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Idza Luhumyo was born in Mombasa, Kenya. She studied law at the University of Nairobi, earned an MA in Comparative Literature at SOAS--University of London, and an MFA in Creative Writing from Texas State University.  Her writing has appeared in various publications, including Transition Magazine ,  African Arguments , the  Masters Review , and the  Porter House Review . Her short story, "Five Years Next Sunday," was awarded the 2021 Short Story Day Africa Prize and the 2022 Caine Prize for African Writing. Other awards include the Margaret Busby New Daughters of Africa Award and the Civitella Ranieri Writing Fellowship. She currently lives and works in Austin, TX. But That's a Long, Long Time Ago There's something calming about being stuck in an international airport, for hours, watching the world go by as you remain still, waiting to hear a voice call out your flight number. You're at peace, serene even, in spite of the uncomfortable seats on which you can only sleep in fits and starts. In spite of the dubious Wi-Fi that you know you shouldn't trust but to which you connect anyway. In spite of the fact that anytime you have to use the bathroom, you have to work out the complicated math of lining the toilet seat with tissue paper and then arranging yourself over it as you try to hold on to your carry-on luggage. You are on your way to a short story festival in Cork, the second-largest city in Ireland. You set out from San Marcos—the small, charming city in Central Texas that houses the Creative Writing program in which you are enrolled. You are taking this trip because, in a lucky sequence of events, which you suppose is how these things tend to go, a short story you wrote many years ago won a major prize. The journey to Cork is long, and it has been a long time coming. During the visa application process, you had to teach yourself how to trust American couriers with your passport and not think of the many ways everything could go very wrong. Once, things do in fact go wrong: when your passport with the visa stamp is returned, someone in the leasing office makes a mistake. Yes, it was delivered to the office, they say to you. But for the life of them, they cannot remember to what apartment they sent it. There is a moment there where you forget how to breathe. The person you are speaking to is chirpy and casual, typing away on the keyboard as she tells you, coolly, that your passport—this bright blue booklet of a document without which you cannot travel, or prove your right to be in the USA—is lost. Would you like to give it a day or so, she asks, see whether anything comes up? She is a sweetheart, really, the person saying these things to you, probably a Zoomer if her 90s-inspired outfit is anything to go by. She is the company's newest employee, one of those people who have a frantic aura about them: always rushing about, chewing fast, typing fast, talking fast, as if they had come to the world late, and were trying to play catch-up. Usually, when you come to the leasing office for your packages, you find her excitability charming, endearing. But as she finally looks away from her computer and tells you to go to your apartment and wait for your passport to magically appear, you pity her for the wrath you’re about to unleash. You tell her, in the quietest voice you can manage, that you will do no such thing. The clipped tone works: in less than an hour, your passport is found. # Cork is exactly how you expected an Irish city to be from the Irish novels you've previously devoured. Even though you've come to appreciate how big cities give you an anonymity that you disappear into, you're a small-town girl and find yourself charmed by how this rustic city seems to close in on itself, as if its buildings are huddling towards each other, keeping each other warm. Back home, in the artist circles in which you ran in your twenties, Ireland has always been looked on kindly because it shares with Kenya a brutal British colonial history. Your hosts are kind. Everything goes as planned: the taxi picking you from the airport; the drive through the rustic route to the hotel; the warm reception the next morning. At first, the restrained demeanour of the festival organizers is an adjustment: in the past year or so that you've been in America, you've gotten used to a certain fussiness, an outward friendliness that seems obligatory. But here, the pleasantness is at a remove, and people are more than happy to ease into silence when they run out of things to say. It is glorious. Maybe this is why you trust it. And even when the weather drops to single digits and you realize you didn't carry enough warm clothes, something inside of you thaws. # On the day of your reading, you stand in front of Irish writers and literary enthusiasts and read a story that pulls no punches in its critique of people who look like them. After your reading, there is applause. The sound of this prolonged applause will return to your mind when, months after the Cork trip, when back home in Nairobi for the Christmas break, someone at a literary gathering will remark that the African stories most likely to win literary prizes are those that criticize the very people who award them. But on that day, after you read your story, an elderly white woman walks up to you outside the auditorium and wraps you in a hug. You catch a whiff of Chanel No. 5 you usually scoff at, but which you start to like from then on. She calls you brave. Clutching your scarves and jackets, you walk down a cobbled path, and she tells you, a little haltingly, that she is a librarian and that she, too, is thinking of publishing some things she's jotted down throughout the years. She tells you that your bravery has inspired her to return to her writing. You hear yourself trotting out the writing advice you've heard throughout the years and which you, yourself, could use. You wonder what business you have offering writing advice to someone who's more than double your age and who, all her life, has worked with, and around, books. When you tell her you will be flying out in a couple of days, it is with a disappointed look that she bids you goodbye, but not before she points out, with barely-concealed urgency, the bookshops and coffee shops to visit before you leave. When you mention record shops, she points one out. Unbeknownst to her, the owner of the record shop is married to a Kenyan woman, and when you go down the stairs and tumble into this underground haven of sonic delight, you spend a lovely hour going on and on about 80s African music with someone whose enthusiasm belies the fact that he has never visited the continent. # Now that your reading is done, you allow yourself to have fun. You wonder if it's because your accent doesn't stand out as much, and that you spend as much time deciphering the Irish brogue as other writers try to understand your Kenyan English. You all have choice words about the British Empire, imperialism, the war in Ukraine. You redeem your drink tokens