanish.

As the Queen, I’ve no pride, no crown.

 

Please visit Hannah’s Facebook Author Page to interact with the author.

 

Writing Genre: Corrie Lavina Knight

I write science fiction. Why, I don’t know, as I almost never read the genre. I tend to gravitate toward it in films and television shows, but my preferred reading genres are fantasy, historical, mystery, and romance. I suppose that would explain why my first series is a highly political space western.

Chat with Corrie here.

Up the Trail

I’ve walked this road time and time again. My worn sneakers find the larger stones to step on as I make my way up to the mountaintop. The stone road has been here as long as I can remember. My mother can’t recall a time when it wasn’t here either. It’s the road that I and everyone else in the village walk up every day. Some are up before the dawn with the collection bags, others see their kids off first to the small school at the top of the town, and then there are people like me. My name is Lupe, short for Guadalupe. My whole name is Guadalupe Francisco Jimenez Sandoval.

 

It’s 9:00 AM before I start the walk up the mountain. My head is ripe with a hangover from too many Pacifico beers. Yesterday was Thursday when the bull is brought up from the pasture below the village. Each week the damned thing just stands there chewing its cud until Pachuko comes from behind and slams his head with the maul bar. The bull slumps down and Pachuko does his work as the stench of the slaughter rises into our noses. Thursday is the night we drink in front of the beer store until Pachuko is all done. We play cards, each of us pretending we have more money than we do. Sometimes I win, other days I lose the money my elderly mom gave me to shop with because she’s too blind to make it to the store.

 

I lost the money last night.

 

Today I have to pick an extra bag of coffee beans in order to make up for what I lost yesterday. Hopefully, I’ll strip enough of the red cherries from their branches in order to stop at the store in the village before I go home. I don’t want my mother knowing I lost again gambling. I have too much of a fondness for gambling and for drinking and for smoking marijuana. Everyone knows it. My mother knows it too. That’s just how it goes in a small town on the rainy side of a mountain in the lowland jungle of Nayarit, Mexico. We all lived here, far away from the cities like Puerto Vallarta. It’s only an hour or so away, but it might as well be ten hours. I can never afford to go there. On a good day I will make eight dollars a day, twelve it I pick an extra bag of cherry beans.

 

I walk the stone street that leaves the village. I wind up the mountain. Within minutes I’m wet with humidity and sweat. It takes a good hour to reach the coffee orchards under the enormous Kapok trees. The road up the mountain becomes gradually smaller. The road becomes a path. The path becomes a coyote trail. As the trail narrows, the mountaintop jungle becomes thicker and the bird calls replace the barking dogs in the village. Bromeliads as large as me cling to the trees. Orchids wrap their roots around the limbs of the coffee trees. The passion fruit is everywhere.

 

I find the orchard owned by the man in the village who has become too old to pick his beans. I reach up into the air and pull the cherries from the branch. It’s December, the month the coffee is ripe enough to pick. If I pick enough to cover my gambling and love of Pacifico beer, I can get my mother something for Christmas. She cooks on a dilapidated camp stove on a wooden table on the porch. It would be nice to get her a new stove.

 

That’s what I said last year too.

Friday Author Review: Rob Cooke

Rob Cooke’s Author Spotlight on IntrovertPRESS

Moonshiner’s Legacy     Sara’s Swamp Blues

Coming soon: The Lost Song of Miriam Landry

17814203_10156062968879942_4465054159517452550_o

Rob Cooke wrote early scenes of Moonshiner’s Legacy while undergoing treatment for cancer. He took his kids to the library, checked every book about the era in his novels and built the story one page at a time. The whole family was involved. From those research adventures with his kids, his series began. Moonshiner’s Legacy starts with Bo Barnum and his pursuits of handling the family moonshine business. Sara, his daughter, and granddaughter to a Creole Indian, is the focus of Sarah’s Swamp Blues.

Rob’s stories unfold with dynamic roots growing into the deep Southern culture of 1920’s Arkansas and Louisiana. Receiving 5-star reviews, Sara’s Swamp Blues continues the legacy into the violence and tumult of the 1950’s. Rob himself is from Nebraska and has a passion for Depression Era themes, especially the music of that time period. He is also a budding guitar, banjo and harmonica player.

Connect with Rob here. Please re-post and re-tweet to support Rob!

Thanks for visiting the IntrovertPRESS site. We are pleased to spotlight our authors and their literary ventures. If you would like to see the authors supported by IntrovertPRESS click here.

A Voice from Nigeria

 

Hannah Faleti I. has spent a lifetime in Nigeria. She is currently living in the cosmopolitan city of Ibadan, north of Lagos and the Gulf of Guinea.  She begins law school in March of 2018 at Obafemi Awolowo University where she hopes to become an advocate for civil rights. Her poetry and writing reflect the grand dynamics of her homeland of Nigeria. Hannah will curate a weekly series of postings from Nigeria for Introvert Press.

 

QUEEN

Pride is your blood
Beauty is your skin
Your dignity unsoiled
Courage, your bones
Kindness crowns your heart
Of pure joy, your smile speaks

The damsel of men’s hearts
Crowned One of strength
Pain is your meal
Down your throat, the pills of dismay
How will I not revere you?
Woe is me if I uncherish you
Blistered palms cradling me
Golden tears, they flowed for me

You tend my life’s flames
While yours, I see, flickering
The gates of future opened wide
At your feet lay broken barriers
Little is what I can say of you
Boundless, eternal, unsaid

Time is here, it yearns for you
Death steals your breath, you’re fading
But Queen, even after you’re gone
You have a kingdom, indestructible
It shall stand through years
It shall bear your name

Please visit Hannah’s Facebook Author Page to interact with the author.