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Beverly “Bev” Chukwu is a Nigerian American writer, filmmaker, and script consultant. Her producing projects have screened at the Women in Horror Film Festival, Cine Las Americas, AGLIFF, and more. Bev’s screenplay, PRINCE OF LAVENDALE STREET, was the feature winner in the 2021 BlueCat Screenplay Competition, and her video essay “Sometimes Black” is now used as educational material at the University of Texas at Austin. She has spent over seven years working in various mental health arenas and nearly a year providing behavior therapy to neurodivergent youth and adults. Bev has received fellowships from the Black List x WIF Episodic Lab, YouTube Originals, and the James A. Michener Center for Writers, where she also received an MFA in screenwriting and fiction. Bev writes grounded “genre” pieces that center around assimilation, the allures of groupthink, and mental health advocacy for people of the Black diaspora. Follow Bev on her website, on Instagram, and Twitter. PRINCE OF LAVENDALE STREET by Bev Chukwu Logline: A 12-year-old romantic’s life goes from fairy-tale to nightmare as he clashes with his widowed Nigerian mother in order to find his princess and fulfill his father’s dying wish. INT. BEDROOM - DAY A bare bedroom, hardly lived in. Unopened moving boxes provide the only decor. WE STAY ON AMOBI NJOKU (12), the kind of kid who's always looking at something other than what’s right in front of him. He sits on the floor, staring at a BLANK CANVAS. A kit of painting materials lay beside him. AMOBI (V.O.) M ga-agwa gi otu akuko. (clears throat, starting over in English) I’m going to tell you a fairy-tale. I know this isn’t exactly what you were expecting today. He hesitates to pick up a pencil, leans forward. AMOBI (V.O.) But I’m going to tell you anyway. He begins a drawing of the VERANDA: outlines of PEOPLE in vibrant clothes and large ICHAFOS (head ties) dancing. ON THE CANVAS: The sketch gains color, the people coming to life, as we’re propelled into-- EXT. NJOKU ESTATE, VERANDA - DAY The GUESTS -- we sense that everyone here is “family” -- dance on the veranda. Almost hidden by the long legs of adults in Ankara cloths, Amobi makes his way around the party. He holds a drink tray for visitors. CHYRON: (OWERRI) IMO STATE, NIGERIA - 12 MONTHS EARLIER A moving, stenciled sketch of EZE (KING) CHUK NJOKU (47). He wears isiagu, a traditional pullover top, and pants. An invisible hand paints him to life as he approaches Amobi. Chuk surprises Amobi by grabbing the tray with one arm and scooping Amobi up with the other. Amobi laughs blissfully. AMOBI (V.O.) Once upon a time, there was me, a young prince who greatly loved one person in the world: my father, Eze Chuk Njoku. The King. Chuk goes into a fit of coughs and sets Amobi down. Amobi takes the tray, watches his father closely. MAN (O.S.) EZE CHUK! They are ready. Chuk puts on a smile for Amobi and breaks away. EXT. NJOKU ESTATE, BACK OF THE HOUSE - DAY A foldable table has been placed between Chuk and two men: SAMUEL AND IKEMBA OKORO (50s). Note: All italicized dialogue to be spoken in Igbo. AMOBI (V.O.) Nigeria isn’t like the UK or Norway. The kings or Ezes or Igwes, or whatever you want to call them, aren’t rulers of our country. CHIEF KWENTO (60s) appears to be Chuk’s next-in-command and stands off to the side. He gestures for the men to speak. Samuel and Ikemba step forward. SAMUEL Eze Chuk. Please, there isn’t more to be said. IKEMBA You see! My brother’s been waiting for my father to pass, so he could claim all the land for himself. AMOBI (V.O.) If anything, they mostly handle civil disputes like this one. Chuk raises a hand to silence the brothers. He turns to whisper into Kwento’s ear and sees Amobi standing by the side of the house. Chuk motions for his son to go away when a song plays: “LET ME LOVE YOU” by Bunny Mack. AMOBI (V.O.) But even though my father was a busy king and respected man in our town, he always made time for me. Chuk turns his ear up to the music. To Amobi, he mouths the words: Do you hear that? Amobi looks to the sky and nods. EXT. NJOKU ESTATE - DAY Amobi and Chuk run. They run past the veranda with its tall, marble pillars. Past the arched, black gates, open for passersby. EXT. FIELD - DAY They stop before crushing a small shrub at the center of the field. Two YELLOW TRUMPET FLOWERS bloom amongst the leaves. Chuk bends down, grazes them with his hand. CHUK I never get tired of these. Amobi looks at the flowers then at the grass around them. AMOBI Can we play the game? (off Chuk’s nod) I’ll go first! Imagine that this whole field is covered in-- What are those again? CHUK Yellow trumpets. I see them. Yellow trumpets grow outward from the shrub, around their feet, until they span the every inch of the ground. AMOBI I hear our song playing. The lyrics to “LET ME LOVE YOU” fill the air. CHUK We’re dancing. The sun is impossibly bright. Amobi and Chuk shield their eyes, dancing as the sun OVERPOWERS them. In the distance, A SKETCH OF BLESSING NJOKU (35, reserved, conservatively dressed) is drawn by the unseen hand. Blessing’s sketch gains color, becoming real as she walks to the edge of the field. Amobi waves enthusiastically at her. AMOBI Mum! Play with us! CHUK Oya, come! Blessing shakes her head. Chuk looks as though he’ll ask her again, but he doesn’t. He’s put off by her rejection. Blessing watches them, her face hard to read. AMOBI (V.O.) People told many stories about mum. -- BEGIN MONTAGE -- INT. NJOKU ESTATE, LIVING ROOM - DAY Blessing stands in front of FIVE YOUNG GIRLS who wear tutus and pointe shoes. They try to imitate her as she moves her feet into First, Second, and Third Position. AMOBI (V.O.) They’d say my mum had many talents. She was always, ALWAYS dancing. Blessing pliés into an arabesque. She notices the girls intently following her, and suddenly, she shimmies. The girls laugh and shimmy with her. INT. BEDROOM - DAY A WEEPING MOTHER stands before a crib. She holds a cold compress to her BABY’S head. The girl won’t stop coughing. AMOBI (V.O.) She could heal people just by touching them! Blessing rushes into the room. She hugs the mother then gently presses her palms to the baby’s chest. Blessing’s hands GLOW BRIGHT. The baby exhales one last cough from her lungs. She giggles. INT. STAGE - NIGHT. BLACK. A single spotlight illuminates Blessing. Her tight curls have been let loose, and a white dress sparkles along her body. She approaches the MIC. AMOBI (V.O.) My dad even claimed that she was the greatest singer in the