Khadijah AbdulHaqq is a mother of five. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts. Her work is forthcoming and has appeared in HerStry, Believers Bailout, Haute Hijab, and elsewhere. She is the author of, Nanni’s Hijab, a children’s book on empathy and awareness. Khadijah is currently seeking an agent, and working on her unlinked short story collection. When Khadijah isn’t writing or mothering, she is binging on Netflix and Hulu. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter. “Things You Get at Starbucks” Things you can get at Starbucks: A mocha macchiato with almond milk A frozen tomato and pesto sandwich half-warmed in the microwave A baby To get a baby you don’t go into the drive-thru. Your husband is running late. So, you volunteer to go inside and get his coffee. You stand behind a man in a Brooks Brothers suit and wait for him to order. “A mocha macchiato with soy and three sugars," he says. You always get a mocha macchiato and three sugars. Three sugars are just right. Not too sweet. Too much sugar spoils the coffee. “Good taste,” you say. You think your voice is low but it’s not. He can hear you. He looks over his shoulder and says, “Thank you.” You’re stunned for a moment but you collect yourself and say, “That’s my drink. The mocha macchiato with three sugars. Except, instead of soy, I take mine with almond milk.” He looks you up and down. His eyes are so wide and dark like onyx. His eyelashes look better than yours. He has the face of a gazelle-- a cross between Shamar Moore and Morris Chestnut. It doesn’t matter because they’re both fine as hell. Then you remember the fuzzy grey slippers on your feet. Your hair looks like you've been hit by a lightning bolt. And your breath is warm, not hot but it could use some freshening up. Your face fills with blood and the pressure causes your eyes to bulge. Your gut begins to bubble and need to leave before you crap all over the Starbucks lobby’s floor. You leave without ordering. Your husband asks where’s his coffee? You say the line was long and you have to get home. The next day, you do your makeup and hair before going to Starbucks. And even though your husband isn’t late, you volunteer to go inside and get coffee. “I’ll go,” he says. “You went yesterday.” You protest. “No, that’s okay. I can do it,” you say. But you know if you protest too much it will make him suspicious, and then he’ll want to go inside to see what has you so intrigued. You acquiesce. No Brooks Brothers. For the next two weeks, you go to Starbucks every day at the same time to look for Brooks Brothers. Each time, you do your hair and cake on layers of foundation, concealer, and primer to hide all your flaws and highlight your best features. You even purchased magnetic lashes to match his. Despite your efforts, there is no Brooks Brothers. Two weeks go by before you see him again. He rides past you one morning in his Tesla. The same white Tesla you drive. We have so much in common, you think. You give him a half smile and crack the Mulan rouge matte color number six on your lips. He doesn’t acknowledge you and rides right past you. Another two weeks go by. You have all but given up on ever seeing him again. You buy bags of Starbucks Pike’s Place at the grocery store. You get a pint of almond milk creamer. And when your husband asks you why you haven’t gone to Starbucks for your usual. You say, “I can make my own damn coffee.” But it’s a lie. You’re a horrible coffee maker. Your coffee tastes like burnt cigarettes. No amount of creamer can fix it. After a few morning cups of your cigarette bath water coffee, your husband begs you to stop making coffee and to please go to Starbucks. Reluctantly, you do. This time you don’t wear makeup. You don’t curl your hair or brush your teeth. You wear clown-printed flannel pajamas and your fuzzy grey slippers. “I like this better,” a voice says, from behind you. You look back. It’s Brooks Brothers. He is even finer than you remember. Maybe get his number this time, you think. But Brooks Brothers wants something. You’re not sure what it is but you go with it. He takes you by the hand to the bathroom. You don't resist even though your breath is still hot from a long night’s restless sleep. And you haven’t showered yet. You don’t know him from a can of spray paint but you don’t ask what he’s doing or why he’s doing it. You just go. You've been thinking of him night and day for two and a half weeks and you want nothing more than to bury your face in his neck. You want to rub his sculpted chest that begs for your attention underneath his button-up. You want to feel his hands on you. You know you shouldn’t. You know just thinking about Brooks Brothers (and you still call him that because you haven’t asked him his name) is breaking