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Nimalah Baaith-Ducharme’s work has appeared at Poets.org (where she won the Harold Taylor Prize in 2019), Nighthawk Literature, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Of Rootwork, was a finalist in the 2025 Alta California Chapbook Contest, sponsored by Gunpowder Press and judged by Raina J. León. She has received support from the Bread Loaf Environmental Writers' Conference and the Fine Arts Work Center in Provincetown, Massachusetts, earned her MFA from Emerson College, and is currently a PhD candidate at Texas Tech University. Fried Chicken Prison the name of your Thanksgiving sentence, to be held consecutively for the duration of our lives serving legs, wings, and thighs butter and oils again making the underlying rhythm by which we conduct our year cooking with butter even after Paula Deen was deemed racist cause we been doin’ this— When am I gonna get my show? Who don’t use butter? sizzling underneath the conversation of fried chicken prison // we’re fat on the best food fat, like phat, like Baby Phat, like beautiful fat thighs, stomach and chunky behind like bragging about your empty plate fat as you move for seconds // During that time and every other time, I ate memories of white rice and fried egg— Girls with long hair fighting at the bus stop— Cocoa Puffs squirming with wings and legs— Oops babies and ghetto twins— Corned beef and spam— Now you cook with white wine and prosciutto and we think charcuterie is a meal and you resent breakfast for dinner because you can’t show us how far you’ve moved from your mother yelling at her boyfriend to stop calling dinner poor people food and now we’re fat on the best food waiting for you to ask what’s for dinner knowing you’re going to cook whatever you want anyway ### Torch Literary Arts is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

Amanda Borquaye is a Ghanaian-American creative nonfiction writer from the American South. She writes from the interior of a youngest daughter in an immigrant family, using the lyrical essay as a way to wade through the fragility of belonging in a decaying empire. Her work embodies the necropolitical, exploring who is allowed to live and who must die in the context of immigrant identity. By day, she works in humanitarian response and international development. She is an alum of the McCormack Summer Workshop, Kenyon Review Writers Workshop, and was the 2026 Disquiet International Literary Prize winner in nonfiction. She is at work on a memoir exploring migration as a ghost story shaped by the specters of empire, colonialism, and the yearning of a life elsewhere. Her work has been featured in The Audacity, Ninth Letter, and elsewhere. Get Ready, Room on Fire [Verse 1 - Tell us a story, I know you’re not boring] You’re listening to The Strokes on an iPod Nano during middle school band class. You feel a little bit special when you tell people you’re in band because it’s jazz ensemble, and every other school has a marching band. You like the chaos that jazz invites. You like how forgiving it can be. You’re frightened by sight reading, the expectation that you’ll be perfect and precise on your first try. You’re frightened but excited by improv, the assortment of notes you can string along however you please, how it’s scary not to know exactly where you’re going but comforting once the last note has rung out and it’s all okay. You chose the trombone, or rather it chose you. You got a sound out of it easily, to your relief. Your sister plays the saxophone, and you don’t want to be like her because you are so aware of how much you want to be like her. Your tuning note on the trombone is a B flat. Tuning requires pushing in the tuning slide if you are flat and pulling it outwards if you are sharp. Your teacher teaches you a silly way to remember this — sharp - shout - out, flat - fin - in. You’re used to blowing air through the brass bell 2.5 times before confirming it’s in tune. You’re listening to The Strokes on an iPod Nano because the teacher had an injury. Some risers fell on his head as he was setting up for a gig, and he’s a short man so you imagine they crumpled down on him with a loud crunch like a car going over a tin can. He’s been gone for several weeks, and I guess there are only so many substitute band teachers in Savannah, so they put you all in a small auditorium to watch The Temptations miniseries for the trillionth time. Your teacher is a white man who always says that white people stole jazz and sanitized it into something palatable called swing. And now he’s put you in an auditorium with a bunch of white kids to watch this very Black series about Motown. You remember all of the plot points. How the story starts out promising. Black boys racing across the screen with gleaming smiles chasing youth as if it were a lightning bug. You vacillate between which one you find the most handsome. You wonder what it would be like if there were more boys who looked like that at your school. You remember their big dreams and the big talent they each had to back it up. You remember how they serenade girls in fluffy skirts as they walk home and sneak out at night to make out with them in milk trucks, flirting with fatherhood in their cresting youth. You remember how boyish they are at the start, screaming in salon chairs while chemical relaxer sears their scalps until each kink of hair is smooth and straight, inviting a comb to pass through with ease. You’ll go and do the same to your hair in a few weeks as you have done since the age of 6, but you won’t be pleased by the end result like them. [Verse 2 - The room is on fire as she’s fixing her hair] You’ll hate how stringy your hair is, how now it never grows quite past your collar bones, how you’ll adopt deep side parts and Sperry boat shoes and Lilly Pulitzer dresses as armor. You won’t laugh like everyone else does when Otis and Al fan themselves wildly with newspapers as the chemicals spread across their scalps with ferocity, a forest fire determined to decimate. You won’t laugh because you recognize that pain. You won’t laugh because you recognize how sometimes Blackness can look like endurance, enduring unseen pains just to dance between invisibility and hypervisibility. You will think of Miss Angie, tall and skinny like her cigarettes she puffs on after slathering the perm on your hair. You will think about how you sit in that chair, squirming as stinging turns into burning, how you endure it so every last follicle can be straight and your mother can get her money’s worth — how even the signal to get it washed off is a cry for help, the wild waving of your two hands or a holler so Miss Angie can see or hear from outside and come rescue you. Most of all, you remember your favorite picture of yourself from when you were little, your Kindergarten graduation. How Miss Laurie, your teacher and swim coach and woman who let you read in the corner during nap time hugged you tightly, her arms covered by your soft, blown-out hair exploding underneath a white graduation cap, the hair not yet tainted by chemicals and the girl not yet tainted by a desire to be invisible. You recall yourself small, criss-crossed, between your mother’s thighs. Her arms raising high above your head with a wide-toothed comb and a hard-bristled brush, how this motion tugs at your scalp and how you cry. Your father comes in and says, “Why are you hurting my child?” which is to say she is our child, but she is my baby. Your exasperated mother looks at this man and the sheen on his bald head and explains she has to detangle your hair before she can twist it and put the little balls on the end. You are probably still crying. From then on, you will sit in the salon chair where your follicles will comply to chemicals. When you reach senior year of high school, you ask Miss Angie to cut off every last straight strand on your head. On the drive home, you wonder how many times Black parents have tried to hide their Black children from a world of pain but inadvertently welcomed the hurt inside instead. You like the series even though you’ve seen it too many times to watch it again. You like it until the plot of their lives becomes depressing. You watch these boys become men and how that destroys them, like aging is an automatic catalyst towards doom. You watch how David Ruffin gives the group hit after hit with his commanding and raspy voice. You watch how he becomes combative, can’t quit shoving coke up his nose. How this habit costs him his spot in the group and friends who care about him, but have their own futures and families to consider. There are the parts you really like, so you’ll somewhat pay attention while Julian Casablancas’ voice croons over a thudding bass line and determined drum fills. You like how his voice sounds sleepy amidst the urgency of the guitar, the bass, the drums. When your dad attends your jazz concerts, he is always drifting to sleep in the darkened auditorium, and one day you will empathize with him. One day, you will know what it’s like to desire rest as the world drones on around you. You like when they circle up and toss their hands in the center to shout “Temptations forever!” after they audition for Berry Gordy at Motown Records, and he really likes them. It makes you feel mature that already you know that nothing lasts forever, that people can get tangled up in drugs and deception, that death steals, that declarations made in youth rarely survive to adulthood. Your favorite song by The Temptations is “The Way You Do the Things You Do”, so you take out your earbuds for that part. Eddie Kendricks’ falsetto cradles into your ear while the rest of the vocal parts anchor the melody. You remember