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The Pushcart Prize: Best of the Small Presses series, published every year since 1976, is considered one of the most important publishing projects in American history (Publishers Weekly). Learn more about the prize here. We are thrilled to announce the following TORCH nominees: POEMS “Driving east on I-40, Aida is in the backseat staring out the window while the three of us sing along to Mary J. Blige’s “You Remind Me,” not thinking about the lyrics.” by Benin Lemus “swole” by Dana Tenille Weekes “Some Collective Nouns for Black Girls/What We Call Our Selves When We Are Alone/What We Named Our Young Selves in the Grimy Club Bathroom Where We Became Sisters” by Zoë Gadegbeku “Self Portrait as Mary Magdalene in Ecstasy in the Style of Gentileschi” by Kameryn Alexa Carter SHORT STORIES “But Did You Die?” by Shinelle L. Espaillat “Never Not Broken” by Clynthia Burton Graham ### 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.

Help TORCH amplify Black women writers today, tomorrow, and for generations to come! GivingTuesday is a global generosity movement. In the United States, GivingTuesday is locally-led in over 240 communities, networks, and coalitions. Torch Literary Arts is proud to join the many organizations doing important work to positively impact the world. Your support helps TORCH provide vital programs for emerging and experienced Black women writers. Our programs include paid publishing opportunities on TorchLiteraryArts.org, our Wildfire Reading Series that partners with local independent bookstores to showcase notable authors, creative writing and professional development workshops, and our new week-long retreat launching in summer 2023 in Austin, TX. Every bit helps us fulfill our mission to publish, promote, and create advancement opportunities for Black women writers. Please consider giving any amount to help us reach our goal of $15,000 in individual giving for 2022. Thank you for supporting Torch Literary Arts! 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.

Clynthia Burton Graham is a fiction writer whose creative muse is forged from an amalgamation of a New England upbringing- steeped in ghost stories and folk lore- mixed with the raucous chatter of her grandmothers and five aunts sitting at the kitchen table as well as her father’s booming Sunday sermons. Pool these together with being a child of the Black Power Sixty’s and 30 years of working with inner city children and families you understand the timeless elements of love, humor, and drama in her prose. Her work is centered on Black female characters who strive for their definitions of love, life, and light. The utilization of their voices and experiences are rooted in her growing up with the lack of Black female protagonist in the books of her youth. She is grateful for landing in one of the most extraordinary Black Mecca’s for creatives, Baltimore, MD. It is the perfect place to fulfill her exploration of black life, past and present, within an incredible thriving artistic community. Her work has been recognized by the Hurston/Wright Foundation and the Maryland Writers Association, as well as published in Persimmon Tree Literary Magazine, Auburn Avenue, Rigorous Magazine, and many others. Never Not Broken I am mesmerized by his unflinching brokenness. He stares out of the barred windows with static brown eyes flecked with unfallen tears. His drooping head causes his long matted dreadlocks to lay upon his left shoulder. There is no furrow in his brow and his full lips sag at the corners. Jonah is an unmoored vessel undulating between the ether and the loam. My eyes trace the prominent veins running through his hands in anticipation of touching him. When I arrived at Haven Behavioral Health Hospital, I overheard the loam is where Jonah laid after being mistakenly shot because he fit the description. He died, then came back, left the hospital with a clean bill of physical health, and landed here with a clinical diagnosis of akinetic catatonia. I abhor maladies of the soul being categorized. It infers there is a manufactured cure capable of enabling an unburdened walk through this nebulous life-to-death cycle. Just ingest a cocktail of drugs. Listen to repetitive dispassionate words then regurgitate them or have your brain electrified, and “Voila!” Straight bull. Inside this imperfect world focused on perfection in all things and at all costs, the vital synergy between broken and unbroken states is best regenerated by the primal power of touch. This communion of souls penetrates blood and bone until light can be seen without the fog of tears. It is why I am in this enclave of fractured souls. Here I will add to my specialty unwalled collection of people. You see, I also gather broken things. Armless dolls. Toppled bird’s nests. Flattened animal appendages. Where others see nothing of value, I see treasure. From my precious cache, I create splendiferous mosaics exemplifying the beauty of fusion. In my living room, wall striations of my work surround a large painting of the Hindu Goddess Akhiladeshvari, whose name means, never-not-broken. Several years ago, I found her atop eviction belongings under weighted clouds right before the onset of a drenching rain. Her tenet sang to me and like droplets of water on thirsty petals she nourished and validated my ideals. My attention turns from Jonah to Mazel when she grabs the handles of his wheelchair. Before she can push him away, I shoot out my foot to block her. “Ayla, get out the way. You know dern well this man don’t talk. Why you keep pushing up on him?” “Just trying to get to know him,” I respond. “And