alongside the other writers and sit around a table and talk. In a corner of the room, a folk musician sits with a guitar, scoring the night with sparse chords about loneliness, lost love. You feel right at home in this famous brand of Irish sentimentality. A few writers sit away from the laughing group and brood. They sip and close their eyes. It's cold outside, but you're all sweating, taking off scarves and jackets and sweaters the more you laugh. You talk about writing rituals, Prince Charles III, Sally Rooney, Northern Ireland, Derry Girls, Trinity College, and, briefly, HBO's Succession when one of the writers is delighted you know how to pronounce Siobhan. You have your very first crush on a white man. Of course, he had to be Irish, your friend replies with a laughing emoji when you text her. # During mealtimes at the hotel, you’ve taken to looking for the tables that are tucked far away. You want to look at your phone and scroll away in chatter-free bliss. Some of the other writers, bless them, seem to notice and keep away, nodding and smiling every time your eyes meet. One morning at breakfast, you realize you've not spotted any other black person at the hotel. You feel guilty for only noticing this on the last day. But the guilt gives way to something like relief. Yes, you're the only black person at the hotel. Yes, you're the only black person at the festival. But contrary to how you often feel in America, you don't have the sensation of sticking out, you don't feel that a simple conversation will out you for being a different sort of black person altogether. # On the last day of the festival, after the first session of readings, you rush back to the hotel to grab dinner. The dining room is sparsely occupied, and most of the diners are elderly. The paneled walls and the perfectly set tables bring to mind a British pomposity that makes you smile. The time difference between Cork and Nairobi is only two hours. This makes it easier to keep up with Kenyan Twitter and Instagram in real time compared to when you're in America. You haven't been on social media all day. The idea is to find a table where you can scroll away in quiet bliss. You find one at the far end. You sit with your back to the room. The table has used utensils from the previous diners. On the top-right corner of the room, a TV shows a football game. Directly under the TV, a table with an elderly couple, sipping what appears to be the last of their drinks. You keep your head down, waiting for the maître d' to greet you and take your order. You've been lost in your phone for a while when you feel a shift in the air. You look over to the couple on your right. They keep sending looks towards you, and you keep looking back surreptitiously. At one point, you and the woman look at each other at the same time and send each other a smile. You are reassured. You return to your phone. Someone on your Instagram stories is giving a blow-by-blow account of a developing story about a Kenyan socialite. You're chuckling, you’re ignoring emails, you’re waiting to get dinner. After the reading, you hope you and the other writers will sample a little of the Cork nightlife. You even look forward to stealing a few moments with your crush. Your attention is drawn to your right again. Now, there are three: one of the waitresses has joined them. They are all facing your table. The waitress nods as the woman talks. On the older woman's face is a look you've seen often on your own mother's when she's giving someone a good scolding. You take out your earphones. The young woman—she couldn't be a day older than eighteen years—walks over to you, her cheeks flushed. You look over to the couple and they are shaking their heads, frowning. "Just unacceptable," the man says, still shaking his head. His voice attracts the attention of the other diners, and now looks are being directed towards you. The young woman, now appearing even younger than you'd thought her to be, starts to clear your table. You can feel the other diners' eyes. She is apologizing. Her eyes are watery. You feel a lump growing in your throat. You pinch the underside of your right arm, an old trick pilfered from a TV show, to forestall the tears you feel coming. You're not sure who you resent more: the restaurant staff who took too long to clear your table and get your order, or the elderly couple who pointed out the slight and turned you into a thing to be pitied. The waitress apologizes again. "Hey, it's okay," you hear yourself say. She nods rapidly, a smile on her face. Then, once she's stacked the utensils on her arms, she asks in a chirpy voice: "Did one of us seat you here?" The shift from the teary eyes to chirpiness is remarkable. "No," you say to her, haltingly. "I just came and sat here."  "I'm really sorry, I didn't see you, you had your back turned..." You tell her it's completely okay. That you only sat there because you wanted some privacy. It turns out you'd been waiting for half an hour. She takes your order. Your drink comes soon after she leaves. And then a couple of minutes after that, another server rushes to you with your plate of salmon, mashed potatoes, and a few celery sticks. You avoid looking at the couple on your right. You down the drink and then tackle the fish. The server returns to ask how you're finding the meal. You have about twenty minutes before the reading, so you ask for a cocktail. As you wait, the couple gets up. They walk to your table. "You had been waiting for too long on a dirty table," the woman says, as if you had only just come to the scene yourself. "We just couldn't sit there and watch that happen to you." You nod and smile, wishing that you had your cocktail already. Then the man, in a quiet conversational tone, tells you that they are English tourists. That he had long known of his Irish ancestry and that they were finally taking this trip to see some of his ancestors' burial grounds. This moves you. You feel bad about being previously annoyed. "And where are you from?" the woman asks you.  "Kenya,” you say. "Oh," she exclaims, clutching her husband's arm. She starts to laugh. "She grew up in Kenya," the man explains, chuckling.  The woman shakes her head slowly, as if she can’t believe the sheer coincidence of it all. "But that's before we got married," the man continues, taking on the role of his wife's interpreter. "She's still got some family there. Her father was sent there as an administrator with the British government. The 40s, it may have been? But that's a long, long time ago, I'm sure you were not born." "Oh no," you say, chuckling. "Kenya wasn't even a country then." He's laughing. You're laughing. You're all laughing. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the waitress from before, going to the kitchen with a stack of plates on her arm. You get up from the table. You've decided to give up on the cocktail. In a single file, the three of you walk to the cashier. And there you all stand, waiting to settle your bills. ### 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.