the choreography they do, how they dab imaginary perfume onto their necks when they sing, “And baby you smell so sweet / You know you could've been some perfume”. You remember how they struggled to get a hit before then, how the record label was perplexed at how all that talent couldn’t yield more hits. When they sing the demo, Berry Gordy asks a focus group if they would spend their last dollar on that record over a sandwich. Their hands shoot up in affirmation. You don’t think you like anything or anyone enough to spend your last dollar on it, but you wonder if you ever will. They take that song on the road, touring down south in high school gymnasiums. The screen brightens up with their red coats twisting and twirling in synch under the red of the Confederate flag hanging above them. The crowd stares back at them as cops part the white kids and the black kids down the middle like Moses parting the Red Sea. You don’t like when you have to watch the euphoric high of that performance come crashing down when a truck full of racists shoots at the boys and tells them to go back up north. Your sister has gone to college up north, and you’re always visiting her there, daydreaming of when you’ll be a college student too. You want to go wherever she goes. You remember when Blue and Otis are visiting Blue’s mom, and Blue goes to the kitchen to check on the ribs, but we don’t see him again. You remember that part because even though you’ve seen it so many times, it always makes you cry. Blue was your favorite, and bass singers never get the appreciation they deserve. Your friend J is the bass player in band. You sit together under the giant oak tree in the quad in between classes, Spanish moss sighing above you. He tells you another boy noogied him on the head, hard. Recoiled and looked at his reddened knuckles. Walked away, declaring that Black people’s hair is so rough and unpleasant. There’s another Black boy in your class on the football team. You ask if they won the away game. Someone tells you on the bus that a boy made a joke about how he didn’t want to sit next to no nigger. [Pre-Chorus - You’re in a strange part of our town] You know all of the plot points, so you’re listening to The Strokes on an iPod instead of watching. One earbud is in your left ear and the other in the ear of a white boy you’ll unfriend on Facebook sometime in college, when it’s 2017 and you’re up north and when you tell a homeless man you’re sorry, you don’t have any change, he spits at you and calls you a word and a word becomes a fist that steals the breath from your lungs even though you hardly had any from the cold New England night heaving your chest. You know you heard it, clearly, even though you’re listening to that alternative music you always listen to, according to your mom. Folks you grew up with are on Facebook, foaming at the mouth for that man to become President. You’ll love a boy for the first time, and after America decides that that man will in fact be president, he taps off a text to you as you walk back to your dorm holding photobooth strips of you and your friends from the campus election watch party at the student center. In one of the pictures, your best friend, Ilana, is flanked by a Hillary Clinton cardboard cutout you’ll see by the dumpster the next morning. You’ll never watch election results with other people again. Goodnight, my angel. Sleep well. Today saddens me very deeply. I know that a Donald Trump presidency will never hurt me. It doesn’t make me fear for my citizenship, enfranchisement, safety, or life. But there are so many people in this country who do justly have those fears, and my heart breaks for those people. As a black woman in this country, you have some of those feelings, and I am so, so sorry that this country has chosen a path of hatred that will only amplify them. I love you very, very much, and no matter what, I will always stand by your side. You’ll be impressed that a pre-med brain can write so emotionally and beautifully. You’ll think this is the most romantic string of words you’ll ever read. You think you’ll love him forever. You’d spend your last dollar on it. [Chorus - You’re not trying hard enough] You have a habit still of wanting your mom and dad as soon as anything goes wrong. You text your dad frantically. You ask why he chose to come to a country that hates him. He’ll respond immediately, reminding you he is proud of you, reminding you that racism is what stitches together the American flag and fascism is the frightening new frontier. You imagine him transporting himself back in time. He’ll remember being an army doctor, how nobody could see the white coat and just his disqualifying black skin. How his accent is exotic derogatory rather than exotic sexy. In the memory, he is a Major, a senior officer, and a Lieutenant, a junior officer, gives him a dirty glance as he walks into the operating room as the attending physician. Hierarchy doesn’t matter to him much, but he learns quickly that it does in this country and its institutions, that whether you like it or not, you are placed into tiers, and the audacity to not remain in yours is a grave offense. So he’s surprised when the Lieutenant, a white lady and the chief of the nurses, looks past the white coat and right to the black skin and says, “And you are?” You know that greeting people is a very Ghanaian thing to do. You know that anytime you walk into a space, you greet everyone on your way in and say goodbye on your way out, an acknowledgment that we are all inhabiting the same space at the same time, and how nice it is that we are doing that in a world as big as the one we all share. He begins to explain that he’s the attending physician, his response quickly turning into a curriculum vitae of why he is supposed to be there, but she stands in the way, still sizing him up even after he’s finished preambling his credentials to her. He realizes this is a burdensome place to be, one where you will think you have proven yourself only to have to prove yourself more. He brushes past her and begins to prepare the students, silently watching the standoff, for surgery. “I am the guy they unleash from Africa whenever Americans need to be taught how to do pelvic surgery.” He’ll remember how she felt embarrassed, which is a tier of feeling humiliated, which is how she made him feel. She’ll find him in the hallway, asking for his forgiveness and informing him she is not a racist. She does not offer any proof to bolster this claim. She does not feel the need to. He will feel like nothing. He will accept her apology because he has to because he has to keep working in this hospital, and he has to keep attending to pelvic surgeries, attending to rooms full of people who don’t believe he deserves to be there. You imagine he steps out of this memory when he attends to you, his youngest daughter, who is reeling with the reality that they live in a country filled with people who don’t believe they deserve to be there. He ends his text with a sentence that brands itself onto the side of your brain: No matter how hard you work and how high your achievements are, to the white supremacists, you are still nothing. [Verse 2 - Now every time that I look at myself / “I thought I told you this world is not for you”] You’re still in middle school, feeling like nothing in the gym locker room, and your friend will slick her yellow hair back and look you in the eye. She’ll tell you, “Obama only won because of gays and Blacks.” You won’t know how to respond or why that’s a bad thing, so you’ll shimmy into the dark green gym shorts your mother labeled with your name in Sharpie on the tag. One other girl will gasp and turn to her locker. You’ll stuff your pink paisley Vera Bradley duffel with your things and wait for all the girls to file out, for their laughter like lashes to reach the other side of the door. You’ll sit there rolling deodorant under your arms, waiting for tears to roll down your face. You’ll push inward because everything outside of you feels too sharp to touch. The second time Obama wins, you’ll still be too young to vote, but you’ll feel grown up because you’re a licensed driver. You’ll put a little car magnet that came in the mail after your dad made a donation to the campaign on the backside of the cherry red Land Rover. You’ll come back to the school parking lot one afternoon to notice it’s gone, silver little lines wiggling along your car door instead. Your mom will ask, “What’s that?" and you’ll shrug, wanting to say “it’s nothing” when it is obvious that it is something. You’ll mumble about “I guess the parking lot is getting tighter these days.” You’ll have your suspects, but you won’t confront them. The boy you’ll unfriend is tapping his thumb wildly to the bass part of Reptilia. It’s the intro, which is defined by the insistence of the bass strumming the B note. B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B B like the song is about to burst. For now, the boy is nice, and you may even think of him as your friend. Three of your friends have had crushes on him, but to you, he’s just the boy you’re listening to The Strokes with, playing Reptilia over and over again until the bass and guitar and drums bounce their way into your brain forever. You decide you want to grow up and date a man like Julian Casablancas or Fabrizio Moretti. The bell rings, and the lights come up, and the red glow of the emergency exit sign dulls like the end of a lit cigarette. You watch the other kids shift their sliding backpack straps and shuffle onto the next class, and suddenly, you’ve become adults dismissed into the world with no bell. You are twenty-eight now, and your trombone hasn’t been touched in a decade. It is