as I keep telling you. You’re a patient, not a doctor or a savior. Anyway, go get dressed for your one-on-one with Dr. Feaster and fix your glasses.” “Will do, Sargent.” Mazel smiles. Her slender pink-painted lips curl upwards igniting a light blush to spread across her high yellow cheekbones. She is no nurse ratchet, but she runs a tight ship. Still, I lay my hand atop Jonah’s hand, resting in his lap, and I feel it. The alternate interior angles of our parallel lines are equal, which allows an entry point between us. A submerged ball of pain, rejection, and confusion ripples under my fingertips. I try to nudge it, as was done to me once by an old black woman with deep veined hands wizened by the many lives before her, but Mazel jerks the chair backwards. “Come on Ayla. Move.” I apologize, then rise enough to whisper in his ear, “It’s okay to stay in that place for now. Just know we are never not broken. You must learn to flow like water through rocks.” Mazel clucks her tongue before pushing him out of the community room towards the hallway. She stops at the door to yell back, “Fix your glasses.” I leave my spectacles askew, preferring to leave the straight gaze for others requiring a linear view of life. An hour passes with the stretch of an endless mountain range in my monastic room. Finally, Mazel rushes in to hurry me to my session. My lackadaisical movements are not those of a petulant child, but rather a battle-weary soldier. I grab my sketchpad to help me endure Dr. Feaster’s inquisitive and unrelenting diatribe. It is our second meeting, so I must be ready to stifle his fruitless ambitions. The loud tick of the clock on the wall signals me to begin my hour countdown after I sit in a smooth olive-green armchair opposite Dr. Feaster. He clears his throat to draw my attention. This causes me to inwardly giggle since I’ve decided I’m not off the rails in thinking he looks like a villain. A thick black and gray handlebar mustache sweeps out over his thin lips. His egg-shaped bald head, beady pale blue eyes, and the grayish pallor to his skin. He reminds me of a vampire, but as far as I’m concerned he is a different kind of sucker. “So, Ayla, how are you today?” “Fit as a fiddle, Dr. Fester.” “Now Ayla, you know my name is Dr. Feaster. In any case, I spoke with your foster parent, Helen. She told me some interesting and troubling things about you that you haven’t shared. I’d like you to open up and tell me about your life.” “How did you find my surrogate mother, Dr. Freud?” “Feaster. You were a ward of the state. Quite easy to find information about you.” “What did she tell you that perked your interest?” “Many things. Like your husband’s death three years ago after an accidental shooting in your home.” “I see.” “You also didn’t tell me your parents were killed in a car crash when you were five years old and you had no family member able to care for you.” “Um hum.” “Ayla, these are devastating things. Things that can break people.” “I’ve already told you I’m broken. We all are.” “We need to examine these events in your life.” “Does examining matter?” “Yes. This way we may get to the crux of why you were walking in moving traffic. Were you trying to harm yourself? Sometimes people do things to bring attention to their pain.” “I told you I was trying to reach something I thought I saw on the road.” “Do you remember anything about your relationship with your parents? Maybe snippets of dreams you’ve had about them or how you felt about them?” “Ah, Freud it is. Dreams and mothers.” Before he can continue, muddled confusion and screams fill the corridor outside of his office. After multiple beseeching cries of, “Calm down Karen. Let’s get you back to your room,” Dr. Feaster excuses himself to walk out into the chaos. I stay in my seat knowing Karen, the latest patient to enter the hospital, will fail at her much-talked-about escape plan, unlike my successful strategy to get into Haven. In my neighborhood, the “gentrificationers” had created a scarcity of fodder for my collections. They had come to erect a new Eden for those with less melanin in their skin tones and more green in their pockets. With their advance, they halted the rhythm of city kids splashing laughter inside old-school southern greetings riding atop the bop of trap music trailing from cars. Culture and community became ghosts' memories. And then came the pandemic solidifying the apocalyptic, albeit pristine, barrenness of the once colorful and vibrant series of city blocks.. So, a month ago, I came up with a plan to walk into the street amidst moving cars to remedy my loss of collectibles. The cops were called, as I assumed they would be, and I was taken away to the nearest hospital, assessed, then brought here for further psychiatric evaluation. A harried Dr. Feaster comes back into the room and plops into his chair disrupting my quiet reflection. “Sorry about that Ayla. Now, where were we?” “I assume more information from Mama Helen.” “Ah, yes. She also told me you graduated at the top of your class in your undergraduate psychology program and later earned your doctorate in religious studies with a focus on the healing practices of indigenous people. I scanned your dissertation, entitled: Healing without the Drugstore or the Drug Dealer. Very interesting. All quite significant accomplishments by the age of thirty.” “All true.” “Please talk to me about your life, about you.” “Doc, I’m good. Right as rain.” “Are you? The police officers who brought you in took pictures of your collections and the cluttered state of your home. You seem to have a preoccupation with dead or dreadful objects. Why is that?” “You see dead