Edited iteration, part of our ongoing experiment here at Twilight Letters. CH 1 Renee turned right onto Trysting Street. She could see water ebbing behind the houses. Silver hues shimmered off small whitecaps as a spring breeze blew over the lake, through the trees, and around the spaced-out homes that tried to hide from the road. She slowed down her old jeep so she could read the address on the next mailbox: The Andersons, 109 Trysting Street. She guessed the next house on t

CHAPTER 1 Renee turned right onto Trysting Street. She could see water ebbing behind the houses. Silver hues shimmered off small whitecaps as a spring breeze blew over the lake, through maple trees, around the spaced-out homes that tried to hide from the street. She slowed down her old jeep so she could read the address on the next mailbox: The Andersons, 109 Trysting Street. It must be the next house on the left, she thought.

Follow along as chapters drops: the original first, straight from the author’s keyboard, followed by the edited versions shaped through collaborative revisions with Cleo Bell and Grok.

(Poem of the Week) That November night I was a queen and you a king. You played the royal jukebox, and your ceaseless arms held me while...

(Poem of the Week) My solitude is the result of my survival My fear is the loss of my youth My womanhood is the peak of the mountaintop...

(Poem of the Week) A March morning, taunting with light at play, dancing Cigarette smoke spirals with currents of wind. The horizon...

(Poem of the Week) Kitten warmth in knitted blankets Claws like ice “Wake up!” White beam through window screen Shining emeralds in the night What is that you say? The day hasn’t yet begun. “The moon is full bind the foe,” purrs nocturnal feline like music giving spirit without any lies . . . I descent unto my patio The rays I cast with moonbeams dance as I ask for her protection so mote it be amen. —Cori Lark Corina V-7 The Witching Hour © 2007 #magicpoetry

She came to get me from the trailer so I could help her. When we arrived in the woods, I looked down the hill and saw the head flopping. His neck was stretching up, but he couldn’t get up. His body was paralyzed. “Oh, my God,” I thought to myself, “he’s not dead.” The poor thing was shot in the shoulder. One bullet wouldn’t do it for this one. I waited on the hilltop for her to finish him off. A cool wind blew dead leaves across the ground between the trees. I stopped my tear

(Poem of the Week) from part IV Alfresco Activities, Corina IV-1 I wait to be unfettered— free from scars embedded in my soul. Unbodied...

(Poem of the Week) I must be free to speak my mind Instead, I find I'm threatened. Once I clung We lingered on Lost inside our friendship. Now I open up my mind Slow, I see what we both hide . . . We trap ourselves We sit apart, yet Side by side— Speaking riddles By day subliminal By night . . . Invading serum reveals this nocturnal mind. Tell me what you find, For I can’t see past this week— This life has turned me blind— I feel a scream sneak up on me Slowly, it will subsid

(Poem of the Week) A lunar eclipse evening past Three ways balanced Eyes open, I am. See lights of nature Raining for days Smooth minutes...

“Four hundred years. Do you realize I have walked this earth sampling the blood of, what is that, seven, eight generations?” “Yes, my lord,” said Ambrus. “We have had some good times.” Terah poured himself some Bordeaux. Holding the goblet in his hands, his long fingernails clicking on the brass, he continued, “But I am bored, my friend. Are not you?” Ambrus walked to the other side of the table and removed his violin from the red velvet-lined case. “Shall I play for you?”

Wrapping up our four-part journey through Cori Lark's Electric Ink: Writings of Cori Lark  ( Part II: Dreams and Undulations ), here's the final excerpt—a lively, elemental celebration of rain, wind, and shared adventure. Dated 12/99, it transforms a stormy day into pure magic: misty paths over green hills, lightning bolts, gusts that almost lift you off the ground, and the thrill of running through sheets of water. It's joyful, intimate, and alive with motion. 12/99 —Cori La