Once I walked where the silence grew,
Through trees that whispered the half-known true,
Where stories slithered like mist through bark,
And names were hidden in the dark.
Somewhere out past the edge of the map—beyond the last known trail and a little before the forest gives way to stars—that’s where I came from.
Or maybe I didn’t.
It’s hard to say for sure.
I write stories the way some folks leave lanterns on the porch: for the lost, the wandering, and the ones looking for something they can’t name.
My name is Barbara Kumari, and I’ve been telling tales for as long as I could hold a pen steady and chase a ghost across the page.
My work lives at the intersection of myth and memory—where the past isn’t past, the land is watching, and even the wind seems to hum old songs you half-remember.
Some of the stories come in visions. Others come slow, like thaw.
But they all circle the same questions:
Who are we, when the lights go out?
What lives under the surface of things?
Why do the old stories keep repeating?
I’m a novelist and lyrical fiction writer. This space, this forest of mine, is where the real work happens.
So if you’re reading this: welcome. You’ve found the campfire.
And the story you’re part of now?
It’s already begun.