a secret covenant of being a faithful wife. Still, you go. In the bathroom, Brooks Brothers tells you he’s been watching you for weeks. “You’re married,” he says. You wonder when did he first come to know this? How long has he known? How long has he been watching you? “Yes,” you say. “I’m aware.” You want to be the faithful, dutiful wife. You want to save yourself for your husband. Guard your body. Have babies together. Give your mother-in-law the grandbabies she’s been nagging for. “When are you going to have a grandbaby for me?” she said, after your husband’s cousin Aliza’s baby shower. Then again when your sister-in-law announced her pregnancy. She tells you that she has a doctor friend that can help you with hormones to fix your little problem. She doesn't know that you've spent thousands of dollars on fertility testing. She has no idea that your husband has a low sperm count. And erectile dysfunction. And it is him with the little baby-making problem. And that you two haven’t had sex in two years after the diagnosis. She doesn’t know that there won’t be any grandbabies. So, when Brooks Brothers grabs you by the hands and takes you into Starbucks bathroom and pulls your pants down and asks you “Is this what you want?” you say yes, softly like a child, who’s begging for his favorite candy. And when he presses himself inside of you, you’re not angry or scared. You like it. You welcome it. You need it. You open for it. In between the pauses of your heavy breathing, you beg him not to stop. He does. Afterward, he tears two sheets of brown paper towel off-- one for you and one for him. He uses his towel to wipe off the front of his pants. You clean yourself up as much as you can with a brown paper towel and the low-flow water coming out of the sink. Brooks Brothers grab you by the hand again and guides you into the lobby. Your husband is standing at the door. He's been waiting for you. He heard people were screwing in the bathroom. He laughed at how ridiculous the thought of that was. “That’s crazy,” he said. He almost pisses his pants when he sees you and Brooks Brothers coming out of the bathroom. I see why you were so pressed to get dolled up for coffee,” he says. “I just want to look good,” he says, mimicking you. “Self-esteem, my ass.” He rushes home and packs his clothes in a duffle bag, including his Brooks Brothers suits. “I’m going to my mother’s,” he says. You don’t care anymore because you’re tired of his drama. And you are certain that you can get more action from Brooks Brothers. “Maybe next time we’ll do it in his Tesla,” you say. It’s been a month since you’ve seen or heard from Brooks Brothers. You go to Starbucks and sit in the parking lot. You're still a little embarrassed from the scene you two made in the bathroom. Something is going on with your body. Your breasts are sore. Your period is late. The smell of mocha macchiato with three sugars makes you want to vomit. During her last visit, your mother said you look different: “I can’t quite put my finger on it. But your face is glowing,” she said. After a while, getting out of bed becomes difficult. When you tell your doctor how you’ve been feeling, she tells you "I think you're pregnant. You need a pregnancy test.” “Pregnant,” you say. “Impossible.” But you know it’s totally possible. You try to convince yourself that you only did it once and you can’t get pregnant standing up. "Don't be silly", you tell yourself. "You know better." You pee on a stick. Two faint pink lines appear. It’s true: you’re pregnant. And you know Brooks Brothers is the father. Your spouse calls. He leaves a message: “I want to come home,” he says. You miss him too. Under any other circumstance, it would be nice to share the news with him. You'd have him massage your pregnant belly. Bring you tea to calm the nausea. Rub your swollen feet. You almost tell him about the baby. You pause and catch yourself. You think you’re not ready for the backlash. The tears. The crying. The arguing. It’s too soon, you reason as you rub your hand over your not yet protruding belly. A baby is all that you’ve ever wanted. All that any of you have ever wanted especially your mother-in-law. When the time is right, if it's ever right, you’ll tell him. You ignore the messages. You consider informing Brooks Brothers. Maybe he should know that he put a baby in you. Would he want to know? What if he thinks you’re crazy for even thinking of keeping the baby? For telling him? You run a thousand scenarios through your mind of how things can go wrong. And despite the possible outcomes, you’ve decided. You’re telling him. You go to Starbucks to look for Brooks Brothers again. This time you go inside. The barista remembers you. “Ahh! The bathroom,” she says. You’re embarrassed but you need