and dreadful. I see beauty and balance. After all, it is the parts of a thing working in tandem that makes it whole. Wouldn’t you agree?” “Yes, I would. Which is why I am asking you to talk about the difficult episodes in your life, so we can get to the crux of what may have developed in your psyche to skew your view of yourself and the world.” Hmm…the crux. But does the origination matter? Damage is just damage whether it comes from your mother or father or whatever causes a soul to separate states of being. For me, I prefer enabling the necessary harmony between the yin and the yang instead of seeking the origin of a fissure and flailing it until all is sunshine and lollipops. And really how long does that last? The streets are full of walking dead, those rehabilitated and then recidivated over and over again. “Well Ayla, it isn’t about curing. It’s about understanding until one is able to manage the manifestations of their troubled soul.” “What’s that quote? Oh yeah, If you give a man a fish, you feed him for a day, if you teach a man to fish, you feed him for a lifetime. I seek to teach and reach through touch and it works not for a day but for all the undulations in a lifetime. So, maybe the real question you should ask yourself is whether you are really helping me and others to cope or if it is just a matter of relegating us to unsustainable functioning conformity and getting handsomely paid to do so?” I feel the hard press of his expensive pen on the page of his leather-bound notebook. He is distressed, noted by the upward tilt of his head and his eyes rolling across the ceiling, while he sifts through his mental index cards for the right lure to reel me in. I smile, then scratch my kinky “needs moisturizing” scalp and wait for the last tick of the hour. “Well, our time is up. We’ll pick up our discussion next week. Please think about talking to me in depth about the traumas in your life. I am eager to advocate for your reentry back into the outside world. With your knowledge of psychology, you know how important it is for someone to open up for needed help after trauma, especially multiple life trauma and that is what I believe we have here. Chickens have come home to roost, per se.” For a scant second, I think about all the “dead chickens” in my life. In silence, I note that is the point. They aren’t coming back. Not with a magic pill nor with a rote series of words. Life is a question mark at every given moment except for the finality of death. “No need to rush me, Doc. Plenty of time to find my diagnosis and heal me.” He smiles as I close my sketchpad, rise, and walk towards the door with a matching grin. The hall is empty as I head to my room to wait for the ring of the dinner bell. With plenty of time to divest myself of today’s therapy session, I prance down the hallways much like a dog shaking off the drench of rain. Late afternoon is evident with waning fall sunlight trickling through the large, barred windows. Shadows creep across the faded blue walls of the community room as patients shuffle in for another unremarkable meal. I get a surprise when I am directed to sit next to Jonah. “I told Dr. Feaster about you pestering this poor man. He suggested sitting you next to him. I guess wishes do come true,” says Mazel with a not wicked but amused laugh. She puts a child’s twenty-five-piece puzzle box on the table between him and I before firing her parting words, “Let’s see if you can put it together as fast as Jesus could.” It is the end of my second week at the hospital, and I have the object of my attention next to me. His gaze is still averted, but I am overjoyed to look into his unfocused eyes. I grab a napkin and wipe a thread of drool from the corner of his mouth, then pick up a puzzle piece. I slide each piece to him, wait for a response, then lay my hand on his before drawing it back and placing it into its perfectly carved space. I do this until the jigsaw is complete. Looking at Jonah, I say, “There it’s done. They are all connected. The easy ones and the hard ones make a whole picture. Just like you will be. I know you can hear me, but I need to know you feel me?” As I wait for a sign from him the day room erupts with chaotic movement. I turn from Jonah to see Clara sailing around the room with one of her many dream catchers. Turquoise and black feathers flutter intoxicated by the breezy flow of air. Brash ceiling lights imbue the glassy beads, intricately woven into the webbed core, with an iridescent glow. Almost every eye in the room is following the colorful trail except Jonah. He remains the quiet eye within the maelstrom. Several moments pass as staff chase Claire with clumsy ferocity. Patient shrieks and laughter elevate the confusion. Just before she is tackled her eyes meet mine and she hard pedal stops, sits at my table, then puts the dreamcatcher on her lap. I lay my hand on hers like I had on my third day here and feel the deceleration of her pulse and the fragments of her fractured state continuing to meld. I look up and around at all the bountiful treasures waiting for my touch. Out of the corner of my eye I see Claire pick up a puzzle piece from the table and place it back into the space I’d already laid it in. I turn to gaze at Jonah. His fixed stance remains the same, but then I notice the slight brushing of his thumb against his index finger. I smile inside the swell of an old English nursery rhyme my mother used to sing to me. It twirls around and around in my head. Mistress Mary, Quite contrary, How does your garden grow? With Silver Bells, And Cockle Shells, And so my garden grows. ### 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.