in your closet, in Georgia, under the shelf with the American Girl doll with skin like yours and plaits your mother’s hands used to make on your head before going to bed. You will visit home and open that closet, scared to touch it, unwilling to invite your past into the present. You are changing from the green line to the red line in Washington DC, and a man who is changing from the red line to the green line comes darting down the escalator to the platform, catching you in his arms as you exit the train and nearly collide. He catches you just above your elbows and holds you there, saying nothing, his two eyes trained on yours. You are reminded that you are a solid thing made of bones and flesh, not a bubble floating aimlessly before its inevitable burst. You want to tell him to hurry before the train door closes, but you say nothing. Others have walked past this scene you are frozen in. You feel like the two of you are in a film, something fast and fleeting that sears on a screen to an audience that cares or doesn’t. He lets go. He shakes his head in apology and smiles. The doors close with him inside as he waves to you. It is just you and the platform and the quiet. In the opening scene of The Temptations miniseries, young Otis is running. He is running to something, but it is implied that he is also running from something. Adult Otis narrates for his younger self: “I was seventeen and about to burst.” A busker at the Gallery Place metro stop puffs his cheeks out like a puffer fish, emptying his lungs into his trombone. Cold metal brought to life with warm breath. You want to feel the once familiar brain buzzing high that comes from willing brass to vibrate with sound, but you feel nothing. You stop for a while to watch, wondering where the notes will take him. You are twenty-eight and about to burst. ### Torch Literary Arts is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

Breena Clarke is the award-winning author for four novels, including her acclaimed debut novel River, Cross My Heart. She is a co-founder of The Hobart Festival of Women Writers. Breena Clarke is the author of four novels, most recently published, Alive Nearby, a gently ruminative, epistolary work that explores characters in Angels Make Their Hope Here, Clarke’s 2014 novel set in an imagined mixed-race community in 19th-century New Jersey. Breena Clarke's debut novel, River, Cross My Heart, was an October 1999 Oprah Book Club selection and was named by Publishers Weekly as one of the seven essential books about Washington, D.C. Her critically reviewed second novel, Stand The Storm, was named one of 100 Best for 2008 by The Washington Post. Her short fiction has appeared in Washington Post Magazine, Kweli Journal, Stonecoast Review, Nervous Breakdown, Mom/Egg review, The Drabble, Catapult, Solstice, and Now, The Hobart Festival of Women Writers online magazine. She is co-founder of The Hobart Festival of Women Writers, an annual three-day celebration of the work of diverse women writers. She has been a member of the fiction faculty of Stonecoast MFA in Creative Writing at The University of Southern Maine. Breena Clarke is co-editor of NOW, an online journal of the Hobart Festival of Women Writers. She is on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/breena.clarke, on Substack at https://breenaclarke.substack.com/. Find more at www.BreenaClarke.com. Dog Triptych Maisie’s Account: A dog witnesses the most destructive racial conflict in American history. Tulsa, Oklahoma 1921 May 31, the first night of the white people's rampage, a bottle of gasoline with a flaming rag crashed through our parlor window. We were in the kitchen and fortunate that all of us got out before the house was engulfed. We rushed out to the street, and nitroglycerin bombs were falling from the sky. We dodged about and hid beneath the dogwood tree nearby. Our home was on the second floor of Papa's undertaking business, The Samuel Bazemore Funeral Home. Like the other firebombed houses, our house was quickly consumed by flames because water lines to our neighborhood had gone dry. How? Why? We got nothing through our faucets, and our hoses were useless. Papa would not use the water in the rain barrel because he said that would only waste what little we had to drink. Oh, he was so clear-headed in a crisis! But his heart was broken at the devastation to his lovely funeral parlor and our home. We were not alone. Businesses up and down Greenwood Avenue and Archer Streets were set upon, riddled with bullets, and burned. Then, after the first night's attacks, the sheriffs came and took all the colored folks to "safe" detention. Papa and Mama and Harold and Alice were taken off in a truck. I followed them to the armory and was barred at the gate. Papa and Mama and Harold and Alice were confined for two full days. I saw the white mob. I saw what they did. The aromas of gunpowder, turpentine, nitroglycerin, sawdust, and human flesh permeated. A dense cloud of this malevolent amalgam sat above my head. Add to it the odor of their race hatred, and I could barely catch a clean, unencumbered breath. I sat on the periphery of the marauders and watched, listened as they descended upon Greenwood like a pack of wolves. As a dog, I understood them and understood they could not be stopped. Once a wolf pack has decided on a course of action, they do not arrest themselves for any reason of reason or compassion. I understood that I could not prevent them from carrying out their destruction. I could only witness. I'm very well-behaved and as clean as I can be expected to be. Mama has always regularly washed me with strong soap, and I have the lovely short, brindle coat typical of bitches who've been in Tulsa since the first people called it Tulsey Town. My line is long here about. I am here to watch and witness for Papa and Mama and Harold and Alice. When they were let go, Papa, Mama, Harold, and Alice came back to the place our home was. The enthusiasm with which I greeted them nearly caused my chest to explode, and I almost knocked Mama to the ground. I apologized profusely by licking her hand, wagging my tail, and allowing Harold and Alice to pounce on me and hug my neck. They had been worried about me! The Samuel Bazemore Funeral Home—our home—was nothing but ashes. Our furniture was gone or broken up and left in a pile. They couldn't haul off the bed that Mama and Papa slept in, so the looters hacked it to splinters. Papa took Mama into his arms and whispered to her that we children would lose all hope if she started bawling. She must be brave. Oh, that was all she needed to hear for Mama is very brave. She picked up a piece of the bedstead and used it to poke at piles of debris to see what we could salvage. The soot and ashes of our life covered Mama and Papa and Harold and Alice from head to toe. I could not see myself, but I, too, felt I was covered with what had once been our comfortable, happy home. Why had they burnt us out? We had never harmed anyone. Papa was an exemplary businessman. He was kind and considerate of folks in need. Mama was beautiful and dignified and kind, kind, so kind. Why would anyone want to harm them, their children, their home? A Few Whiles A dog waits at home for five years. Chicago, Illinois 1960 Where is the elegy for the dog named Signal who waited at home in Chicago, in a backyard in a working-class neighborhood, for the return of a boy from a Mississippi vacation? He went to spend some summer weeks with his cousins. We didn't want him to go – me and Mamie Mommy. But he was head-up and happy and excited to go on a trip for fun with his cousins. Summer vacation is our time. We long for it all through the long, tedious months at McCosh Elementary School. We earn our summer frolics because we are good, we behave, we do what Mamie Mommy tells us. We long to be hot and sticky with popsicle drippings. He promised we'll have summer when he's back. He put his arms about my neck and put his cheek to my ruff. He promised. Waiting at the fence, on the porch. Waiting is most of that dog's life if truth be told. There is much running and romping and digging and all. But waiting for that boy is the largest part of it. Longing. Dog longing is different. It's maybe less sorrowful without the realization, the certainty, that the boy will not return. Poor exhausted fool animal to wait and grieve and wait beside the back gate for five years after the summer that boy didn't come back. A couple of times she considered putting the animal down to ease the misery of its waiting. Surely, it is more kind to ease it away from that fence, those sticks and balls and caps and jackets and sneakers and cat's-eye marbles, and those beloved sneakers of his. Couldn't do that. Whispered in its ears; hugged its thick neck. To touch that animal's head, to smell him, to be tugged down the street with him, was to have a fleeting feel of that boy. Let him wait if that's what he wants. She left him to it. My tender, sweetheart boy child. He was a tender aged child still. He wasn't a man. "It would appear that the state of Mississippi has decided to maintain white supremacy by murdering children." —Roy Wilkins, head of the NAACP Sleep is fraught for a faithful dog waiting for his boy. Short naps, circulating the yard, waiting at the gate, coming to greet Mamie Mommy home from work, home from church. Where is my boy? Summer goes, Autumn comes. Winter. Spring. Summer. Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer again and again. Signal: Why doesn't he come home? Bobsey: The crackers who tied his body to a seventy-five-pound cotton gin fan know. They know that boy won't be home and they know why. Moses Wright's dog, Bobsey, knew what he didn't know. Bobsey figured it. Mr. Moses was scared for himself. His ass was on fire with scared. Who could blame him? Maybe he figured the milk of human kindness would keep them from killing a child. Bobsey knew better. Bobsey smelled him that last time. And Boy's life and limb and luster was the very last thing Bobsey smelled. Bobsey understood it all. For when Bobsey ran at the man's leg to save the boy, to slow the vicious acts, a kick came, and then a bullet. Bobsey's life oozed onto the ground. Bobsey'd set her essentials into this man's leg, the fat part of his calf, and he had to shoot her to take her off. * Mr. Moses and 'em cried, "Bobsey, come off!" They tried to call Bobsey off like they'd call her off a possum. Bobsey ignored 'em. The Testimony of Bobsey: Let me explain it this way. I smelt it all. I smelt the entire outcome. Mr. Moses and 'em can only imagine, but I smelt it. They're free to hope for the best. But I smelled each and every murderous intention in the base souls of the crackers that came for Boy that night. Every muscle in me acted with the instinct to protect Boy from this horror. I put myself between Boy and 'em killers because I knew the odor of their purpose. I did what I was able before I died. I was in heaven forthwith. And I witnessed the ascension of Boy's magnificent, unblemished soul a short time later. Frisky, callow, and still a child. *Subsequent accounts of the events of August 24, 1955, do not include the fact that Roy Bryant sustained a dog bite on that night. Mike, Friend of The Famous A dog befriends a great Civil Rights leader. Washington, D.C. 1974 They say our line has been spoilt by empathy. We are not as aggressive, vicious, driven to subdue on command, or as dogged as others of our breed. We began as offspring of the Great Black and Tan Coonhound, who is said to have been sired by Hellhound, a dog belonging on the plantation at Swanigan's Neck, North Carolina, and a bitch named Black, brought to the Americas on board a slaver from the African coast as a pup. The Great Black and Tan was, for many years, the companion of Caleb Bledsoe, a slave trader and driver whose plantation burned to the ground in 1853. In Black's line of dogs, the bitches are gentle though brave and staunch. And this admixture of compassion is the very attribute that distinguishes our line. Really, our line is wanted for our looks. We are beautiful and imposing. In my youth, I stood tall, had a broad, deep chest, a graceful and powerful line of body, and a lovely black coat with tan saddles. I still have a massive head with erect ears, a long snout, and a mouth full of the most perfect essentials as would ever clamp upon a limb of bone, meat, and gristle. I could do real damage to fleeing flesh. But my heart is hardly ever in the mood. In my working days, I followed commands without question, but I labored to be keen. Keenness for a task, a pursuit is not a learned thing but an inheritance. Most often, my imposing appearance was seen as ferocity, and miscreants froze in fear of me. I was required simply to hold their attention, help the police officer to take them into custody. My complete undoing came when we were urged to step up our ferocity, when we were called to control groups of marching Negro protestors. King Chester, the so-called alpha dog at the Birmingham canine corps, likewise descended from Hellhound, berated me for gentleness. He was always eager for blood on his muzzle and the opportunity to invest his essentials in the flank or backside of a troublemaker. He was vicious and had risen to prominence because he was ruthless. King Chester distinguished himself. He is famously depicted lunging and biting Walter Gadson, a student at Parker High School in Birmingham, Alabama. And he is captured ripping the clothes off Harry Shambry, another Birmingham man who was protesting the unfair treatment of black people in 1963. Photographs of King Chester with his essentials fully deployed appeared in newspapers and magazines worldwide. The New York Times, The New York Daily News, as well as, in The Clarion, Time Magazine, Life Magazine. The nation was horrified at the Birmingham police. But King Chester was a celebrity in some circles. I am seen in this photo, too, though not lunging and biting. I am sitting, watching. I can only say that I must have been pondering our actions, questioning our orders. And then the photograph of me being bussed and petted in the back of a police car by The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. surfaced. I assure you there were no kind words for me. My name became disparaged instantly. "Don't be a Mike," they warned the other dogs. Some solace came several months later when The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. answered his critics and clarified his intentions and his beliefs in "Letter From A Birmingham Jail," which was printed into pamphlets and distributed throughout Birmingham, the rest of the south, and in cities nationwide. My jailers grabbed a pile of mimeographed copies of the letter that they'd ripped from the hands of protestors, and they lined my cage with them. I was compelled to pee and shit upon these papers, upon the words of my friend, The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. But I read his words first, and I was buoyed by them. " . . . I am in Birmingham because injustice is here." I was stripped of my rank and pension after this picture became widely distributed. It was seen by some as a testament to The Reverend Dr.'s goodness, his likeness to Christ, and that my evil was thwarted by him. I was turned out by the sheriff's department to fend for myself. "Go down to niggertown," they said as I slunk away from the Birmingham canine jail. I foraged to get along. I was thrilled when the Reverend Dr. was named Time Magazine's Man of the Year. I moaned with abject grief when I learned of the bombing at The Sixteenth Street Baptist Church on September 15, 1963. I began to question the humanity of the people I had heretofore worked on behalf of. That the perpetrators were known to the police, that they felt they could act with impunity, that they snuffed out the lives of four girls, Addie Mae, Carol Denise, Cynthia, and Carole, that the aroma of the girls’ singed hair still wafted about when I approached the scene, was to me an abomination. Though noticeably thinner, I was still formidable. Onlookers parted and I was allowed to come close to the devastated church. I proceeded on my belly, moving along the ground, but I soon retreated. I do not want to reflect upon all that I smelled, all that was lost. By 1965 I had made my way to Selma, Alabama. I was on the Edmund Pettus Bridge far at the back of the marchers, behind the Great Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and his wife as the protestors began to march toward Montgomery. I was so sickened at the sight of King Alpha and the others with their teeth bared, with hellfire in their eyes, poised, willing, and able to tear the Reverend Dr. and all the other marchers for Freedom to shreds, that I peed and shat uncontrollably at the entrance to the bridge. I was unable to regain control of myself. I ran off in panic as the marchers were set upon viciously by the police and the dogs. How many of us have said that we knew our dear friend The Reverend Dr. would not live a long life? Yet I feel I can say that I did know even as far back as the day I first smelled him in the back of the police car. I have had a presentiment of his horrible death and I have mourned him well before he was shot. My heart felt like lead after April 4, 1968. Curious about the identity of the dog photographed with Dr. King in the back of the police car, Nicolas Von Hoffman, the heroic journalist for The Washington Post who was covering the Civil Rights Movement, sought me out and rescued me from grief and privation. He brought me to Washington, D.C. He wrote a delightful human and dog interest article about me and Dr. King. He wrote of how shabbily I was treated by the Birmingham Police Department and that I was, in fact, without a home. He gave me into the care of a Howard University student named Ifeoma, who works at The Post as a Dictaphone typist. Ifeoma had spoken up to say that her home would always be open to such a heroic dog. Ifeoma had been known as Edna Luise Clarke previously to the African awareness movements of the sixties and seventies. She changed her hairdo—she now wears a pretty Afro bush like Angela Davis—and her name in 1971 and is now known as Ifeoma L. Clarke. I have resided with my beloved Ifeoma for four years. I am occasionally intimate with a brindle bitch named Tammy and am known in activists' circles as Mike, the dog who befriended The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Breena Clarke and Jae Nichelle on March 29, 2026. “Dog Triptych” offers us an atypical perspective on key civil rights events. Can you speak to what led you to tell these stories through canine voices? Well, I am, first and foremost, a lover of dogs. The idea began as a joke. My husband and I joked that Sacajawea may have had a dog named Fluffy on her trip west with Lewis and Clark. From there, I imagined other historical events that may have had canine witnesses. I began to explore the fact that canines have accompanied most of the meaningful encounters in American History. And perhaps most importantly, canines have been active participants in historical events such as the enslavement of kidnapped African people and the subjugation of indigenous people. The most notable aspect of the special relationship between humans and canines is the eyes. They can return our gaze, look back at us with what seems to be understanding. We have had