Southern Summer

Posted on

Have you ever had the great misfortune of spending summer in the South? It’s hot and muggy and humid and did I mention, it’s hot! Even the breeze is a tantric tease with its open-mouthed warmth eased. Heat rises like a cobra in the desert, ready to strike. Old people and children, unsuspecting victims. Summers in the South are brutal.

Have you ever had the great fortune of spending summer in the South? Sweet tea with lemon, please. Lounging at the lake. Basking in the beach. What extreme heat? The waves crash upon the shore, an intrinsic lullaby. So this is paradise? Summers in the South are beautiful.

But I must admit, I’m looking forward to Autumn.

barefoot beach blur break
Photo by on

Writer, Katandra Jackson Nunnally at Facebook… 👍 the page…


Final Flight

Posted on

white brown and orange moth
Photo by Pixabay on

The faint flutter of sand colored wings beat against the lampshade. “Like a moth to a flame, burned by desire. That’s the way love goes.” Janet Jackson’s voice drips like honey as the song plays out in my mind. Poor creature was inhaled into the interior of our home with the widening of a welcoming door. Then I suppose it went quite unnoticed until the lamp was flicked on; that’s when the fluttering began.

“Anybody gonna kill it?”

“Ya wanna break the lamp?”

“If you try to catch it you’ll crush its wings and it’ll die!”

“Oh for Pete’s sake. Let the thing have its way.”

An exasperated query. Concern for a cheap, inanimate object. A warning. Disconcernment. Each family member returned to their respective biddings. The moth continued its seemingly futile dance, refusing to give up, driven by some innate force until it finally breached the cruel, unforgiving perimeter. Face to face with the artificial illumination, the dance continued till morning I presume. Upon reaching to switch the lamp off I found the thing dead. Tired. Exhaustion lending way to its expiration. Happy at having soared to the sun… *This is a very, very brief work of fiction 😊

Writer, Katandra Jackson Nunnally at Facebook… 👍 the page…



Posted on

A length of cold, skinny, tubular metal, one grasped in each hand. One end blunt, the other end, two dangerous points! And she knits. Worlds of yarn are born at the urging of her hands. I recall my Aunt Pat  knitting when I was a girl. I was fascinated then. I never understood how though. Fast-forward many years later, I’ve had children of my own and those childrenaye practically adults… One of the three that I’ve birthed has picked up on this pastime. A hobby she’s honed to the point of, perhaps not perfection, but at least baby booties! I’m fascinated now. I still don’t understand how. My Aunt Cookie visited Georgia from New York a million moons before the conception of my children was even conceived in my mind. Her pastime of choice involved yarn and a crochet hook. This I could fathom. The latching of and pulling through and latching of and pulling through of yarn. That summer I didn’t progress much beyond a crochet chain, but I never forgot the quiet joy that accompanied the steady movement of hands. My Aunt Cookie passed away about a year ago. I think she’s be please to know that I finally progressed beyond that single crochet chain and actually made something. My first complete crochet something is a scarf I created last winter. It’s not store quality or anything to brag about, but the wonder on his little face as that scarf grew, let’s just say it’s a look I’ll never forget.

brown wooden rod and purple yarn ball beside white braided cloth
Photo by Pixabay on

Writer, Katandra Jackson Nunnally at Facebook… 👍 the page…

Rock Steady

Posted on

What do you think of when you here the word, ‘foundation’? I think of a powder turned thick, grey sludge, resulting in a concrete foundation. The very base of every home. Without this rock steady foundation, a faulty future might arise. Another kind of foundation that comes to mind is the immediate family. Those who raise us (parents), those we grow up alongside (siblings), all of those immediate family members (aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents). These are the people from whom we learn language, religion, beliefs, culture, morals & values. They set the foundation long before we know that we have a choice in who we become. Another foundation that comes to mind is make-up. Liquid or powder, foundation smooths over any imperfections and highlights the beauty that is naturally present. The latter type of foundation is of a subject matter that I’m not overly versed in, as I didn’t begin wearing make-up in earnest not till my 30’s. Still, foundation is foundation and it seems to not matter if we’re talking homes, families or make-up.

beauty blush brush color
Photo by Pixabay on

Writer, Katandra Jackson Nunnally at Facebook… 👍 the page…

Antihistamine Me… Please

Posted on Updated on

Those who’ve made my acquaintance in person will tell you, I’m a chronic sneezer. We’re talking no less than 3, but at least 5 sneezes in a row. Winter. Spring. Summer. Fall. Doesn’t matter the season, there’s always something in the air triggering either my allergies or my sinuses. I mean, it’s official, year-round my nose hates me. And it’s not just my nose. My eyes hey watery or itchy. My chest gets this full irritated feeling and I just wanna claw beneath my breast plate and scratch till raw. Then the wheezing sets in. Then you know what next? Aachoo. Aachoo. Aachoo. No less than 3, but at least 5 sneezes in a row. Misery adores company! We’ve got pets. Two cat kiddos to add to the madness that is season on, season off, sinuses & allergies. Aachoo. Aachoo. Aachoo. Tissues & antihistamines… Please!

blur box clean contemporary
Photo by Tookapic on


Posted on Updated on

Once upon a time there was a girl whom was fascinated by all things bright, bold & colorful. She thought to herself, “One day, I’m gonna have pink hair!” Many years later, she stopped the cruel torture of perming her hair and a few months after that, she got a little scissor happy and did the ‘big chop’. She stood back not in awe but in total disbelief of herself! Her beautiful, mid-shoulder blade, jet black hair was no more. She thought to herself, “What the hell! Might as well dye it!” Her logic was that there wasn’t much hair left to lose if the dye job was an epic fail! In the past she’d attempted to dye her hair red. But that brilliant hue never did do. Standing in front of a sea of hair dye variety, she reaches for the blonde! The rest is bombshell history.


P.S It’s true what they say about blondes you know. It’s not my natural hair color but I embraced the journey while it lasted. And it was absolutely, amazingly… Fun!

P.S.S Google the naturally blonde haired, blue eyes, black skinned beauties of  Solomon Island. You’re welcome 😉

Writer, Katandra Jackson Nunnally at Facebook… 👍 the page… 



Dawn of No Return

Posted on Updated on

blank paper with pen and coffee cup on wood table
Photo by Kaboompics .com on

Cave drawings. Smoke signals. Verbal utterances. Primal guttural throat reverberations. Incoherent babbling. Vowels & consonants. Words & sentences. Telegraphs & telephones. Computers & cellphones. Text messages. Emails… Once upon a time we lived in an era of personal, intimate, handwritten letters. The opening was always ‘Dear’ and the ending was sincere(ly). That relic which was paper would then be folded and inserted into a pouch-like compartment called an envelope. Said envelope would be sealed and postage would seal the deal. By plane, train, boat or letter carrier on horseback, the letter would travel from sender to receiver. Sometimes days would pass. Oftentimes weeks, months spanned the distance between correspondences. It made the message all the more precious. Letters are treasured things. That was then. The Dawn of No Return is riddled with so much technology that we’ve forgotten the strides that had to be made to bring us here. At the push of a button, an email can be exchanged in the matter of mere seconds. How privileged & deprived are we to be living in these precarious times. And what happens when we reach the nano edge of this technology boom and the so-called ‘dot com bubble’ bursts, leaving in its wake a throng of email dependant lackies who couldn’t properly address an envelope if their pathetic lives depended on it?

Katandra Jackson Nunnally at FreedomInk Publishing,