world. Sang just like a bird. BLESSING (emulating Whitney Houston) / And I will always love you / She points to the only person in the audience: CHUK. He holds BABY AMOBI in his arms, tears in both their eyes. EXT. FIELD - DAY BACK TO WHERE WE LEFT OFF: Blessing’s indiscernible face. AMOBI (V.O.) She doesn’t do any of that anymore. Off Blessing, who forces a smile as Chuk and Amobi finish their dance-- INT. NJOKU ESTATE, LIVING ROOM - NIGHT Amobi and Chuk sit around the TV. They watch an old Nollywood rom-com, Keeping the Faith, on the Africa Magic Channel. The two of them lean forward as the on-screen lovers share their first kiss. AMOBI Is that what you and mom’s first kiss was like? Chuk glances at Amobi, a mischievous smile on his lips. CHUK Do you really want to know? (off Amobi’s reaction) Well...in order to answer that, I’d have to tell the story. Chuk struggles to rise from the couch. He dramatically wraps his blanket like a cape over his shoulders. CHUK (CONT’D) For centuries, a horrible feud kept our two families, the Njokus and the Echebelems, at odds. The sound fades out as Chuk continues. He moves erratically from side to side. AMOBI (V.O.) My father must have told that story a million times. Looking back, I’m surprised I didn’t realize he’d taken the tale of Romeo and Juliet and changed all the names. Chuk pretends to caress a woman’s face and give her a kiss. AMOBI Eeew! Papa, stop! Chuk releases the invisible woman. On his way down to the couch, his leg HITS the coffee table. The average person would recover quickly, but Chuk’s knees grow weak and buckle. Before he can fall, Amobi rushes to his aid. CHUK I’m fine... Amobi? Amobi doesn’t hear him. He concentrates on guiding Chuk onto the couch. He tucks the blanket around Chuk. CHUK (CONT’D) Amobi, please. Amobi tucks the blanket tighter. CHUK (CONT’D) I want to tell you something. Amobi stops moving. CHUK (CONT’D) Love is the most important thing in life. You should remember that. Believe it or not, it has been your mother’s love that kept me alive this long... (touching Amobi’s face) Your soulmate, the person you’ll want to spend the rest of your life with, is somewhere out there. And I need you to promise me-- AMOBI You need to rest, papa. CHUK Promise me that you’ll find that person. Your true love. Promise. Amobi is reluctant, but he looks at his father’s body. Chuk’s pale skin. His once strong arms that droop slightly. AMOBI I promise. Chuk relaxes and closes his eyes, so Amobi continues. AMOBI (CONT’D) Please, don’t worry. I can find a soulmate. I’ll be Eze Amobi, she’ll be my beautiful wife, and we’ll have a big house like this one-- No, it is this one. We’ll be here. I’ll be here. Do you see it, papa? Amobi looks down at Chuk. He’s asleep. Amobi exhales, smooths the blanket around his father. INT. NJOKU ESTATE, AMOBI’S ROOM - NIGHT Blessing kneels before Amobi’s bed in plain pajamas, her eyes closed in prayer. Notice she wears a NECKLACE: a silver encrusted turtle with emerald eyes. BLESSING Jesus I love you. All I have is dine. Yours I am, and yours I want to be. Do with me whatever you... Off-screen, someone sniffles. REVEAL Amobi on the ground beside Blessing. Several sheets of canvas around him. Like Blessing, we get a glimpse of his drawings. A crowded veranda... The yellow trumpet field... Chuk sleeping... BLESSING (CONT’D) You sure you don’t want to join me? Amobi nods without looking up. He cries softly. BLESSING (CONT’D) Amobi, please, stop crying. AMOBI How can you be so calm? BLESSING Old age. My tear ducts have dried. Amobi doesn’t laugh. He adds shades to Chuk’s drawn face. Blessing makes a decision, scoots closer to him. She slowly unhooks her necklace. Dangles it in front of Amobi’s face. BLESSING (CONT’D) You should hold onto this for me. Amobi frowns, skeptical, but he takes it. BLESSING (CONT’D) My mother gave it to me when I got engaged. She said that turtles symbolize long life and persistence, despite any odds. AMOBI Why did she give it to you? BLESSING ...She knew I needed the reminder. Amobi is ready to ask more questions, but Blessing turns away. Returns to her prayer. INT. CONVENTION CENTER - NIGHT A WAKE KEEPING. Cloth-covered tables littered with chin chin, suya, and other appetizers line the outskirts of the stage where... Amobi and Blessing try to smile. They sway and hold large, blown-out PORTRAITS OF CHUK. MEN, WOMEN, and CHILDREN dance around them to commemorate Chuk’s death. There’s a scratch in the traditional Awilo Longomba music. Heavy drums with sweet lyrics begin. It’s Bunny Mack’s “LET ME LOVE YOU.” Amobi stops dancing. Blessing puts a hand on his shoulder. BLESSING We’ll make them change the song. Amobi shrugs her hand away, pushes out of the crowd. He finds an empty table, mopes as the song ends. On the dance floor, a LAWYER (50s, sweaty) approaches Blessing. He whispers into her ear. They walk away. Amobi rises to follow them, but a few MOURNING ADULTS block his path. INT. CONVENTION CENTER, KITCHEN - NIGHT Blessing bites her nails as the lawyer paces the kitchen. He’s miraculously bald, making it easy to see the perspiration gleaming on his head. He clutches a backpack. BLESSING Tell me what it is you want to say. LAWYER Madame... Have you had a chance to speak with Lotachukwu Njoku? BLESSING Chuk’s sister? That woman would rather die than talk to me. The lawyer finds a napkin and pats his forehead. LAWYER I am at a loss for how to say this, but Mrs. Lota has made it clear that she will take the estate. BLESSING WHAT? She can’t do that. I am Chuk’s wife. We raised Amobi in that home! LAWYER I understand. But she is willing to go to court. I’ll admit Chuk left you the house, but customary law deprives widows of inheritance rights. His immediate family takes priority. Lota will win. Blessing presses her head against the freezer door. LAWYER (CONT’D) Oba Njoku-- BLESSING Oh Lord, what does his father want? LAWYER In his will, Chuk was very clear. He said Oba will want to help, and since he will be receiving a fourth of Chuk’s fortune-- BLESSING A fourth? Tell me something. Is the estate all I get? The lawyer falls silent. His hands shake, reaching into the backpack and retrieves an envelope. He offers the envelope to Blessing. She brushes it away. LAWYER He didn’t know Lota would try to take the estate. BLESSING No. Chuk was smart. He would have seen this coming. Now tell me. Without the house and without his family’s portion, what is left for me and Amobi? There’s a CLANK against the door, and a FEMALE COOK enters. Unaware that she’s interrupted anything, she moves past Blessing to open the fridge. The lawyer whispers to Blessing, his voice grave. LAWYER You must understand this was out of Chuk’s control. As Chuk’s only heir, Amobi will receive his half of the money on his 18th birthday. And you, Blessing, get nothing. Blessing grabs the envelope, chunks it into the trash. INT. CONVENTION CENTER - DAY Blessing exits the kitchen. From across the room, Amobi locks eyes with her. AMOBI (V.O.) And just like that... QUICK FLASHES: --Chuk dramatically telling the story of Romeo and Juliet. --Chuk scooping Amobi into his arms on the veranda. --Chuk and Amobi in the field of yellow trumpets. END QUICK FLASHES. BACK TO Amobi’s face; he registers that something’s wrong. AMOBI (V.O.) Everything changed. END EXCERPT. ### 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. 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. Donate today to support Black women writers.