Glenis Redmond is a performance poet, a Kennedy Center Teaching Artist, a Cave Canem alumni, and the poet laureate of Greenville, South Carolina. Her volumes of poetry include: Backbone (Underground Epics, 2000), Under the Sun (Main Street Rag, 2002), and What My Hand Say (Press 53, 2016). Listening Skin (Four Way Books, 2022), Three Harriets & Others (Finishing Line Press, 2022), and Praise Songs for Dave the Potter, Art by Jonathan Green, and Poetry by Glenis Redmond (University of Georgia Press, 2022). She is presently working on a seventh collection, Port Cities: Portals of the Second (Domestic) Middle Passage. In 2020 Glenis received the highest arts award in South Carolina, the Governor’s Award. She was inducted into the South Carolina Academy of Authors in April. Since 2014, Glenis has served as the mentor poet for the National Student Poets Program through Scholastic Art and Writing Awards. In the past she has prepared these exceptional youth poets to read at the Library of Congress, the Department of Education, and for First Lady Michelle Obama at The White House. Glenis has spent almost three decades touring the country as a poet and teaching artist. She served as the Poet-in-Resident for the Peace Center in Greenville and the State Theatre in New Brunswick, NJ. As a Kennedy Center Teaching Artist, for seventeen years, Glenis has created and facilitated poetry workshops for school districts across the country. Her poetry has been showcased on NPR and PBS and has been most recently published in The North Carolina Literary Review, Orion Magazine, storySouth, and The New York Times, as well as numerous literary journals nationally and internationally. Glenis believes poetry is the mouth that speaks when all other mouths are silent. Visit her website and follow her on Instagram. Ghosts To say he ghosted me insults ghosts, my haints linger in healing clusters. When I need them most, they drop coin heads up, leave a feather on my path, flicker the streetlights in a show of solidarity. So, no he did not ghost me. He did the most human thing— left without explanation, an intentional taking of my heart. His silence, a violence, a quiet war I battle with someone I was coming to love. His leaving suggests another side of him I did not see. My eyeglasses tinted rose. I don’t always see red flags clearly. Sometimes I think them decorations for a parade. With him, I’m left with an unknown, but he did not ghost me. My ghosts comfort, they don’t leave, they cleave. 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.

The Community of Literary Magazines and Presses speaks with Torch Literary Arts' founder/executive director, Amanda Johnston, about TORCH and what's ahead. Published Oct. 18, 2022 Excerpt from the spotlight. TORCH recently updated its publishing model. Can you tell us about your new features and the writing you’re interested in championing? The pandemic showed us that support for writers, especially Black women and women of color, is needed now more than ever. Part of our relaunch this year included increasing our publishing opportunities and paying all accepted features going forward. For TORCH, we now curate a Monthly Feature spotlighting a more established writer, as well as Friday Features selected from the submissions we receive from around the world. We publish up to 64 Black women writers annually this way and will add special features on occasion. We seek submissions of original poetry, fiction, hybrid genres, drama, and screenplays. Send us work that takes risks and pushes the boundaries of what creative writing can do. Surprise us! Share stories that pull the reader in and poems that conjure images that electrify the imagination. Read the full feature online at CLMP. 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.