Nina Oteria is a poet, artist, and former educator from Raleigh, North Carolina. Her poetry has been published in Southern Cultures , Apogee ,  Scalawag Magazine , and elsewhere. She performs in Durham, Raleigh, and Chapel Hill based poetry reading series'. Nina was a featured performer at NC State’s Gregg Museum of Art and Design. She is one of the founding poets of the Corcoran Poetry Wall mural installation in Durham, NC. Nina uses poetry and art as a means to heal herself and her community, upholding the Black storytelling tradition. Nina’s co-written manuscript, A Matter of Radical Pushback: Political TheoPoetics of the Black Imagination , is forthcoming from Wipf and Stock Publishers. Nina’s chapters in this manuscript illuminate the importance of “slow theology” for Black artists and teachers, combining poetry, academic writing, and theology, and describing artmaking as a spiritual practice. Nina holds an MFA in Writing from Pratt Institute and a BA in Religious Studies from Wake Forest University. Nina facilitates Sweetgum Workshop, a healing and creative arts ministry. She is a former English and Creative Writing teacher at Raleigh Charter High School. Numerical “We’re spending life loving it exclusively because we couldn’t change the world.” Etel Adnan sea and fog 6. A car is a function of capitalism. We must move faster so that numbers may circulate. Money isn’t real, it's a flow of characters on screens. But if you ignore the numbers, the police will soon show up at your door. 2. The blue evening touches me on Sunday. I’m thinking about blue things before I get in my car tomorrow and ride as fast as a certain number to get to my desk at another number then pay close attention to the numbers on the small, inaccurate moon bound to my right wrist. (I put away the number screen because it makes me dizzy.) 5. I ask God about time. God points to the moon, to the sunrise and 300 starlings snatching my frosty breath from my throat as they fly. I ask God about time and God says my veins are blue. God won’t tell me how many veins I have, even though I ask. Numbers are most important to everyone except God. 3. You can’t have any food or medicine unless you first pledge allegiance to imaginary numbers. I wanted to have imaginary friends when I was younger; I kept forgetting to imagine them. I was given a blue betta fish instead. I took care of his small body. My Dad kept his tank clean and he lived long for someone completely alone and in captivity. When he died I was jumping rope. 1. Sunday morning I woke up to a minor tornado. Recently I dreamed of a cheetah and my childhood cheetah print backpack, never tempted to count the spots. In the tornado I felt irritated at a man and I thought it was true. I realized I was just tired. My body fluctuates within the month’s numbers, the month’s numbers which stay the same. In the dream the cheetah looked at me intently, not skittish, as if it wanted to tell me something. Throughout the day I wonder what numbers are on the screens when I can’t see them. 8. I ask my body for information on what is happening around me apart from my senses. My body says, “What’s the point? All you listen to is numbers. You’re my imaginary friend. You’re my pet rock.” I don’t know how to respond to that so I check the time, the number in the blue dusk. 3 more hours till I pull the plug on my body’s ruminations. I can’t understand most of her poetry. 9. I ask God about poetry and God says veins, the ocean, the dirt (meaning earth). The blue evening of the world’s very first day. In prayer I am under all those layers. Numbers come apart at their angles like chairs with broken legs. God winks and I start to laugh uncontrollably. When I open my eyes I see my 1st gray hair in the mirror. Numbers are distracting. I walk towards the car so that I may begin to circulate like change. It takes focus to see what’s real in this rain. 4. The academy whipped me up into a frenzy of negativity, a cloud of numbers, a hailstorm of signifiers used to make the same general proposition. Now I am moving from blue’s opposite into blue. My veins decrease/increase their circulation. I am in no hurry. I don’t want to talk to anymore number people because there are still many questions I have to ask God. God always makes me laugh even in the midst of captivity, tornadoes, and my brain, my pet rock. 7. Money is a car. The self a character on a screen, a small inaccurate moon. I am a wing in no hurry. Numbers, when rotated, dissected, and collaged, resemble the flowers of poetry, which are the meanings of sunlight and blueness. This is not just my opinion, this is really what God told me. So all is not lost. ### 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.