Torch Literary Arts is thrilled to announce our new Fall 2023 Administrative Fellows, Trinity Hawkins - Program Fellow, and Anea Michelle - Creative Content Fellow, as well as our new Associates, Faith Miller - Programs Associate, Jae Nichelle - Associate Editor, and Brittany Heckard - Communications Associate. During their fellowships, Trinity and Anea will research outreach strategies, initiate new programs and social platforms, and create content for Torch's social media accounts. Additionally, they will learn about nonprofit management, digital marketing, and community engagement. Our new Associates, Faith, Jae, and Brittany, will plan and facilitate Torch events, promote Torch externally to stakeholders, curate our monthly and weekly features, and work collaboratively with the Torch Admin. Fellows to further the mission of amplifying Black women writers. Funding from our supportive donors including the National Endowment for the Arts, Poetry Foundation, The Burdine Johnson Foundation, Tingari-Silverton Foundation, and the City of Austin's Cultural Arts Division support salaries, programs, and operational expenses. Without their (and your) support, Torch would not have the resources needed to continue facilitating exceptional programs and create unique advancement opportunities for Black women writers. Trinity Bella Hawkins was raised in both Chicago and Dallas. Currently, a graduating senior at the University of Texas in Austin, majoring in the College of Liberal Arts with concentrations in English, Black Studies, and History, she enjoys writing, reading, and discussing the arts. She is also interested in history, sustainability, movies, TV, music, literature, the culinary arts, and vintage clothing. She is a firm believer in the power of words and community. Watching and reviewing movies, creating playlists, reading books, digesting stories in The New Yorker, hunting down her next great piece of clothing, and applying her curatorial zeal to every part of her life are all things she enjoys doing in her spare time. As you're reading this she is somewhere listening to music. Brittany Heckard is a freelance creative writer at the intersection of policy and strategic communications based in Austin, TX. Her previous work includes lobbying for nonprofits and ESG efforts, helping local businesses with grants, and brand consulting. She has lobbied for companies and organizations like Ancestry, Texas Cultural Trust, Texas Access to Justice Foundation, Vera Institute of Justice, and others. Previously, she led public affairs campaigns for AT&T's legislative and corporate social responsibility units in Texas, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Kansas, and Missouri. An advocate for social justice, she has volunteered on the board for MOVE Texas Civic Fund and worked for Austin Justice Coalition. Brittany's favorite excerpt from Audre Lorde's Poetry Is Not a Luxury reads, "The white fathers told us, I think therefore I am; and the black mothers in each of us-the poet-whispers in our dreams, I feel therefore I can be free." In her spare time, Brittany enjoys reading, playing with her dog, going to concerts, and creative writing. Anea Michelle is a multi-faceted creative based in Austin, Texas. Currently immersed in her Masters of Fine Arts in Creative Writing at Texas State University, Anea has always used writing as a sanctuary, a space where her thoughts and emotions dance on paper. But her passion doesn't stop there. Anea has skillfully blended her love for writing with her practice of yoga, allowing each discipline to enrich and inspire the other. As both a dedicated yoga teacher and a compassionate Doula, she navigates these roles with the same depth and presence she brings to her writing. Faith Miller is a proud native of Houston, Texas. Her experience at Southern Methodist University sparked her passion and love for Black people and encouraged her to be a voice for Black women. Though she studied Communication and Public Relations, Faith’s passion for education led her to The Ohio State University where she completed her master's degree in Higher Education and Student Affairs. In 2017, she moved back to Texas to be closer to family and works at The University of Texas where she supports diversity initiatives. Faith describes herself as a homebody who loves reading and writing and enjoys exploring new places to eat and finding new things to do or see. Faith’s life and success have been shaped by the many Black women who have nurtured and cared for her. Faith served as Torch's Spring 2023 Creative Content Fellow and is excited to continue supporting Torch as the Programs Associate! Louisiana-born Jae Nichelle is the author of God Themselves (Andrews McMeel, 2023) and the chapbook The Porch (As Sanctuary) (YesYes Books, 2019). She is a finalist for a 2023 Ruth Lilly and Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Fellowship and won the inaugural John Lewis Writing Award in poetry from the Georgia Writers Association. Her poetry has appeared in Best New Poets 2020 (University of Virginia Press, 2020), the Washington Square Review, The Offing, Muzzle Magazine, and elsewhere. Nichelle is a slam poetry champion, and her spoken word poems have been featured by Write About Now, Speak Up Poetry Series, and Button Poetry. She has a passion for language, linguistics, and mental health and has published articles on these subjects in AFROPUNK, An Injustice!, and the Black Youth Project. 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. 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 support Black women writers by donating today.