Almah LaVon Rice is a creature of myth rumored to be working on a speculative novella. Her fiction has been supported by The Black Unicorn and Archive Project, the Unicorn Authors Club, Blue Mountain Center, and the Pittsburgh Foundation. Follow her website and on Instagram. VIGIL by Almah LaVon Rice It is the best, most unbearable part of the day. After hours of making phone calls, distributing flyers, and posting in the “Let’s Find Nerissa!!!” Facebook page, Imani permits herself one confection: holding Ziggy, Kissy, and Turtle and howling into their plush stomachs. The three stuffed cows were–are, Imani berates herself--Nerissa’s favorites. They become Imani’s favorite creatures, too, because with their chronic, stitched-on smiles they are the only things in the world that have the decency to stay still. Imani settles back on the little-girl bed. Stapled. The only movement she will allow are the tears, which crawl into her ears like insects. Her neighbors are coming home from work–laughing, cheep-cheeping their car doors and trying to bring in all of their groceries in one trip. The sun, the most mindless shift worker of them all, is heading to sea for its evening dip. Her son, Damon, games in his room but she can still hear the muffle of men being killed, threats neutralized. She takes his cracking voice and exploding acne as the insults that they were intended. Her husband, Malik, is making his haphazard music with the pots and pans, cutlery clink, and ping. The smell of the holy trinity being sautéd somehow slithers under the closed door, turning her stomach. Malik insists on making infuriatingly balanced dinners for all of them. Well, not all of them. He refuses to set out a plate and a small portion for Nerissa, like Imani has begged him to. Malik might leave her, finally. Imani is not sure she cares. You’re going overboard, warns the Greek chorus of her friends, her mother, and even her therapist. Imani has squeezed their bank account dry with the shaman, the psychics, and the private investigators who seemed to rely more on Google than shoe leather. She maxed out their credit cards buying gifts–a luxury dollhouse, limited edition figurines–for her baby girl. Nerissa deserved a welcome-home party with presents, didn’t she? Malik suggested that they move and his wife didn’t look at him for two days. “You know, make new memories?” he tried to explain to Imani’s back. But the old memories were perfectly fine–plus, how could Nerissa find them if they moved away? Imani found that no matter what the articles said, grief had an expiration date. It was okay to rock and nurse the silhouette of a missing daughter for a time, according to her mother nem, but sympathies curdled if. If…you went on like this, keening in a too-small bed for a little girl assumed dead. Detective Ross said as much in their living room ages ago, shifting from foot to foot and avoiding their eyes. “Three hours,” he said. “If something…final…happened to her, it happened within the first three hours of abduction, statistically speaking.” The detective finally looked at Malik imploringly, as if it was the shell-shocked father’s job to rescue him. He would not dare look at Imani, whose animal moans made him nauseous. After that first visit, he never returned, had his assistant pick up Imani’s calls. If I could turn back time, Imani thought, Cher had no fucking idea. If she could, she would peel the days back like a blood orange. It would be dark and sweet to see Damon lose his chin hairs, to confound the sun. To live, once again, in the same year that they had lost Nerissa in. To have just found her Princess Tiana backpack in a swampy field, search teams swarming with hope. Malik calls to her now, from the other side of the door. Dinner is ready. She is not. ### 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.

Photo by Dani Fresh Julia Mallory (she/they) is a storyteller working with a range of medium from text to textiles. She is a six-time author, including two children’s books. Their latest book, Survivor’s Guilt is an archive of survivorship that chronicles generational grief through photographs, poetry, and prose. As a sought-out speaker, panelist, and facilitator, Julia’s work has been featured in various community settings, classrooms, and conferences. She is also the founder of the creative container, Black Mermaids, and serves as the Senior Poetry Editor for Raising Mothers. Their work can be found in Barrelhouse, The Offing, the Black Speculative Arts Movement exhibition "Curating the End of the World: RED SPRING”, Stellium Literary Magazine, MadameNoire, and elsewhere. Their short, experimental film, Grief is the Glitch, premiered on the spring 2022 film festival circuit. Follow Julia on their website and on Instagram and Twitter. Reclaiming Our Time By Julia Mallory Leah was brought on the project team to replace Bob, who had been glitching for the last month when the most recent grievance filed against him exhausted his Time Bank™. Apparently, Bob had a meltdown at the employee appreciation luncheon after his attempt didn’t go as planned to tell several Black employees that it was a safe space if