Fabienne Josaphat is the author of the novel  Kingdom of No Tomorrow (Algonquin), winner of the 2023 PEN Bellwether Prize for Socially Engaged Fiction. photo by Pedro Wazzan Fabienne Josaphat is the author of the novel  Kingdom of No Tomorrow (Algonquin), winner of the 2023 PEN Bellwether Prize for Socially Engaged Fiction, and longlisted for the 2025 Aspen Words Literary Prize. The New York Times calls it "Muscular, searing . .  . a novel for our times." Pulitzer-Prize winner Barbara Kingsolver says, "Kingdom of No Tomorrow will bring the fierce vision of the Black Panthers to new generations of readers, adding some stunning context to the modern Black Lives Matter movement." Of her first novel,  Dancing in the Baron’s Shadow , Edwidge Danticat said, “it is an irresistible read about the nature of good and evil, terror and injustice, and ultimately triumph and love.” In addition to fiction, Josaphat writes non-fiction and poetry, as well as screenplays. Her work has been featured in The African American Review , The Washington Post , Teen Vogue , The Master’s Review , The Caribbean Writer , Grist Journal, and more.  Kingdom of No Tomorrow (an excerpt) Michael Haywood was in his room, sitting up in bed. He looked frail. Beyond the yellow tint in his eyes and skin, Nettie saw the glow of brown eyes, and a face that would light up any midnight sky when it wasn’t contorting in pain. “Sometimes, I feel alright,” he muttered. “I do my chores, I go to school. But sometimes, I feel like I can’t breathe.” “Do you feel pain sometimes?” Nettie asked. “In your extremities? Fingers? Toes?” “Yes ma’am,” the boy said. “It’s how we knew I was sick.” Nettie sat on the edge of his bed. Mrs. Haywood stood by the door, watching. The room was dark, too, and Nettie was thankful for the table lamp that glowed enough to let her see what she was writing, checking off boxes. Michael had gotten screened with Dr. Johnson, who had immediately referred him to a hematologist. He was on medication, but lately, it wasn’t helping. Mrs. Haywood lowered her voice as if she didn’t want Michael to hear. “Since Charles died—my husband—things just became more difficult, financially. Hematologists are expensive . . .” Nettie could feel her eyes on her, perhaps trying to read her notes. “Do you know what a blood transfusion goes for at the hospital? You seem so young.” The orange glow from the table lamp illuminated Nettie’s face, and she felt her cheeks heat up. Mrs. Haywood was scrutinizing her features, judging her. Would her actual age diminish her authority here? Did this mean she couldn’t work or help in any way? She was prepared to argue for herself, she supposed. She’d had to argue this with her aunt many times. Tante Mado always pleaded that a pretty girl like her should always work her charms to get what she wanted. “You have the bone structure of a goddess,” Tante Mado would say, holding her face up in the light to see her angles. “You look like your mother. You could pose for magazines, you know.” No, this would not do. This, what she was doing here, tucking her pen and clipboard away, this had more meaning. If she couldn’t do this, then what point was there in even living? “How old are you?” Mrs. Haywood asked. Nettie looked in her eyes and smiled. “Twenty.” “That’s too young to be a doctor.” Nettie explained that she wasn’t yet, that this was basic practice. Nettie and Clia visited families in housing developments, apartments, and mostly projects in the flats bearing the names of their developers in the inner arteries of Oakland. All the apartments were the more or less same in layout and in squalor. In one home, Nettie was forced to sit in a corner of the kitchen with her feet up to avoid mice from running over her. She quickly learned the price of poverty here in Oakland, and in America, by observing in each of those visits the lack of nutrition in sick patients’ diets, the water that ran rust red from the tap, the small roaches crawling up the cupboards. How could people be expected to respond to treatment or heal, even, when they didn’t have any real food in their refrigerator? It puzzled her that this was passing as acceptable in a country so rich and plentiful. It felt absurd, as if somehow the poor were not deserving. There was a lie here, a lie between the fabric of the two worlds. It didn’t sit right. “Still, it gives me hope that you’re here. Sometimes I think about the world out there and how much it is all burning up in brimstone and fire, and sure enough, it’s always the young people like you who make me believe . . .” They walked out of Michael’s room and closed the door. The hallway was quiet enough that Nettie could hear every creak of wooden planks beneath her feet. Michael needed transfusions, and it enraged her that money was what stood in the way, but she clenched her jaw. What could she do about that? “I will talk to Dr. Johnson about it,” Nettie said. “You’re not alone, Mrs. Haywood.” Violet was sitting on the stairs with her doll between her legs. She was pretending to brush and comb her hair. Nettie smiled as they walked past her, but again, Violet didn’t return the smile. No one in this house truly laughed, Nettie thought. It hurt to see such dreariness in children. Clia was in the living room working on her report but put her pen down when Nettie walked in. “How is he?” Clia asked. “He is in pain,” Nettie said. “Medicated, but he may need a transfusion.” Clia went to the window and stared out through the glass panes. The afternoon was drawing