The Best of the Net is an awards-based anthology designed to grant a platform to a diverse and growing collection of writers and publishers who are building an online literary landscape that seeks to break free of traditional publishing. Learn more here. We are thrilled to announce the following Torch nominees: $ luck baby by c.r. glasgow stale smoke and hot sauce by Ari Foster dendrochronological melanin by Camille Hernandez NOTES ON TURNING SELF INTO MUGANDA GIRL by Rohanna Ssanyu Something Wonderful by Victoria Adams-Kennedy Family Portrait by Cieara Estelle Reminiscence, Vamps and Riffs, and Audrey in Pink by Dawn Okoro ### 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. 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.

Ariel K. Moniz (she/her) is a queer Black poetess, artist, and Hawaii local currently living abroad. She is the winner of the 2016 Droste Poetry Award and a Best of the Net nominee. She holds a B.A. in English from the University of Hawaii at Hilo, where she once served as the editor-in-chief of Kanilehua Art & Literary Magazine. Her writing has found homes with Archetype: A Literary Journal, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Centifictionist, and Sunday Mornings at the River Press, among others. She currently serves as an editor and co-founder of The Hyacinth Review. Her first poetry chapbook, titled Nostos Algos, is being published through Ethel Zine and Micro-Press in Autumn of 2023. Follow her on her website and on Instagram and Twitter. The Departure of the Daffodils Daffodils are wilting in the window. There is a needling melancholy in remembering when we picked them from the edge of the wood, little blessings that we thieved away from their season, remorseless. Does that make us monsters? How easy, how casual it is to be cruel. I do not dream of the flowers and their soft ooze, thimble of liquid, tears maybe, the fragile snap of their stems, their almost silent, sacrificial goodbye to their late winter roots. I heard it, the cry of waiting so long but smiled as you handed me the buttery yellow corpses, soft and delicate as babies, as we fled the crime at the leisurely pace of lovemaking. It’s been seven days, they are wilting now severed oracles of Spring and I am still thinking not so much of seasons or the songs of roots, as of goodbyes. ### 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. Help Torch support Black women writers by donating today.

Whitney French (she/her) is a Toronto-based writer, multidisciplinary artist, and publisher. She is a self-described Black futurist, middle-child trouble maker, who explores memory, loss, technology, and nature in her works. Whitney French is the editor of the award-winning anthology Black Writers Matter (University of Regina, 2019) and the editor of Griot: Six Writers Sojourn into the Dark (Penguin Random House Canada, 2022). Her writing has appeared in ARC Poetry, GEIST, the Ex-Puritan, Carousel, CBC Books, Quill and Quire, and others. French is now the co-founder and publisher of Hush Harbour, the only Black queer feminist press in Canada. Language is her favourite collaborator. Follow her on her Website and on Instagram. hollow-holo-abdi for all black mommas I go on a Tuesday because the line is supposed to be significantly shorter during the off-peak. That’s what my sister muttered under her breath, after an hour of arguing with me not to go to the memory depo. “Ain’t nothing there for you,” but I swing my purse over my shoulder and watch my feet carry me to the brick-brown building anyhow, full of coffee and empty of sleep. I don’t see him in my dreams anymore. S’how I know it’s getting bad. And of course, my sister’s right. Hardly eight folks in the line-up, all Black women, all stepping forward one-by-one with the gait of grief. I hadn’t heard the sound of my breath since it happened, but in the sour-smelling office, among empty chairs and linoleum floors, I can hear something else — seasoned work shoes shifting from left foot to right, weight and waiting unbalanced. Like an unlikely talisman, I thumb my digi-card in my pocket. Opting out of the wrist-implant was impulsive and irrational but I lost two whole months. Missed the deadline. “Register next spring,” my sister suggested, because she knew I was wailing my throat raw, which was a better use of my time. Today the anxiety double-knots inside my windpipe hard. Without the correct documentation this whole trip will be in vain. I hadn’t heard the sound of my breath since it happened, but I could hear something else — the near rhythmic sniffling of the woman in front of me, hair tied back in a thick coily bun. Her clothing tag, 85% polyester playing peek-a-boo out her blouse. I stare at the back of her head for what feels like a short lifetime, eyes following the intricate hair pattern, a nesting for me to hide in. A constellation. Most of my own hair fell out weeks ago. I have no desire to talk to this woman. We already speak the same language of loss. We are both here for the same reason, to pretend that something can be done to quell an unlivable ache. Speech will only disappoint us both. The room grows still until the sharp sudden register behind glass spits out Transblip, churning and beeping a crescendo’d screech from the ticket printer. The office, smelling of wet ink, PINK hair cream, prayer hands, and mint is the real time machine. Over her shoulder, I witness Galaxy Bun fill out an application, same as mine, so she too can receive her entitlement to thirty seconds of her last vision of her son. Far less fortunate than me, she had the horror of holding her boy in her arms before he slipped away. I’m hoping she never watches it, but I know full well she will. Once I leave the depo, my son, the image of him, sits on my forehead and the TransBlip sits heavy in my pocket. My eyes catch sight overhead of swallowing blues, the underbelly of a cloud like a sky shadow. I hold on to his memory too hard, though, it’s been so long, and it quickly fades from my mind. At home, the experience is anything but comforting. The loop of Abdi, walking out the door, indifferent, stunning, painfully ordinary makes it worse. I, naïve to the idea of closure, obliterate whatever healing I had begun. The details are all wrong on the hologram: in my mind, he’s in a black cap with a jean jacket, he looks over his shoulder smiles at me and says, “See you later Mom.” But in the granular moment of time-lapsed reality, Abdi wears no hat. No matter how many times I loop back, I can’t make out his full face. Ever. His presence is flat and ghostly. He walks out the door as if this isn’t his home, as if I’m not his family. I’m afraid to call her. And I need to call her. Probably pains her more than it pains me to admit but my sister’s right — you can’t go back. This hologram is not my child. These moments are not for ownership. I’ve read articles of people getting lost in TransBlip experiences, lost between dimensions, failing to reconnect with what’s real. In this light, living in this world without Abdi, their fate doesn’t sound altogether terrible. My ancestors learned to cope with loss for thousands of years without this technology. And I can barely fathom to cope with it. I see him, my son in his truest essence, as the sun peels open the day. Light pours into my window and the blues aren’t of sky but of his jean jacket and the shadow isn’t of cloud but of his hands under his lip as it curls into a smile. No confusion, no contradiction, just my boy. Without pain. ### 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. Help Torch support Black women writers by donating today.