they wanted to eat any of the fried chicken from the buffet. Or maybe it did go as planned. No one could be sure. The employees filed a group grievance through the Reclaiming Our Time app, leaving his balance in the red and him in an in-between realm. Now Leah was co-managing the project with Karen and they were close to wrapping it up. There was a massage with Leah's name on it and she wanted to take the rest of the afternoon off. There had been an exchange of emails all morning to meet the ambitious timeline they had agreed to. They were near a resolution when the communication stalled. Leah refreshed her email inbox hoping there was an explanation from Karen about her final question. No email. "One last area that needs clarification and we're done," Leah proudly whispered to herself before trying Karen's extension. No answer. She gathered up her things because she was leaving one way or another and headed to the elevator hoping to catch Karen at her desk or hanging out at a co-worker’s cubicle. When she exited the elevator, she caught the red velvet ends of her friend Kam’s faux locs. She put some pep in her step to catch up with her. “Kam! Hey girl!” Kam reversed and half-spun, to face Leah. “I thought I heard someone calling my name! What are you doing down here?” “Chile, I’m looking for Karen. I'm trying to wrap this project because I’m getting ready to leave early. Have you seen her?” Kam squinted at her friend, "Oooh, you got a hot lunch date, don’t you? Why you leaving early?" "First of all, why are you all up in my business? But if you must know, I have a massage appointment." “Is that what we’re calling it these days?” Leah laughed at her friend’s antics. “Why is your mind always there?” “Ain’t nuthin wrong with being there, you should try it sometime.” Leah rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “Now that you know my business, where is the woman that is standing between my massage and me?” “I’m just teasing. You know you deserve it.” “Mmmmm. Hmmmm.” “Oh. Girl. Karen is glitching over by the watercooler.” “Again? Whelp. I guess I will be making the final decision and submitting to the larger team for review.” “I mean, it’s not like you need her input anyway. You’re the best thing to happen to that team.” “Don’t gas me up…sike, gas me up!” The laughter flowed freely between them. “So, what happened this time with your lil friend, Karen?” “I wasn’t in the office for more than three minutes and here she come, talembout, ‘Oh my gosh Kam. You’re always changing your hair. I just can’t keep up. I didn’t even recognize you.’” “They never recognize us but they always know it’s us when they want to make these comments.” “EXACTLY.” “I didn’t even respond, I just picked up my phone from my desk and she knew what time it was. She turned as red as the end of my locs. I made sure that she could see that I opened the Reclaiming My Time app and then I filed my grievance.” “I know that’s right!” Leah’s voice got a little louder than she expected. Kam continued, “I requested two hours because of the time the exchange took, what it was keeping me from, the conversation I knew I was going to have about the experience—like now, and the future time for the brief moments I would think about it. It was approved instantly.” “So, lil Ms. Karen was all out of time, huh?” “Yup! I guess somebody ain’t been attending their Time Waster Conversion Therapy™ Sessions. “It’s so wild! They are getting taxed for wasting Black folks time and they still can’t help themselves. You know Bob has been out of commission for a month.” “Listen. How are things up on your floor?” “Girrlll. They barely talk to me because they know I’m taxing every chance I get.” “And did you hear that someone tried to hack the Time Bank™ to restore their balances and block new grievances?” “Oh, hell no!” “It didn’t work tho.” “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they didn’t want to work.” “I’ll be damned. Not them still finding a way to get out of work.” Leah leaned towards Kam and whispered as the latest temp walked by, “that new temp is kinda foine.” “Girrrrrrl. Kinda?! Is the agency called the Fine Factory because that’s all that comes from there?!” “I’on know what it’s called but imma keep doing my duty to slide opportunities to them by reporting these white folks for wasting our time.” “I see you still going through your phase of loving these Ralph Angel look-a-likes.” “Please teleport to hell.” Leah stared straight at Kam. “I mean…I’m just glad you outgrew the Al B. Sure-looking-brothas era.” “Remind me why we’re friends again?” Kam started singing Earth, Wind & Fire, “The reasons that we're here.” The new temp looked over as Leah snorted. Kam held up her finger to her lips. “Shhhh, girl. Baby Bordelon was checking you out.” Leah had tears in her eyes. “Girl, you are such a mess. I love you.” “I love you, too. Now get out of here and go get your massage! C’mon, I’ll walk you back to the elevator.” When the elevator stopped, Leah stepped to the side to let the passenger exit. “Hey Leah. Hey Kam.” Kam and Leah made eye contact. “Wait. Was that Bob?” ### 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.