to an end, but the sky was still illuminated. There was no wind, and the palm trees were still, as if etched permanently against the sky. “We can discuss later,” Clia said, cutting her off. “Someone is here.” There was a man coming up the driveway on foot. Nettie and Mrs. Haywood had gone to the window to see who it was. “Can I get the door, Mrs. Haywood? This is the man who came to help.” Mrs. Haywood hesitated. “Help? How do you mean?” “Let me introduce you to him,” Clia said. “You can decide for yourself if you want his help or not. I think you will.” There was a knock at the door. Nettie stood next to Mrs. Haywood, her palms clammy. She cast a glance up the stairs. Violet was still sitting there, her eyes fixed on the entrance. Clia was talking to the visitor, the door open, and they could only hear his voice, a low baritone, smooth, whispering to Clia before she whispered back. “Please come in . . .” Clia stepped into the living room, a tall figure trailing behind her. Nettie watched him stand there in a military stance, shoulders squared, feet planted firmly on the ground. Suddenly, everything took a more distinct shape before her eyes. She understood. The man looked at each of them in the eye. He looked to be no older than twenty-five. And what distressed her the most was how handsome he was. It wasn’t something in the face, but it was in the way he carried himself. There was authority in his step and in his voice, and Nettie studied his clothes. They were impeccable. He was wearing slacks, and a buttoned-up shirt, and a black bomber jacket in black leather. His shoes were shiny, like his hair, which was thick and black, like a plume of smoke, and it served as the perfect perch for a magnificent black beret, cocked to the right. “This here is my comrade, Melvin,” Clia said. “We’re in the same cadre. This is Mrs. Haywood, this is her house. And this here is my Sista Nettie.” Sista . This was what had sparked the fire between them. The word sista  had lured Nettie into the basements of the college, and the study halls, in meetings with members of the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee and the Congress for Racial Equality. That word had bonded the two over class projects, visits to each other’s homes, and soon Clia was helping Nettie obtain a job in the same clinic where she worked. Clia was a sista to her, but obviously to so many others who knew to show up when she called. When Melvin nodded toward her, Nettie understood that this was who Clia had called. One of those brothas. A militant. Someone who didn’t come here to play games. Melvin reached out and shook Mrs. Haywood’s hand. He set something down on the sofa, a large black duffel bag Nettie hadn’t noticed before. Clia explained what Mrs. Haywood told them, and then finally Mrs. Haywood cleared her throat and went on about everything. About moving into the house two years ago, about the harassment that ensued. They were the only Black family on the block. They weren’t wanted. The homeowner’s association left her out of meetings and correspondence, at first, but lately, things had escalated to vandalism, threats in her mailbox. As she talked, Melvin moved around the living room. He peeked through windows, observed where the projectile had been thrown into her window. He looked out the kitchen windows, too, ascertaining their surroundings. The more she studied him, the older he seemed to her. She noticed a mustache over his upper lip and the sideburns to match, gracefully hugging his jawline. When he moved past her to go to another window, she smelled his fragrance and it was pure soap and leather. “I already talked to the police about this,” Mrs. Haywood said, suddenly exhausted. “They said it was just kids . . .” Melvin nodded. This time, he relaxed his stance and proceeded to remove what Nettie hadn’t noticed before. Gloves. It wasn’t cold out there, but she surmised he wore driving gloves, and it added a certain flair to his look. “At first, it was always at night . . . It’s always people who seem to live here; some of them are on the neighborhood association board. Now they come in larger numbers, in broad daylight, in the front of the house, in the back, throwing things into the yard, yelling things at us, like . . .” Mrs. Haywood stumbled, looking for words. Melvin waited for her to finish, but she suddenly looked into his eyes and they stared at each other quietly until he joined his hands behind his back. “Got tired of calling the police after a while,” she said. “They don’t give a damn. Don’t even come when you call, and when you don’t call they come and tell you to make things easier on yourself, and just move out—” Melvin stepped away again and this time paused by the piano, looking at the photographs on the top board. In one large frame, a veiled Mrs. Haywood clung to the arm of a handsome man with a mustache, in a white suit and bowtie, both of them cutting into a white cake. He glanced at Mrs. Haywood over his shoulder. “You call pigs to your home and they won’t come, because they’re too busy throwing bricks through your window.” Mrs. Haywood froze as Melvin moved a small figurine on top of the piano, pushing it away from the edge as if to protect it from falling. “It’s just a tactic, is what that is,” he said. “No different from the Klan.” “You sure know a lot about tactics . . .” Nettie was thinking the same thing as Mrs. Haywood appraised Melvin. “Where do you come from?” “Chicago,” Melvin said. “But I volunteered down in Jackson, Miss. Freedom