Alma Simba is a writer, historian, and experimental sound artist interested in both the potentials and failures of words in capturing the human experience. Her subject matter is ancestral heritage and how indigenous black Africans can communicate and explore this history through oral traditions, memory, and imagination. She is part of the Ajabu Ajabu audio-visual collective in Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. Her writing has appeared in The Floor, SAPIENS, Myopia, and The Clare Market Review. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram. hungry he says i love you, but i know it is how i crust the bottom of the rice without burning it. dice fresh mango into salad of beef tomatoes curled parsley and water onion. a puddle of tears when i try to leave, the nightmare of waking up to a home that does not smell like rose lotion, lemongrass, hot cream, ginger root. who is to say, who is who, what is what. thin lines - attraction/infatuation seared coastline of fat on the sirloin steak. i drink wine after dinner, even after a week of him sending articles on the dangers of wild women. yet, cries when i pack my bags, cherry bark, basil stem, cashew butter and tonics for every day of the week. at the seaside barbecue burns, salt-air, memory: the door was hardwood, but i did not slam it closed, left it ajar, parted slightly. so the room could air out. ### 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Damilola Omotoyinbo (Frontier XIX), is a Nigerian Creative Writer, a fellow of the Ebedi International Writers' Residency, and a finalist for the 2022 Writing Ukraine Prize. She has work published or forthcoming on Lolwe, Olongo, The Deadlands, Ake Review, Agbowoart, and elsewhere. In addition to writing, Damilola studied Biochemistry. Follow her on Twitter. miracle tongues entwined. fingers stroke every crooked thing till they become straight. palms cup turgid breasts and carve them into percussion instruments — a drum, a gong. tits morph into a harmonica. Aṣa's Be My Man plays softly, and every thrust, wonder that turns back the clock's hands. time slows — lit candles cast hazy shadows of hands caressing an hourglass. two souls stretched taut begin to float in space, they long to refract reality — to birth a surreal thing. their bodies search for the closest route to heaven. they cradle desire into a mould of miracle. listen to the music of horny groin — a woman moaning down the walls of Jericho. cleansing. purification. fanatics digging their way through fantasy island. ### 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Brandy Victoria is a playwright whose work has been seen at the Southern Repertory Theatre of Louisiana, Little Theatre of Alexandria, Obsidian Theatre Festival, Fade to Black Reading Series, Barter Theatre, and Abingdon Theatre Company. In 2023, Brandy was named a Hurston/Wright Foundation Fellow and was a featured playwright in the literary publication, Obsidian Literature and Arts in the African Diaspora. Brandy is a graduate of Temple University earning degrees in Film and African-American Studies. Hobbies include traveling, reading, hiking, visiting museums, and trying new restaurants. Follow Brandy on Instagram. Aroace an excerpt CAST OF CHARACTERS JONQUIL. 40, woman, African-American, Maxine’s daughter. Bohemian in nature. Beautiful. Wry. Sarcastic. Snarky. A defense mechanism. She is a non-conformist, anti-groupthink, Afrocentric. The type to own a holistic shop or marijuana dispensary. Spiritual, but not religious. All about revolution and hookah and poetry and good vibes. MAXINE. 58, woman, African-American, Jonquil’s mother. Also beautiful, looks like she could be Jonquil’s sister. Theatrical. She is a newly devout, newly saved Christian. It is important to resist the temptation to portray Maxine as a matronly “church lady,” as she was a young mother who is still shedding her storied past. She was “that gurl” back in the day and it shows. Glimpses of the old, “unsaved” Maxine occasionally make an appearance. Note: As mother and daughter there is a highly familiar push and pull between the two. Almost playful. They almost know each other too well, test each other’s boundaries, push each other’s buttons. They invade each other’s personal space often. A constant dance. A taut choreography from start to finish. They deeply annoy each other more often than they incite to real anger, but the latter does happen. This is the next chapter of an issue they’ve been avoiding for some time. *Prop Bibles only. Don’t want to attract any bad vibes. SETTING Washington, D.C. Jonquil’s apartment. Clean. Neat. Modern. Small. All rooms overlap/are in view. The living room blends into the kitchen which blends into the dining room, etc. Somewhere a full length mirror. Evidence of afrocentrism. Black art. JONQUIL is dressed for vacation, shorts and a t-shirt, or perhaps a maxi dress. She is attempting (mostly in vain) to pack and close her suitcase. She smokes a joint. She never quite gets the suitcase closed, sits on it. A knock at the door. JONQUIL Uh uh not today. Another knock. JONQUIL (yells at door) I’m not home. A turn of the door knob. JONQUIL Ah hell naw. Jonquil snuffs out the joint, searches the room for a weapon. Settles upon a frying pan. The sound of slow steps inching closer to the door. Jonquil raises her arm, frying pan in hand. The door opens. MAXINE Minnie? Minnie? Grandma’s here baby. Where are you? MAXINE enters carrying a box - shiny, a huge bow, a gift. Jonquil lunges toward Maxine, frying pan hand raised high. Screams. MAXINE (eyes the pan, surveys the room) You making omelets or something? JONQUIL Mother? That key is for emergencies only. MAXINE What are you doing here? Where’s Minnie? Maxine