great success with training them to do our bidding. We’ve used them in many capacities. They’ve been hunters, trackers, assassins, guards, intimidators, and loving domestic companions. We are so self-referential and so eager to bridge the gap of understanding with these special creatures that we imagine they understand and respond to us. And if they have understanding – or seem to – then I can explore the idea that they also have a deeply meaningful perspective on what they’ve been made a part of. We look at them, and they look back. We see ourselves as another creature sees us. It’s powerful. We don’t have this relationship with any other animal. It’s about us humans wanting the communication and them wanting to please us. Also, many people find dogs fascinating. They are an easy hook for a story. We associate them with comfort and fun and with noble concepts of loyalty, bravery, childhood innocence, and the pleasures of tactile experience. The use of a dog as narrator is my idea of a good way to make my readers thirsty for the tale. In the first section, the dog Masie says, “I understood that I could not prevent them from carrying out their destruction. I could only witness.” Some people say that witnessing is the role of the writer. What is your relationship to ‘witnessing’ in your work? Does it feel like a foundational part of your job? Indeed, I do feel the role of witness is fundamental to the writer’s job. I think that, essentially, writing is a job. I chose to designate our profession as a “job” so that we don’t get distracted by higher, more lofty ideas about art. We writers are journeymen(journeypersons). Specifically, we look at and experience the world and make a record. We document. I suppose it began as a way not to forget an individual who’d died. This sets up the infrastructure of witness. This is fundamental to my work because I feel it’s necessary to put down an account that is different from the mainstream historical record, very specifically an African American perspective. I chose fictional accounts of historical facts because I enjoy imagining the lives of people who are underrecognized. I can give these people/characters everything that historical America wants to deny them. There’s a wealth of material in there. This feels very important to me, like my niche. Developing these stories feels like something I must do. Fiction is an important device for historical perspective since it lures the reader into the story by hooking their attention with a beguiling tale. I like to say: You can lead a horse to water, but you can’t make them drink. The fiction writer’s job is to make the reader thirsty. Then you don’t have to make them drink. Your newest book, Alive Nearby, further develops characters from your previous books. What was it like to dive back into these characters long after you first dreamed them up? Or had they never left you? I like that “dreamed up” phrase. That is how I feel it happens – dreams. It was fulfilling to return to those characters, and you are right to suggest that they are still with me. Alive Nearby allowed me to look at the residents of Russell’s Knob a bit differently and to expand their lives. I chose to use the epistolary novel format so that I could allow my protagonist to communicate across the life/death divide. There is also an element of this in my dog stories. I am trying to create a conduit for communication across an interspecies platform. Though I have not conducted much genealogical research of my own, I am fascinated by family interconnectedness. Exploring the lineages of the people of Russell’s Knob allows me to speak to the white supremacist idea that African Americans have little or no knowledge of their family. The cruel policies, covenants, traditions, and practices that kept African Americans from realizing potential and even remaining together in family communities are stunning in their persistence into the 21st century. What is surprising you most about your writing these days? That I am still doing it. I’ve recently celebrated my seventy-fifth birthday. The great thing for writers is that advancing age need not affect your ability to continue writing. And, I am happy to note, my maturing brain has layers of insight that were not available to me when I was younger. Now I’m more comfortable with what I can accomplish. I no longer feel the need to measure myself against other people. Longevity is a double-edged sword. I feel privileged to have survived and thrived for so long, but I mourn the passing of others. So, I suppose that recreating them in my mind and my fiction gives them flesh again and gives me comfort. I also feel an imperative to record twists and turns of language and customs that might pass away if not embedded in a novel or story. My sister, Cheryl Clarke, my play-sister, Esther Cohen, and I are contributing to and editing an upcoming anthology of writing by Crones, i.e. women writers over the age of sixty-five. This anthology will contain great work by some wonderful writers. Our work will include witnessing, as well as imagining. You have a very beautiful blog. In it, you mention that you learned to swim at age 49, and it became very important to you. What do you enjoy most about being in water? My first novel, River, Cross My Heart, is my mother’s coming-of-age story. She was a girl who learned to swim as a child when many young African Americans did not. Segregation kept most Black people out of municipal pools. My mother was taught by Charles R. Drew, who was the first African American administrator of a public pool in Washington, D.C. He was, as you know, an outstanding physician who went on to do pioneering work in the development of blood plasma. When I was a young girl, we were discouraged (by my mother) from pursuing swimming because we pressed our hair. Straight hair was mandatory for African American girls in that era. I came of age when Angela Davis famously wore an Afro, so I went natural when I got to Howard University. After writing River, Cross My Heart, I was asked to do a series of talks on the importance of learning to swim for city high schoolers. As compensation, I was given one-on-one swimming lessons at Asphalt Green in New York City. It was a transformative experience. I learned different things about my body: that I am strong, that I can see without my glasses, that floating is easy and sublime, that body size and definition are immaterial in the water, and that my body can accomplish things my mind thinks are not possible. I also learned that much of what I’d written about the experience of swimming was accurate. Since learning to swim, I’ve ruminated about my writing in my neighborhood, municipal pool, and I’ve become part of a community of women who attend a twice-weekly aqua aerobics class. In a 2016 interview, you said that one thing that helps you as a historical fiction writer is “the realization that even verifiable facts are open to interpretation, that many historical accounts are fiction-fied.” When did this realization first hit you? As I undertook research for my novel, Stand The Storm, which is set in Civil War-era Washington, D.C., I quickly saw there was a paucity of accounts by African Americans, and even fewer from African American women. As I read, I began to realize that historical accounts were, by and large, a matter of perspective. If you’re the man atop the horse viewing the rest of humanity from a lofty position, then you will see what is available from your perspective. If you are trudging down a row with your head focused on the ground in front of you, you will see things differently. Generally, the person at the top of the hierarchy gets to call the shots. “The higher the monkey climbs, though, the more he shows his behind.” When the downtrodden get a view and a voice, they very often expose a lot that has been hidden heretofore. What is one of the most memorable moments you’ve experienced at the Hobart Festival of Women Writers, a festival you’ve co-run since 2013? We’ve had many outstanding and important writers at the Festival since 2013. And I’m proud to say, we’re the only women’s writers’ festival east of the Mississippi. The most memorable Festival would have to be our first year. We’d conceived the idea of inviting women we knew and/or had become aware of who’d published work and who, we felt, were underrecognized. We invited them, but weren’t sure they’d really make it. They did, and they were fabulous. The most exciting aspect was the camaraderie. Several collaborations have emerged, as well as lifelong friendships. How can people support you right now? They can support the Hobart Festival of Women Writers at our GoFundMe campaign. The administration of HFWW is an all-volunteer operation. However, we’ve always offered a modest honorarium to all participating writers at the Festival. This means a lot to us because women writers don’t always get the support they deserve. I’d be thrilled to welcome new subscribers to my Substack blog at https://breenaclarke.substack.com/ Check out my books at http://www.breenaclarke.com/ Name another Black woman writer people should know. It is difficult to choose one. I will suggest two names: Alexis DeVeaux, novelist, poet, playwright, essayist, and thinker. Hers is truly innovative work. Check out her most recent novel, “Yabo.” Also, I name Cheryl Clarke, poet, essayist, teacher, and activist writer. Cheryl is my sister, and I have been nurtured and educated by her since always. She has been the most important influence on my life and writing. And she’s a hellified and well-recognized poet. ### Torch Literary Arts is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Click here to support Torch Literary Arts.