rides.” Nettie watched Mrs. Haywood breathe in and finally surrender with a sigh. She saw the woman’s eyes go to the piano and the bench, where the glass had probably shattered, and her daughter probably cried, the sharp notes breaking the peace of this house. “Well? What do you think we should do?” “I have to report back to headquarters,” Melvin said. “Let them decide how to—” “I already did that,” Clia said. “They sent you.” “I dig it.” He looked at Clia directly in the eyes, visibly unpleased with the interruption. “All the same, we have rules. We’ll need backup.” “Why can’t you just sit tight here yourself?” Clia shouted. “And why call for backup when we’re standing right here?” Nettie leaned in to Clia, hoping to catch her attention and remind her she didn’t want to be involved. Especially if there was a potential for violence. But Clia was already balling her fists. “I mean, you can trust a woman to handle a gun, can’t you, Brother?” The way she emphasized “Brother” made Melvin square his shoulders, squint his eyes in annoyance. “Are you carrying?” Melvin asked. “If I did, I wouldn’t call you for backup,” Clia said. Nettie had never met a woman as bold and strong as Clia. “I don’t have time for jive.” Melvin sucked his teeth and turned to Mrs. Haywood. “Where’s your phone, Mrs. Haywood?” “Why don’t you give me one and see how I handle myself?” Clia said, her head bobbing defiantly. “Or are you just—” Something crashed against the window. Mrs. Haywood let out a yelp, but it was the sharp scream of a child that jolted Nettie out of her skin. Violet was still on that step upstairs, shrieking. Glass shattered again, the sound this time coming from the back window. “The hell?” Clia muttered, finding Nettie’s hand and squeezing it. Mrs. Haywood ran upstairs to the children, her footsteps heavy. She was muttering something inaudible; Nettie thought a prayer. Only Melvin stood there in the shadows of the living room, unflinching. Outside, there was a revving of engines. Nettie instinctively retreated with Clia against a wall, her heart pounding. She wanted to plug her ears, make the rumble and the shouting vanish. There were voices rising now above the roar of car engines, clearly shouting intolerable obscenities. “We told you to get out of our neighborhood! We don’t want your kind around here!” Clia cursed under her breath, and Nettie held hers. Her eyes were fixed on Melvin, his silhouette moving in slow motion toward the window. He lifted a corner of the curtain, peeked outside. “Watch out!” Mrs. Haywood hollered. They were throwing projectiles at the house now, screaming and shouting, and Clia’s nails dug into Nettie’s arm, pulling her closer as if to hold her, protect her. Nettie watched Melvin come away from the window with disconcerting calm. He went to the couch and unzipped the black duffel bag, reached inside. An electrical surge ran through her as he pulled out the barrel of what she recognized, in the darkness, as a shotgun, fully assembled. Something flew in through the window and crashed against the photographs on the piano. They fell, more glass shattering, revealing Mrs. Haywood’s younger self grinning next to her husband as they sliced their wedding cake. Nettie’s blood boiled as she saw a large rock dent the shiny surface of the piano. Something inside her snapped. She reached for the rock without a thought, cupped it in her own palm as she launched it like a grenade out the window, hoping to hurt whoever threw it in the first place. Still, she didn’t throw it far out enough. Melvin pumped the shotgun once. The click sent a chill down Nettie’s spine, but she suddenly realized the sight of the weapon made her less afraid. Something about its presence, the assurance of its effectiveness, as well as Melvin’s proximity, made her hopeful. He pulled out a handgun from his jacket and walked over to them and looked at Clia, and then Nettie. Then, at Clia again. Clia quickly took the pistol from him, inspected the chamber. It was fully loaded. She cocked it. “You watch the back door,” Melvin said. “Any motherfucker comes busting through it, you shoot’em dead, you dig? Don’t ask questions. Just kill’em.” “Right on,” Clia nodded, gleeful. Nettie hadn’t seen this look on her face before, and she wasn’t sure if Clia was happy at the thought of killing or at the idea that someone, finally, had stepped up to take care of a problem. Clia inched toward the doorway to the kitchen and stood there at attention. Nettie watched Melvin again, his hand reaching for the front door handle, without hesitation. Something in the way he moved was captivating, a lack of fear as he opened the door and slid out into the shadows. Nettie went to the door. Mrs. Haywood was shouting in the background. She could hear her. “For God’s sake, chile, close that door!” But she needed to see. The sky was the color of a bruise. Purple and blue, sunlight just an afterthought as night drew in, and she watched Melvin’s silhouette move down the front steps as if the hailstorm of bottles and rocks pelting in his direction were nonexistent. She mouthed for him to be careful, but he couldn’t hear her. He stopped halfway down the driveway. She waited for him to say something. Anything. Instead, Melvin raised his weapon at hip level. There was no way to see very well in the dark, but that didn’t matter. She knew there was no need to aim. There was a car standing in front of the gate, engine revving, and she knew what he needed to do. And he did. The detonation was more of an