Khalisa Rae is an award-winning poet, educator, and journalist in Durham, NC. She is the author of the debut poetry collection, Ghost in a Black Girl's Throat (Red Hen Press 2021), and Contributing Writer for Kindred. Her essays are featured in Autostraddle, Catapult, LitHub, as well as articles in Jezebel, Blavity, B*tch Media, NBC-BLK, and others. Her poetry appears in Southern Humanities Review, Gravy, Frontier Poetry, Florida Review, Rust & Moth, PANK, HOBART, among countless others. She is the winner of the Appy Award, Vulgar Genius, Bright Wings Poetry contest, the Furious Flower Gwendolyn Brooks Poetry Prize, among other prizes. Currently, she serves as Publications Coordinator for Split This Rock and EIC of Think in Ink BIPOC collective. Her YA novel in verse, Unlearning Eden, is forthcoming. Follow Khalisa on her website and on Instagram and Twitter. Wind Watching What if Dorothy wasn’t afraid of the wind? What if she welcomed the cyclone? The thought of being lifted, suspended in air as release. What if she saw it as escape, being tossed and jolted? Maybe a change would occur if she shook fast enough. Maybe she liked not knowing if her body would survive the catch and release. Maybe being picked up and let go in another’s chaos was freeing. I imagine she was raptured before the light of the day had kissed the earth. The swirl approached and she went willingly. Threw her head and arms back, and lets it consume her. Maybe she had been waiting to be swept off her feet by a wild, uncontrollable thing. ### 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.

Photo by Femi Aaron Camara Aaron is an Aries. She is also a writer and filmmaker, based in New York City. She is curious about Black histories and near futures, how the digital interacts with our IRL connections, and (most of all) how to love well. She graduated from Yale University in 2021, where she studied film & media. Follow her on Twitter and Instagram. MatchMade Stop swiping. Find your better half. “What’re you looking for?” “Shade.” Heather wiped her face with her shirt. The city was sweltering, the sun burning her like a slap on the back. She looked up and saw Kamari holding his hands over her. Side by side, they made a makeshift cover. “I mean, in general,” he prodded. “The usual,” Kamari laughed as she adjusted to fit under his sliver of shade. “Somebody on my level.” It was why she downloaded MatchMade two weeks ago. Six Hot Girl Summers had passed her by. There wouldn’t be a barren seventh. Plus, her friend Alicia swore by it and Alicia was really picky. He opened the door for her when they reached the gallery. Inside, the art was as sun-bleached as the street. It was an interpretation of the desert, Kamari explained. Her phone trilled, interrupting him: MatchMade’s tone. She couldn’t check it with him right there. She followed him to the first painting. When he moved closer, she glanced at her screen. MatchMade You’ve been upgraded. Read more. Alicia said the app did this automatically, optimizing your matches as new users entered the pool. Heather skimmed her home page. Four days earlier, she found Kamari. There was a new face now: shiny teeth and blond hair. She clicked the banner. MatchMade This new match better reflects your level of education. It made Heather’s stomach hurt. She kept her voice casual as she asked, “Where’d you go to school again?” Kamari looked back at her, then down at the phone in her hand. She didn’t move to hide it. “I didn’t,” he shrugged. She rocked in place. “I’m going to keep looking around,” she said. Kamari nodded. She almost didn’t move with him watching her. But then, he turned back and she drifted away. She settled alone on the opposite side of the gallery. The back of her neck burned. She was allowed to want better for herself, wasn’t she? Without meaning to, her gaze slid off the art and to Kamari. “I never got modern art.” She wasn’t alone anymore. A blond man stood next to her. Her upgrade recognized her recognizing him and smiled. “So, what do you do?” There wasn’t much information on MatchMade profiles to make people open up, but Heather felt herself cross her arms. She uncrossed them. “I’m a medic.” She knew it was nothing to be ashamed of. It was a good job, helping people, but she felt his wince more than saw it. “That’s…” He trailed off, glancing past her. Heather followed his gaze. Behind her, there was another woman examining another painting. She was taller, thinner, paler than Heather. “That’s intense.” He finished, landing back on her. He was optimizing, beating the algorithm to the punch, seeing if anybody better was there. When she told Kamari her job, he nodded. “You have a healing touch. I can sense it.” At the time, she ignored it as flirtation or maybe, a poet’s tendency towards flourish. Her work was lonely and brutal. She tended to people at their most desperate. But now, she appreciated that when he said it, he drew closer. Most people pulled back. “I’m actually here with somebody,” Heather told her upgrade. She walked away, spine straight. But when she reached Kamari, her hands were sweaty. Who was she to doubt the app? She couldn’t decide how to approach him. So, she stared at the painting, bands of pale pink the same color as his palms, searching for what fascinated him. He stood, knees cracking, and she finally spoke. “I never asked. What are you looking for?” Kamari stretched his hips. “I’m still figuring that out.” He started for the next painting and Heather fell in step with him. “You know, me too.” ### 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.