Latest News Jun 1, 2026 June is a Celebratory Time for Black Women Writers This June, we’re celebrating queerness, Black Texans, Caribbean heritage, and lyricists who bring their magic and impact to the Torch community. Read More Apr 29, 2026 Torch Announces First Ever Nominations for Best New Poets Anthology Two Torch Features, Tiezst "Tie" Taylor and Mecca M. Miles, are Torch’s inaugural nominees for their outstanding poems. Read More Apr 2, 2026 Celebrating 20 Years of Highlighting Black Women in Poetry Torch is elated to celebrate National Poetry Month and the Black women poets in our community. Read More Mar 31, 2026 Torch Literary Arts Announces New Board Member Dalia Azim joins the Torch board, bringing her expertise in literary programming and partnerships in the Austin literary community. Read More Mar 12, 2026 Torch Literary Arts to Open Registration for “A Gathering of Flames: Celebrating 20 Years of Torch Literary Arts” on March 16th The inaugural gala and conference will feature Rachel Eliza Griffiths, Sharon Bridgforth, Patricia Smith, and Crystal Wilkinson from September 25-27, 2026, in Austin, Texas. Read More Mar 6, 2026 Celebrating Women and a Sustainable Future with Torch This year’s Women’s History Month Theme urges us to celebrate women who are taking charge in regard to sustainability, and this International Women’s Day urges us to give to gain. Read More Mar 3, 2026 Torch Returns to the 2026 AWP Conference in Baltimore For four days, Torch will join other writing organizations, writers, publishers, students, and more at the largest literary conference in the country. Read More Feb 27, 2026 Torch Literary Arts Welcomes New Team Member Torch adds a new position, Administrative Associate, to help with daily operations and support the needs of Torch Center. Read More Feb 5, 2026 Austin Film Society Joins Torch Literary Arts as New Community Partners The two organizations will amplify a series of film screenings showcasing Black women screenwriters, directors, and films that reflect Black culture. Read More Feb 1, 2026 Celebrating the Milestones of Community and History through Literary Greatness and Storytelling this Black History Month This year’s Black History Month theme, “A Century of Black History Commemorations,” urges us to acknowledge the historical impact of Black narratives. Read More Jan 29, 2026 Kicking Off 20 Years with the Spring 2026 Season Torch’s Spring 2026 Season builds on the history we've made in our 20 years of strengthening the literary community of Black women writers. Read More Jan 29, 2026 Important Transitions to Torch's Board of Directors This board transition includes the retirement of former board treasurer, Candace Lopez, election of new board treasurer, Dana Weekes, and the election of new board secretary, Rachel Winston. Read More Jan 28, 2026 Torch to Raise $10,000 during one of Austin’s Largest Giving Days Torch joins over 700 nonprofits during Amplify Austin to raise funds for Black women writers. Read More Jan 2, 2026 Celebrating a New Year with a Growing Community Taking the time to thank you all for your support in 2025 and share exciting news for 2026. Read More Dec 29, 2025 Ending the Year Strong with Community Impact and Growth Taking time to thank you all for your support in 2025 and share plans to end the year strong. Read More Dec 9, 2025 A Big Thank You to Our Major Funders In 2025, seven major funders supported Torch’s mission to amplify Black women writers. Read More Dec 5, 2025 Torch Raises $5,593 for 2025 GivingTuesday Campaign Joining one of the largest international giving days, Torch raised $5,593. Read More Dec 1, 2025 Torch Announces the 2025 Nominations for the Pushcart Prize Six Torch Features, Jordan E. Franklin, Joi' C Weathers, Imani Nikelle, Yolanda Kwadey, Jennifer Maritza McCauley, and Marchaé Grair are nominated for their respective works. Read More Nov 19, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Celebrates GivingTuesday with a Board Match, Supporter Toolkit, Giveaway, and More. Torch is joining millions around the world participating in the global generosity movement on December 2, 2025. Read More Nov 5, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Returns as a Partnering Organization for the 2025 Texas Book Festival Over two days, Torch will host poets Tiana Clark and Donika Kelly in Austin for a series of inspiring readings and conversations. Read More Oct 22, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Announces Transitions to 2025 Board of Directors This board transition includes the retirement of former board secretary, Stephanie Lang, and the election of new board member, Rachel Winston Read More Oct 15, 2025 Torch Announces the 2025 Nominations for the O. Henry Prize Two Torch Features, Jennifer Coley and Jessica Araújo, are nominated for their respective short fiction stories. Read More Oct 9, 2025 Celebrating the Second Annual Donor-Advised Funds Day Torch Literary Arts encourages families and individuals with donor-advised funds to consider supporting Black women writers and the programs we offer. Read More Sep 16, 2025 Torch Announces the Nominations for the Best of the Net Eleven Torch Features were nominated for their works in creative nonfiction, fiction, poetry, and visual art in Torch Magazine. Read More Sep 2, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Announces the Torch Center Coming Fall 2025 The local Austin nonprofit organization dedicated to building community for Black women writers will now have a physical location at the LINC of Austin. Read More Aug 28, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Releases Fall 2025 Season Torch’s Fall 2025 Season includes dynamic readings, a screenwriting conversation, book festivals, workshops, and more! Read More Aug 20, 2025 Torch Announces 2026 Dates for 20th Anniversary Celebration “A Gathering of Flames” will take place in Austin, Texas, from September 25 to 27, 2026, celebrating Black women writers and 20 years of Torch’s growing community. Read More Aug 1, 2025 Celebrating Torch and Black Philanthropy Month All August Long Torch is celebrating 19 years of community and impact with CIM goals, new updates, and more! Read More Jun 5, 2025 Celebrating the Intersectionalities of Black Women Writers June is a month full of pride for queer, Caribbean, and song-filled Black women writers and the readers who love them. Read More May 28, 2025 Torch Announces New Community Impact Member Donation Initiative The Community Impact Membership (CIM) program provides Torch’s monthly donors of at least $10 and annual donors of at least $100 with exclusive items and updates. Read More Apr 24, 2025 Torch Announces the 2025 Retreat Fellows Torch returns for a third consecutive year to host eight fellows at their annual retreat for Black women writers at the Colton House in Austin, Texas, from July 20-27, 2025. Read More Apr 1, 2025 Celebrating Black Women's Contributions to Poetry All Month Long Continuing on months of celebrating Black History Month and Women’s History Month, we’re keeping the acknowledgments alive with National Poetry Month Read More Mar 27, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Awarded AWP Writing Organization Award This is the first-ever Writing Organization Award by the Association of Writers & Writing Programs, which is awarded to literary organizations based on the legacy of writing organization advocate Kurt Brown. Read More Mar 17, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Recognized at the Ireland House During SXSW with Prime Minister of Ireland Micheál Martin Torch’s “Writers Across the Diaspora” program in partnership with the Irish Consulate, Culture Ireland, and Texas State University was highlighted. Read More Mar 11, 2025 Celebrating Women’s