explosion. It tore through the night like thunder, and Nettie’s first instinct was to cover her ears. But she stood still, eyes glazed over. For a moment, she wasn’t here in Mrs. Haywood’s house, but in Haiti. Home. Back outside, where the dust rose and the saline smell of the surrounding marshes clung to the air, and her father’s silhouette stood beside her, also pulling the trigger to demonstrate self-defense. The screaming brought her back to the present. Voices shouted in the dark. Melvin’s silhouette moved forward quickly, stealthily. He pointed the weapon at the sky this time and fired another round, and another, until all Nettie could see was the faint plumes of gunpowder smoking the air and lights shutting off at neighbors’ windows. The voices that had been yelling were now shouting differently. “Shit! Go! Go! They got guns!” Then, there was a rendering of metal and the car took off in an awful sound, tires screeching, its blown off bumper scraping the asphalt. In the surrounding neighborhood, there was screaming, and dogs barked furiously. The neighbor’s dog ran to the fence, just yards away from Melvin, growling. Melvin jumped, and on instinct, he pointed his weapon toward the dog. Not the dog! What did dogs know, other than to bark? The thing hadn’t hurt anyone. She thought Melvin would shoot and she braced herself but she heard nothing. Not a sound but the barking and growling. Melvin was standing just a foot away from her now on the front steps, staring at her. Nettie dropped her hands and felt her face burn. Melvin moved closer into the porch light. She saw a thin layer of sweat on his brow. She caught her breath as he looked in her eyes. They stood there for a brief instant, and she thought he would ask if she was okay, but he didn’t. Instead, he inched even closer to her until she picked up the spicy scent of sweat on him, adrenaline rushing from his pores, and she knew he wanted to get back inside. So, she let him in, and he closed the door behind them. Excerpted from KINGDOM OF NO TOMORROW by Fabienne Josaphat. Used by permission of  Algonquin Books, a division of Hachette Book Group. THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Fabienne Josaphat and Jae Nichelle on December 26, 2025. Thank you for sharing this thrilling excerpt of Kingdom of No Tomorrow . When you began developing the idea for this novel, what was the first thing you knew about your main character, Nettie? I knew Nettie was a survivor of trauma, but she wasn’t defined by it enough to let it stop her. I knew she was going to grow. In my mind, this was a coming-of-age story, even if everything happens quickly in the span of two years, more or less. A lot can happen within that time to change a person, and I knew she was going to be the brave, daring woman I could never be.  What is your definition of literary success? How has it changed over the years as you’ve published more and received some incredible awards? I think success traditionally is measured by the accolades and awards and reviews an author receives, so it’s nice to be acknowledged in that way. But to me, especially with this novel, the definition of success is the conversations it sparks, the passion it ignites, especially in the younger generation, and the number of people who are burning with questions about this period. That’s what changed over the years for me, the need to share and educate with the purpose of awakening the reader to more than just an entertaining story, but to the very core of why I tell the story. It’s like the Black Panther Party slogan said, “Educate to Liberate.” I see my writing leaning into education in some aspects, and this to me is also the measure of my literary success. In your Pen Ten Interview , you said you love how fiction “forces the reader to feel .” What books have made you feel in the past few months? I think of a lovely novel that surprised me, The Death of Comrade President  by Alain Mabanckou. It made me feel delight and amusement and despair all at once, which was new to me. I didn’t know I could experience all this at the same time. Plus, it took me into unknown territory: Congo-Brazzavile in 1970s, so I was able to navigate nostalgia and tap into the pride and the fear of the moment as the characters experience political and social upheaval. Percival Everett’s James also made me feel like I was there, on the plantation, on the river, running for my life, running toward my family, and experiencing all the perils and risks of an enslaved character in the South. I would love to hear more about your screenwriting! What first drew you to this mode of storytelling, and what has your journey been like with your scripts? This started out in college during my undergrad. I took a creative writing class where we had to learn to write screenplays, and I was so taken by the process that I wrote a spec script for a popular TV Show just as a test. And I did well enough that my professor noticed. Then, later on, my first novel started as a screenplay – it was my way of telling the story in a fast-paced, cinematic way, and I realized that could be the bones of a novel. Screenplays and treatments are fun for me; I find them thrilling! I’d love to see myself write more screenplays. What led you to start your Substack newsletter of craft lessons and advice for writers? What’s a craft topic you could talk about for hours? The Substack is a weird mix of everything, really. It’s a bit of craft, a bit of storytelling, a bit of deep thinking. I do like to share