immediately dominates the space, inspecting this, adjusting that, checking for dust. Jonquil trails behind undoing Maxine’s spontaneous feng shui. JONQUIL I live here and she’s at the kennel. MAXINE You sent my baby to a kennel? My only grandbaby to puppy prison? JONQUIL I’m going on vacation, mother. A girl’s trip. MAXINE Another girl’s trip. Still no honeymoon. Hmph. JONQUIL Did you need something? MAXINE Just stopped by to drop off your birthday gift. I didn’t forget. The big 4-0. I know you thought I forgot, but I remembered. Always will remember no matter how very old you– JONQUIL You’re welcome to stay, but– MAXINE (hands Jonquil the box) Open it. JONQUIL (sets box on table) I’ll open it when I get back. Don’t want to miss my flight. MAXINE Open. It. JONQUIL Mother, my flight— MAXINE —is six hours from now. Flight 2257. DC to Montego Bay, Jamaica. JONQUIL How did you–? MAXINE Got a direct line to God, himself. I ask. He answers. Jonquil notices her itinerary and passport on the table. Picks them up. Waves them at Maxine. JONQUIL My itinerary. Very funny. Maxine hands Jonquil the gift for the second time. MAXINE Open it, Jonquil. Now. Jonquil reluctantly unwraps the box. Retrieves first a Bible and then a white veil. JONQUIL A bible I expected, but a wedding veil, mother? Maxine places the veil on Jonquil’s head. Conceals her face with it. MAXINE It’s called manifestation. Speaking it into existence. How I landed the man I got now. Third time’s a charm. Wear it around the house while you’re doing the dishes or something, until God picks up the phone and sends you a good man. A protector, someone handsome, God-fearing, a husband. JONQUIL Manifestation, huh? How millennial of you. That line of thinking in line with the Bible? MAXINE How ‘boutchu read the one I gave you and you tell me. (pause, admires) Yeah, marriage looks good on you. Jonquil throws the veil backwards, revealing her face. JONQUIL No, mother. MAXINE No? JONQUIL No. MAXINE What do you mean no? JONQUIL You know what I mean “no.” No to a boyfriend, no to a husband. No to a man. No to any man. MAXINE I hate it when you talk like that. Like you choosing the hard way when easy is right there staring you in the face. JONQUIL I am not “choosing” anything. MAXINE It’s unnatural and it’s ungodly. JONQUIL Understood. I’m a heathen, a sinner, a failure for, I dunno, rejecting the patriarchy. MAXINE Well it’s good to be self-aware. JONQUIL I’m out. Jonquil removes the veil, reaches for her suitcase. Maxine retrieves Jonquil’s new Bible. Flips effortlessly, confidently to her desired passage. Jonquil freezes in her tracks when Maxine speaks. MAXINE (reads) Leviticus 18:22 You shall not lie with a male as with a woman. It is an abomination. JONQUIL Wait a minute. MAXINE (reads) Romans 1:26-28. For this reason God gave them up to dishonorable passions. For their women exchanged unnatural relations with women– JONQUIL You think I’m a lesbian. MAXINE (continues) –and were consumed with passion… You’re not? JONQUIL No. MAXINE (elated) So you’re straight? JONQUIL Not exactly. MAXINE (braces herself) You something new? JONQUIL It’s complicated. MAXINE God made it pretty simple actually. You are a woman, right? JONQUIL (a joke) For now. MAXINE (inspects Jonquil’s face closely) You aren’t transsexual. I know what that one means. Got it. You’re bisexual. Playing for both teams. Greedy little buzzard. JONQUIL I’m asexual, actually. Technically aromantic too, but one orientation at a time. MAXINE Asexual. You know the “A” used to stump me until just now. LGBTQIAaaaa. JONQUIL I guess, mother. MAXINE Asexual. What exactly does that mean? Aaaa-sexual. All of a sudden nobody does it for you? Not Idris. Not Brad. Not Denzel. Not the UPS delivery man with the muscles and the little brown shorts. Coochie coo don’t work? You want to be alone, Jonquil? For the rest of your life? Alone? JONQUIL Maybe. Not necessarily. Wouldn’t be the worst thing. You see, it's a spectrum. Sexuality is a spectrum, you know?— MAXINE Having a regular, normal, happy family too much like right? JONQUIL -there’s graysexual and demisexual and— MAXINE Bullsexual. Sooner or later every woman gets “the urge.” JONQUIL Not me. MAXINE As many boys I caught you humping back in the day? JONQUIL I was sixteen. MAXINE You were fast. JONQUIL I was a child. Maxine puts on the veil, face exposed and admires herself in the mirror. Primps. MAXINE You were a straight woman is what I’m getting at. A whore perhaps. But above all, a straight, heterosexual woman. JONQUIL I was only following your lead. MAXINE Turned my life over to God since then. JONQUIL We’ll see. MAXINE You already seen. You seein’ right now. (circles Jonquil, a hint) Got right with my maker. No more alcohol, no drugs, No pork - now that’s a hard one to give up - no blaspheming, no lewd and lascivious conduct. So far so good. JONQUIL Devil’s got his favorites. MAXINE Not me. Not the way I been prayin’. First thing in the morning. Last thing at night. Fiercely, feverishly. I pray for you. Even when you don’t deserve it. JONQUIL (sarcastic) Must pray all the time, then. I mean all damn day. And all damn night. Jesus must be tired of hearing from you about me. Weary from all that prayer. God must have aaalll the free time all that praying you doing for me. MAXINE Alright, keep playing with the Lord. See what happens. (pause) So who are you this month? A Buddhist? Hindu? Muslim? Anything, but like your mama? JONQUIL (scoffs) Like you. MAXINE All women dream of having “the life,” Jonquil— JONQUIL I am not all women. MAXINE —a husband. A house. Children who adore her. A family of her own. Grandbabies one day. If you valued anyone besides yourself, you’d understand that. Asexual. (sucks teeth, rolls