History Month and International Women’s Day This year’s themes of moving forward together and accelerating change reinforce Torch’s mission to ALWAYS support Black women writers and the stories they share. Read More Mar 7, 2025 Torch Raises over $6,000 during Amplify Austin Campaign Joining over 700 nonprofits for one of the largest giving days in Central Texas, Torch raised over $6,000 to amplify Black women writers worldwide. Read More Feb 10, 2025 Help Torch Raise $10,000 during Amplify Austin’s 2025 Giving Campaign! For the third year in a row, Torch is participating in Austin’s metro-wide giving day to merge the Black women literary community with the wider Austin giving community. Read More Feb 10, 2025 Wintergreen Women Writers Collective and Torch Literary Arts Partner to Host Welcome Table Talks Series featuring Black Women Writers The two literary organizations dedicated to creating community for Black women writers will host a series of talks over the next three years thanks to funding from the Mellon Foundation. Read More Jan 31, 2025 Celebrating Black History Month by Acknowledging Black Women Writers and Their Contributions to Literature Torch is using this year’s Black History Month theme “African Americans and Labor” to highlight the literary work we do to share our voices. Read More Jan 24, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Announces 2025 Spring Season Torch’s 2025 Spring Season is full of community collaborations, readings, writing workshops, and more to empower and encourage Black women to continue telling their stories. Read More Jan 10, 2025 Torch Literary Arts to Open Applications for the 2025 Torch Retreat on February 3rd The Torch Retreat will host its third annual writing retreat for Black women writers at the Colton House in Austin, Texas from July 20-27, 2025. Read More Jan 3, 2025 City of Austin Cultural Arts Division Awards Torch Literary Arts the Thrive Grant along with Other Cultural Arts Organizations in Austin The Cultural Arts Division awarded $13 million in funds to local arts and cultural organizations for a second year with Thrive and Elevate grants. Read More Jan 3, 2025 Torch Literary Arts Announces Retirement of Board Member Dr. Omi Osun Joni L. Jones Dr. Omi Osun Joni L. Jones joined the board in 2023 bringing her expertise as an artist, performer, author, and scholar to help support Black women writers. Read More Jan 3, 2025 Welcoming the New Year with Love and Community Taking the time to thank you all for your support in 2024 and share exciting news for 2025 Read More Dec 12, 2024 'Tis the Season for Gifts & Giving Find out how to support Torch and our community sponsors and supporters this holiday season! Read More Dec 4, 2024 Torch Surpasses Fundraising Goal for 2024 GivingTuesday Campaign Joining one of the largest international giving days, Torch surpassed its fundraising goal of $5,000. Read More Nov 22, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Celebrates GivingTuesday with Community and Board Matches, Ignite the Night, and More. Torch is joining millions around the world participating in the global generosity movement on December 3, 2024. Read More Nov 22, 2024 Torch Announces the Nominations for the Pushcart Prize Six Torch Features, Erica Frederick, A. E. Wynter, Sydney Mayes, Chidima Anekwe, Chyann Hector, and Mon Misir, are nominated for their respective works. Read More Nov 15, 2024 Torch Executive Director and Features Named as Brooks Living Legacy Honorees 20 Torch community members were named Living Legacy Honorees Read More Nov 1, 2024 Torch Literary Arts to Celebrate and Amplify Black Women Writers During the 2024 Texas Book Festival Over two days, Torch will host poet, essayist, and novelist Morgan Parker and Los Angeles Poet Laureate Lynne Thompson, and embark on a literary book crawl showcasing the works of the organization’s previous features. Read More Oct 18, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Welcomes New Team Members Thanks to capacity-building funding, Torch adds a Creative Content Associate and Administrative Fellow to the Team. Read More Oct 7, 2024 Celebrating National Book Month with Torch Literary Arts This October, Torch is celebrating National Book Month with Torch Day, an inaugural international program, and much more! Read More Sep 6, 2024 Torch Announces the Nominations for the Best of the Net Nine Torch Features were nominated for their works in creative nonfiction, fiction, poetry, and visual art in Torch Magazine. Read More Sep 5, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Receives National Book Foundation Grant The National Book Foundation awarded Torch funding from the Capacity-Building Grant Program. Read More Aug 30, 2024 Torch Announces the Nominations for the O. Henry Prize Two Torch Features, Felicia A. Rivers and Lydia Mathis, are nominated for their respective short fiction stories. Read More Aug 29, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Releases 2024 Fall Season Torch’s 2024 Fall Season includes international poets, a screenwriting panel, workshops on character building and memoirs, the Wildfire Reading Series, and more! Read More Aug 2, 2024 Celebrate Torch’s 18th Birthday & Our Mission to Amplify Black Women Writers Our wish this August is to gain 18 new monthly recurring Torch supporters & more! Find out how to celebrate our birthday with events, well wishes, and donations. Read More Jul 19, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Welcomes Erin Waelder to the Board of Directors Erin was welcomed to the board in June, bringing her extensive background in development communications. Read More Jul 12, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Receives Poetry Foundation Grant Torch Literary Arts (Torch), a nonprofit organization dedicated to amplifying Black women writers, will receive funding from the Poetry Foundation. This is the nonprofit’s second year receiving funding from the foundation. Read More Jun 28, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Receives Burdine Johnson Foundation Grant This is Torch's third year receiving the grant that serves Central Texas arts, education, historical preservation, and environmental sustainability causes. Read More Jun 5, 2024 Celebrate Pride Month by Amplifying Queer Black Voices At Torch, we recognize the many impactful contributions that queer Black women writers have given us and wish a Happy Pride to all those celebrating! Read More May 31, 2024 Torch Feature Yael Valencia Aldana Receives Pushcart Prize For the second year in a row, a Torch Feature has received a Pushcart Prize for their amazing work published in Torch Magazine. Read More May 24, 2024 Torch Literary Arts to Receive Grants for Arts Allocation from the National Endowment for the Arts This is Torch's second year receiving funding from National Endowment for the Arts. Funding will go towards artist honorariums for retreats, workshops, panels, and readings. Read More Apr 12, 2024 Torch Announces the 2024 Retreat Fellows Eight fellows were selected to attend the second annual retreat for Black women writers at the Colton House in Austin, Texas from July 21-28, 2024. Read More Apr 11, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Welcomes Dana Weekes to Board of Directors Dana Weekes was welcomed to the board in March, bringing her extensive background in law and policy, and commitment to creation as self-care. Read More Apr 5, 2024 Celebrating National Poetry Month with an Ode to Poets Every April, Torch is elated to celebrate the Black women who put words to feelings by celebrating National Poetry Month Read More Mar 22, 2024 Website Updates: New Transparency Documents, Including Three-Year Strategic Plan Torch Literary Arts updates website to include transparency