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: "The Spook Who Poemed by Her Altar and Not at the Feet of Academia" by Edythe Rodriguez "Elegy for [Redacted]" by Kindall Gant "Vigilante" by Alexa Patrick "Crest" by C. Prudence Arceneaux "Among Peaches" by Lynne Thompson "Sestina for the Stars" by Nikki Patin ### 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.

Benin Lemus (she|her) is a poet and an educator based in South Los Angeles. She earned her B.A. in English from Bennett College in North Carolina and an MFA in Film and Television Production from the University of Southern California. Her debut poetry collection, Dreaming in Mourning, will be published by World Stage Press in November 2022. Benin is a 2022 Inaugural Workshop Fellow with Obsidian Magazine’s O|Sessions: Black Listening–A Performance Master Class and Honorable Mention in the Furious Flower Poetry Center’s annual poetry competition with Tim Seibles as the Finalist Judge. Her work is published online and in print, most recently in A Gathering of Tribes Magazine, edited by Quincy Troupe, and Love Letters in Light, a poetry-based public art project curated by Leila Hamidi. She has performed at Pasadena LitFest, Center Theatre Group, and World Stage Performance Gallery. Visit her online at beninlemus.com and on Instagram. Driving east on I-40, Aida is in the backseat staring out the window while the three of us sing along to Mary J. Blige’s “You Remind Me,” not thinking about the lyrics. We love Mary, and our girl, who has a 9:30 am appointment at the abortion clinic. We ride along for moral support and will wait for her at the nearby pancake house. Nikki wonders aloud if she would have the courage to have an abortion if she got pregnant. No one says what they would do. Kelly notes for the second time she is no longer eating meat. I want to ask my friends what it feels like to truly have the experience of being in love, but I don’t say anything. Aida’s in the clinic waiting room, three hundred dollars cash in her wallet, the money we extracted from her then-boyfriend, who wouldn’t take her calls when she told him she was pregnant. Now she is in the waiting room like all the other college girls who want to get on with their lives. Halfway through the too-sweet orange juice, Kelly tells us that Mary J. is dating K-CI from Jodeci and thinks they make a great couple. Nikki says she hears the pain of experience in her voice. What does it mean to be experienced? Sometimes it’s touch that lasts for what feels like forever. Sometimes it’s an imprint that doesn’t go away quickly enough. I think Mary has been in love and it hurt. We are 20-year-old girls playing poorly at being women in our friend’s borrowed car, miles away from our campus in a town that might as well be on another planet. White girls with flaxen hair. Our brown faces in a sea of whiteness. Kelly confesses she had an abortion the summer before she came to college. Her boyfriend was on his way to Rutgers, pre-med. We nod our heads because we know men’s dreams are the dreams of a nation. Women must not get in the way. Nikki asks Kelly about her dreams. We wait outside the clinic at the park across the street. This college town is more beautiful than our hometowns. We know Aida can’t bring a Black baby into this world if she can’t have this world. The girls send me inside to help Aida to the car because they say I know how to talk to white people. I understand what they mean. I speak to the doctor to make sure everything went well. He tells me Aida will need a prescription and rest over the weekend. I look at my friend standing at the nurses’ station. She is not sad. She is not happy. She is quiet with an expression that even I, a burgeoning poet, cannot read. We leave the clinic. Nikki reminds Aida if her ex-boyfriend calls the payphone on our floor, to not answer it. We will show him the receipt if he wants proof that she went through with it. I offer to drive us back. Prince’s “Diamonds and Pearls” plays. Aida’s in the backseat again, staring out the window. Nikki holds her hand. Kelly turns up the volume and I pull out of the parking lot toward I-40 west driving us back to campus, in time for dinner. ### 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: "Grapeseed Fields" by Obi Nwizu "As Cool As You Please" by Erica Nicole Griffin "The Color of Nana's Wish" by Elizabeth de Souza "We All Do Stupid Things" by Brianna Johnson "Obsessed" by Boloere Seibidor ### 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.