eyes). Bullsexual. JONQUIL I’m sorry if my lifestyle isn’t— I can’t help it that I— Mother, I am not your second chance to get it right. MAXINE Of course you’re my second chance. You owe me my second chance to get it right you forty year old, petulant, little snot. You’re past due, in fact. I don’t know who told you different, but children owe their parents everything. JONQUIL Because we exist? MAXINE Yes, goddamnit because you exist. You owe me for existing. JONQUIL Dreams be damned? MAXINE Not if you got ones worth chasing. But Jonquil your dreams are… they’re… small. Secular. Childish. Uninspired. Beige. Can tell by the way you walk you got beige dreams. (primps in the mirror) Just like me when I was your age. When I didn’t know who I was either. When I drank too much, (smells Jonquil’s hair, looks into her eyes) walked around high in front of my mama. When I was loose. When I was lost. When I was damaged. Just. Like. You. JONQUIL I am anything but lost. I am soooo found. Damaged? Hell yeah. Where would we be without our painful childhoods? But you know what puts me back together, what keeps me whole? Knowing who I am. What I am. There’s an actual word for it. Slithers off the tongue. Asexual. Asexual. Aaaaassssexual. Asexual. A-fucking sexual. And do you know what that means? For me? It means I’ll pass on all of it. Boyfriend dick. Side-piece dick. Husband dick. Dick sucks. Which I’ll never do again by the way. Same goes for fucking. Never liked it. Hate it in fact. Faked it every single solitary time. Just fucking over and over like a robot for twenty years until I finally went numb on the inside searching for that feeling, that feeling everyone talks about. That explosion. That flutter. Butterflies. Nothing. Some say it’s because I’m different… in the head. Therapists say so. Some say that it’s all because I’ve never been in love. Never been loved in that way at least. Never craved it though. Never hoped for it. Never fantasized. That’s the funny part. The important part. Only dreamt of small, quiet intimacies instead. A hand at the small of my back. A hug on a really bad day. A foot massage. Breakfast in bed. A surprise phone call. Flowers. A funny conversation. An inside joke. Sharing the last piece of chocolate cake. That’s enough for me. A different kind of love. Platonic. Safe. No husband necessary. MAXINE (reads) Mark 10:6-9 “From the beginning of creation, God made male and female. And the two will become one flesh.” One. Get it? It’s not up to you. Jonquil smacks the Bible out of Maxine’s hands and onto the floor. A deafening silence. Tension you can cut. Lines crossed. ### 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. 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.

"Widely regarded as the nation's most prestigious awards for short fiction." - The Atlantic The O. Henry Prize is the oldest major prize for short fiction in America. Awarded since 1919, the prize seeks to provide a prominent platform for short story writers from all around the world and at all points in their careers. The winners’ stories are collected and published annually by Anchor Books. Learn more about the prize here. We are thrilled to announce the following Torch nominees: "The Cottage" by Gail Upchurch "Things You Get at Starbucks" by Khadijah AbdulHaqq ### 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. 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.

SAVE THE DATES! Workshops, Readings, panels, and more. Torch Literary Arts provides programs at no cost to attendees. Donations are appreciated. Torch Wildfire Reading Series August 19 at 6:00 p.m. CST Black Pearl Books Torch Literary Arts is proud to present an evening with Ehigbor Okosun to celebrate the release of her debut novel, Forged by Blood, along with special guests Vaishnavi Patel, Gabriela Romero Lacruz, and N.E. Davenport. A Q&A and signing will follow the reading. Torch Wildfire Reading Series with Deborah D.E.E.P. Mouton September 6 at 7:00 p.m. CST Bookwoman Bookstore Torch Literary Arts is thrilled to welcome Deborah D.E.E.P. Mouton, author of Black Chameleon, for a reading and Q&A. Workshop - Building Your Platform as a Writer with KB Brookins September 20 at 6:00 p.m. CST Virtual When you hear "platform" or "brand", what comes to mind? Whether you’re just getting started or you’ve got a book deal and are ready to take your work to the next level, building an author platform is a necessary tool in the business of publishing creative writing. RSVP Link Coming Soon WHAT WE’RE COMING TO: Cultivation, Artful Tending, Regeneration, and Sustainability October 14 at 3:00 p.m. CT Virtual How do you become “care/full” for and with yourself and your art? In this session, we’ll focus on caregiving and sustaining a creative life with generative reading and writing activities, structured goal setting as well as how we hold on to community in the absence of community and finding ways to move your work into the wider world of publishing. RSVP Link Coming Soon Torch x Texas Book Festival featuring Vievee Francis and Rachel Eliza Griffiths November 10 & 11 Location & Time A proud community partner of the Texas Book Festival, Torch Literary Arts is thrilled to welcome Vievee Francis, author of The Shared World, and Rachel Eliza Griffiths, author of Promise, to the festival for a reading with reception, panel discussion, and book signing. RSVP Link Coming Soon Torch Literary Arts is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish, promote, and create advancement opportunities for Black women writers. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. Torch has featured work by Colleen J. McElroy, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate today to help amplify Black women writers.