documents including IRS Form 990s, Annual Reports, and the 2024-2026 Strategic Plan. Read More Mar 8, 2024 Celebrating Women’s History Month and International Women’s Day Torch Literary Arts acknowledges and celebrates the many literary contributions of women to history and the wonderful Black women writers across the diaspora. Read More Feb 16, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Opens Applications for the 2024 Torch Retreat The Torch Retreat will host its second annual writing retreat for Black women writers at the Colton House in Austin, Texas from July 21-28, 2024. Read More Feb 9, 2024 Celebrating Black History & Futures 24/7, 366 days This Black History Month, Torch acknowledges the importance of amplifying Black women writers year-round. Read More Jan 30, 2024 Austin Community Foundation Announces Torch Literary Arts as one of The Black Fund Grant Partners The Black Fund’s recognition of Torch Literary Arts as a grant partner allows Torch to continue hosting special events for Black women writers in the Austin community. Read More Jan 26, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Unveils 2024 Spring Season Torch’s 2024 Spring Season is full of workshops, panels, an interactive literary cooking event, and much more to help Black women writers share their unique stories. Read More Jan 16, 2024 Torch Literary Arts Announces Transitions to 2024 Board of Directors This year’s board transition includes the retirement of former board chair, Florinda Bryant, and elections of new board chair, Dr. Sequoia Maner, new secretary, Stephanie Lang, and new board member, Shannon Johnson Read More Jan 9, 2024 Culture Ireland Awards Torch Literary Arts Funding to Host Irish Poets Torch will use the Culture Ireland funding to host Irish poets Nithy Kasa and FELISPEAKS for interactive writing workshops from October 1-7, 2024. Read More

The Team Amanda Johnston Founder / Executive Director Read More Sierra Lewis Administrative Associate Read More Dana Weekes Board Treasurer Read More Dalia Azim Board Member Read More Jen Margulies Advisory Board Member Read More Brittany Heckard Communications Associate Read More Dr. Sequoia Maner Board Chair Read More Shannon Johnson Board Member Read More Hallie S. Hobson Advisory Board Member Read More Sheree L. Ross Advisory Board Member Read More Jae Nichelle Associate Editor Read More Rachel E. Winston Board Secretary Read More Erin Waelder Board Member Read More Raina Fields Advisory Board Member Read More Parneshia Jones Advisory Board Member Read More

< Back Wintergreen Women Writers Collective and Torch Literary Arts Partner to Host Welcome Table Talks Series featuring Black Women Writers Feb 10, 2025 The two literary organizations dedicated to creating community for Black women writers will host a series of talks over the next three years thanks to funding from the Mellon Foundation. Wintergreen Women Writers Collective (Wintergreen) and Torch Literary Arts (Torch) are embarking on an intergenerational three-year project for Black women writers called Welcome Table Talks. The virtual discussions will cover various topics related to organization building, literary freedom, legacy, and more. The virtual discussions are free and open to all. The first Welcome Table Talks event will be held on Tuesday, March 11, at 7 p.m. EST. Executive directors from both literary organizations will discuss the journey of building their respective institutions and the changing needs of leadership. Whether you’re a grassroots organizer or starting a nonprofit, this inaugural talk is perfect for self-starters looking for insight. You can RSVP to the first discussion here . “ Wintergreen has been providing a sacred space for women writers since 1987 when I invited Nikki Giovanni to meet other Black women writers in Virginia. In what was still an unwelcoming academic atmosphere, we came together to affirm the vibrancy of Black literary culture and our vital place in it, ” said Dr. Joanne Gabbin, executive director of Wintergreen. In 1987, renowned author and activist Nikki Giovanni moved to Virginia as a Commonwealth Visiting Professor at Virginia Tech. In her honor, Dr Joanne Gabbin organized a small gathering of Black women writers at Wintergreen Resort. What began that day as a simple celebration of sisterhood and life blossomed into something much more. Now, almost four decades later, the Wintergreen Women Writers Collective offers workshops, retreats, and opportunities for Black women writers to connect, hone their craft, and gain exposure. By doing this, the Collective sustains a literary sisterhood focused on "Sacred Work"—creating in a safe, welcoming space that centers the encouragement and support of Black writing and culture, by nurturing each of the women as writers, scholars, and artists. At this literary site, members have workshopped and critiqued each other's work, offering guidance not only on pedagogy but even on publishing, promoting, and naming books. Annual retreats have served as nourishing spaces for seeds of ideas that resulted in programs, conferences, centers, and organizations. The Collective's range of public and private work has produced a supportive environment for the formation of mission-aligned institutions and organizations like Furious Flower, History of Black Writing, and Cave Canem. The Collective provides a haven for generational perspectives where emerging writers learn from senior writers and in turn spark new ideas. It is a place where the women go to heal, transform, and renew themselves. It provides a way to support systemic change in our communities while bringing about personal transformation. This work contributes to the Mellon-funded implementation project by Wintergreen entitled “The Women Gather.” One area of key development the funding supports is building strategic partnerships with mission-aligned organizations like Torch. “I’m excited to witness the magic this event produces,” said Amanda Johnston, founder and executive director of Torch Literary Arts. “When we provide space to learn from each other while simultaneously encouraging emerging writers and future leaders, we are creating invaluable resources and inspiring unimaginable work.” You can find out more about Wintergreen by visiting their website at wintergreenwomenwriterscollective.com , and more about their pilot partnership, Torch, at torchliteraryarts.org . ### About Wintergreen Writers Collective The Wintergreen Women Writers Collective is a 501(c)3 organization that gathers Black women writers in a literary community that seeks to publish, document, preserve, and celebrate their creative work. More than 70 women from all over the country have taken part in one or more of the Wintergreen retreats or programs over the last 38 years, coming to a place where they can do the sacred work of literary and cultural production. Wintergreen Women are prefiguring a world where the history and legacy of Black women writers are honored and preserved — a world where Black women writers have access to intergenerational spaces where, in community and mutuality, they can nurture one another and locate resources to support their creative practice. Members of the Collective share their knowledge and creativity as a way of encouraging and engaging one another and their extended literary and scholarly communities. About Torch Literary Arts Torch Literary Arts is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established with love and intention in 2006 to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. Torch Magazine has featured work by Toi Derricotte, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Media Contact Information: Brittany Heckard Communications Associate bheckard@torchliteraryarts.org (512) 641-9251 Previous Next