craft and advice, though, because I realize it’s why people take the time to read an online newsletter: they want to know what’s on your mind, what you’ve been working on, and they want you to bring them value, teach them, or tell them something surprising. So craft is that value for me. And I could talk about plot forever. It’s the least explored element of fiction; it’s not at all what people usually think it is, and it gives me joy to help others make that distinction between story and plot. As a creative writing instructor and mentor, do you find that working with emerging writers influences your own creative process? That has varied. Some of my mentees and students take writing very seriously, almost like it’s a mechanical task that has to be planned out down to the exact number of days or hours spent on a subject. I have learned from them to give myself more permission to be creative and less rigid. And then there are students and mentees who approach writing almost as a spiritual journey, and from them I’ve learned to open myself up spiritually as well. It’s been a fascinating experience in that way: teaching and mentoring end up being a mutual growth journey. What are you looking forward to? Either personally or professionally, something small or something big! At the moment, I’m looking forward to finishing the draft of my next book - a sequel to Kingdom of No Tomorrow . I’d like to get to the finish line so that I can jump into the next project. How can people support you right now? I appreciate reviews after my readers are done reading. Writers need those. The second thing writers like me need is time and space to write (writer residencies or retreats are ideal). And of course, it helps to grow a writer’s following – I write on Substack, and growing my readership is something I’m working on.  Name another Black woman writer people should know.  One of my literary heroes is the illustrious Maryse Condé from Guadeloupe, who left us last year. Her narrative voice and her body of work, centering Black voices and Black women like her seminal novel I, Tituba, Black Witch of Salem , should be required reading. And because I feel she should be or already is well known, I’ll throw in another: Yanick Lahens, the award-winning Haitian author who is also translated into English. We should all read her and let her prose transform us. ### 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.

< Back Torch Literary Arts Receives Burdine Johnson Foundation Grant Brittany Heckard Jun 28, 2024 This is Torch's third year receiving the grant that serves Central Texas arts, education, historical preservation, and environmental sustainability causes. AUSTIN, Tex., June 28, 2024 – Torch Literary Arts (Torch), a nonprofit organization dedicated to amplifying Black women writers, will receive funding from the Burdine Johnson Foundation. This is the nonprofit’s third year receiving funding from the foundation, contributing to Torch’s operations since becoming a nonprofit organization. “Continuous funding from The Burdine Johnson Foundation for our literary mission is affirming and speaks to Torch’s impact, especially here in Central Texas, where we started,” said Torch founder and executive director, Amanda Johnston. We are grateful for our long-standing relationship with the foundation and want to thank the foundation for their mission to support charitable causes.” Funding from the organization assists Torch’s programs in the Central Texas region and beyond. Thanks to this unrestricted grant from the Burdine Johnson Foundation, Torch is able to host free and low-cost in-person events for the community including the Wildfire Reading Series, our annual Juneteenth event “Carrying the Torch”, the annual Torch Retreat, engaging panels with Torch Features, and many more inclusive events. The Burdine Johnson Foundation has donated over $54 million to charitable causes in Central Texas since its inception in the 1960s. Outside of the geographic range, the foundation supports arts, education, health and human services, historic preservation, and the environment. You can read more about The Burdine Johnson Foundation here . 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 has featured work by Toi Derricotte, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help Torch continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today. About The Burdine Johnson Foundation In 1960, Burdine Clayton Johnson, a pianist, poet and lover of nature, along with her husband, J.M. Johnson, and several trustees, established The Burdine Johnson Foundation in Houston, Texas. The founding mission stated that the funds were to be used for the “purposes of public usefulness” and to administer and distribute the funds “exclusively for religious, charitable, scientific, literary or education purposes.” Media Contact Information: Brittany Heckard Communications Associate bheckard@torchliteraryarts.org (512) 641-9251 Previous Next

The Team Amanda Johnston Founder / Executive Director 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 Brittany Heckard Communications Associate Read More Candace Lopez Board Treasurer Read More Dana Weekes Board Member Read More Raina Fields Advisory Board Member Read More Parneshia Jones Advisory Board Member Read More Jae Nichelle Associate Editor Read More Stephanie L. Lang Board Secretary Read More Erin Waelder Board Member Read More Jen Margulies Advisory Board Member Read More

Latest News 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