Kailah Figueroa is a rhetorical engineer, memory archivist, and part-time prose stylist. She earned her BA in Creative Writing from Susquehanna University and is a current Poetry MFA candidate at Rutgers-Newark. Her writing has appeared in Homology Lit, Lolwe, Prose Online, Passengers, and others. In 2021, she was a recipient of the Fulbright Summer Institute Fellowship at the University of Bristol for Arts, Activism, and Social Justice. You can find more of her work in her newsletter, The Saddest Girl in _________, on her Website, and on Instagram. after my Bipolar Diagnosis I make several phone calls & everyone says that makes sense I want to apologize for my lateness (I know this is my house & my party) but I was caught in the weathering of my neuro-connections. the walls were cracked from the earthquakes & the windows were blown out from the thunderstorms. but, I’ve been on these field studies with my contractor & with an aerial view of my past, we can figure out this whole troposphere-thing so I’m revisiting the old party guest lists & now, I can see what was going on. I’m afraid it’ll only worsen before the bettering. but, thank you for coming. my house has no roof & the sky is darkening, but I just wanted to make this a good time—goodness, the wind tangled the streamers, the hail popped all of the latex balloons & now my exhale fills the room with my other issues. I’m weathering, again. I’m sorry the basement is flooding but I’m trying to contain it with prescription attempts. last year, I tried to blow it all up & found myself in the hospital. my contractor said I’ll lose both the defense & prosecution if I build a detonator with no safety plan. he also says I’ll have this house forever (& it will never be left astray like other recessive traits) but, thank you for coming. thank you for offering to help repaint the walls & fix the roof. my body is a housing crisis & this place is such a mess. I can’t move away but I can renovate. so, I’m fixing the ceiling, redecorating the walls with more streamers & confetti & balloons to show future party guests how I make so much beauty in such a difficult space. ### 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

The inaugural Torch Retreat Fellows will read from their works in progress in Austin, TX. Join Torch Literary Arts for the Torch Retreat Fellows Reading! The inaugural creative writing fellows will read from their works in progress across poetry, fiction, and script. A reception with refreshments by Mashae's Catering will follow the reading. RSVP on Eventbrite Free and open to the public. Suggested $20 donation. Please donate here. Ashley M. Coleman is a writer, author, and music industry executive. While working in the music industry for more than ten years, she also wrote for Essence.com, The Cut, Apartment Therapy, and GRAMMY.com, among others. Her debut novel, Good Morning, Love, was released in June of 2022. Her passion, whether working with music makers or writers from marginalized communities, is in creating safe gathering spaces and providing educational opportunities for creatives. In 2017, she launched a community for Black writers and writers of color entitled Permission to Write. A native of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, she currently resides in Los Angeles with her husband. Ajanaé Dawkins is an interdisciplinary poet, theologian, performer, and educator. She writes about the lived experiences of Black women and their relationships to each other to explore the politics of faith, grief, sisterhood, and sensuality. She has been published in The Rumpus, Frontier Poetry, For Harriet, underbelly, the EcoTheo Review, The Offing, The BreakBeat Poets Black Girl Magic Anthology, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, and was a contributing writer for the Theatre Lila theatre company. Ajanae is the winner of the Tinderbox Poetry Journal’s Editors Prize. She was a finalist for the Cave Canem Toi Derricotte and Cornelius Eady Chapbook Prize, the Frontier Poetry chapbook prize, and the Brett Elizabeth Jenkins poetry prize. She was the Taft Museum’s 2022 Duncanson Artist in Residence and is a fellow of The Watering Hole and Pink Door. She received her MFA from Randolph College and will receive her Master's of Theology from Methodist Theological School of Ohio in May. Ajanae is currently a co-host of the VS Podcast and the Theology Editor for the EcoTheo Review. You can find her in the middle of the dance floor, at the skate rink, the local winery, library, karaoke night, or in her kitchen cooking something slow. Victoria Newton Ford is a poet from Memphis, Tennessee. She is a MacDowell and Lambda Literary Fellow, and her work has been supported by Tin House Summer Writers Workshop, the Vermont Studio Center, and The Hurston/Wright Writers Workshop. She earned her B.A. in English with a concentration in creative writing from the University of Pennsylvania. She is currently working on her first manuscript about Black mothers and their daughters, captivity, and haunting. Ashunda Norris is a Black feminist multidisciplinary artist currently living and creating in Los Angeles. Her work is preoccupied with ancestral inheritance, spiritual traditions of the Black South, futuristic maroon expressions, and fugitivity. She has written, directed, and produced several short films, including her most recent multi-award-winning cinematic gesture, MINO: A Diasporic Myth; now streaming on kweliTV and The OutMusuem’s film exhibition. Ashunda’s films have screened at festivals internationally including Kampala, Uganda; Nairobi, Kenya; London, England; Berlin, Germany, and Amsterdam. Her honors include fellowships from Cave Canem, the California Arts Council, Hurston/Wright Foundation, and Brooklyn Poets. In 2022, Ashunda participated in the James Baldwin Conference as a Writer in Residence in Saint Paul de Vence, France. A proud alumna of Howard University and Paine College, the artist holds MFAs in both Poetry and Screenwriting. Ashunda loves hot water cornbread, obscure cinema, and playing UNO with her family. Learn more at ashunda.com Obinwanne Nwizu received her MA in Creative Writing from Bath Spa University in the United Kingdom. Born in Anambra State, Nigeria, raised in Atlanta, Georgia, but currently calling Harlem home, Obi is a lover of month-long international vacations, vegan food, afrobeat, and romantic comedies. When not writing, she teaches English at John Jay College of Criminal Justice, edits the stories of her friends and strangers, tries to get through her bookcase readings, and frolics around the city in six-inch heels. Her latest short story collection, “Residue,” is currently available on Amazon. Keya Vance is a San Bernardino, California native, screenwriter, and freelance photographer who uses art to challenge society to have difficult, but necessary, conversations. With humanity and vulnerability at the core of her work, she explores the dynamic nature of relationships, both the healing and destructive power of people. In 2018, Vance co-founded KayJo Creatives, an innovative media company with a mission to create community. They host engaging workshops and events that empower diverse creators at all stages of development in Southern California. KayJo Creatives is currently producing a documentary film, I, Too, which highlights a series of 100 interviews with African American men from Florida and California. These interviews ask men about masculinity, relationships, and their own identity. In February 2020, Vance was the primary investigator for a two-day multi-genre creative arts workshop, “Imagining Home: The Stories Photos Tell,” funded by Cal Humanities. Her workshop examined the historical and contemporary representation of African Americans through photographs. In 2021 she was awarded an Individual Artist Fellowship grant by the California Arts Council. Vance has a B.A. in African American Studies, has completed significant course work in the performing arts, and is currently a screenwriting MFA candidate at Loyola Marymount University. UPDATE: Actors Matrex Kilgore, Jeremy Brown, Sereniti Patterson, and Florinda Bryant will perform scripts by Torch Fellows Ashunda Norris and Keya Vance. Torch Literary Arts is a 501(c)3 nonprofit organization established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by emerging and experienced writers alike. Programs include the Torch Wildfire Reading Series, creative writing and professional development workshops, retreats, and special events.