to find Brooks Brothers to tell him about the baby. So, you accept her brazen remarks and think the next time she says something slick you’ll pop her in the mouth. You smile politely and ask for Brooks Brothers. She tells you that she hasn’t seen him since the night in the bathroom. But his wife comes in around eight in the morning. “She gets his regular and hers too,” she says. “One mocha macchiato, three sugars and almond milk and sugar, and one matcha tea latte, iced.” She giggles like she knows a secret. She smiles and looks over her shoulder to see if anyone is standing within an earshot and says, “Maybe that’s what gets him off-- women who drink macchiatos.” You knock over the green straws and storm out the door. “Bitch,” you say. You’re upset that Brooks Brothers is married but not too much. You want the baby. You want the baby more than anything. Even if Brooks Brothers never knows about it. Even if your husband abandons you. You don’t want to hide. You don’t want to lie. After the news of the baby settles in your heart, you tell your husband that you're pregnant. And of course, he tells his mother. But he doesn’t tell her about you and Brooks Brothers. That’s too much to share. She would be devastated to find out the baby that you’re carrying isn’t her son’s. You can already hear her planning the baby shower. “We’ll have it at Aliza’s house, and have it catered,” she’ll say. “Maybe have chicken and mushroom fritters, roasted peppers, and stuffed salmon.” Instead of letting you dress yourself, she’ll bring you maternity clothing that she has been collecting since you two got married. Oversized baby doll shirts plastered with pink daisies and yellow butterflies. She’ll bring you food to eat. She’ll tell you how much sleep you should get per night. Her excitement jumps through the phone. “I knew it would happen sooner or later.” Your husband isn’t so happy. You two have been through difficulties. You have battle scars. He’s cheated—multiple times. Women have shown up on your doorstep claiming they were pregnant. A year ago, one arrived in the middle of the night. She wanted to catch him off guard. See the shock on your face. She said they were planting seeds. They were going to raise babies together. She told you with a cunning smirk plastered on her caked-up face your husband said you were a lousy wife who wears nothing but pajamas all day. That you don’t do your hair. That you never wear make-up. And he's no longer attracted to you and avoids having sex with you at all costs. She said he told her you wanted a baby and that his mother wanted a baby. And he never planned to have a baby with you. With the woman standing there, in your living room, he began to beg and plead for your forgiveness. He had gone too far. There was pity on his face. Sorrow. Now when he looks at your beaming face, he wishes he could take it all back. Start anew and put everything behind him. He would make it right. Take more vitamins. Buy more sperm-producing drug treatments. Exercise more. Even wear those cooling drawers you bought him. Anything to be the father of your baby. It's been three months, two weeks, and two days since you saw Brooks Brothers. You dream about him. You wonder if the baby will have his eyes. His moist chocolate skin. The doctor says in less than sixty days you’ll be able to know the gender. You dream about having a girl. You want to dress her in matching pink dresses and shoes. You’ll put matching bows in your hair. People will gush over the two of you when you take your daily walk in the park and say: “Aren’t you two just the cat’s meow.” You’ll blush and say, “Thank you!” It's just the reaction you were going for. Your husband comes back home. He wants to help you through this. “I know it’s not my baby. And I know it will be a struggle but we can do this,” he says. He holds your hair when you throw up. He holds your hand and rubs your belly to calm your nausea. You cry when you can’t make it to the bathroom and hurl vomit all over your shirt. “I’ll wash it for you,” he says. He makes every doctor’s appointment. Calls off work, if he has to. And when the tech tells you “It’s a boy!” you’re disappointed but he shouts so loudly the other techs run into the room to see what's going on. No pink hair bows. At five months, your mother-in-law goes with the two of you. She tells you she just wants to be there if you need her. But actually, she wants to be involved like she is with everything. You ask the doctor if you are allowed to have coffee. She says, “Just a little. No more than an eight-ounce cup at the most.” They protest. “Coffee isn’t good for the baby,” Your husband says. “A little won’t hurt,” the doctor says. The first thing you do is a B-line for Starbucks. You go at least twice a week now. You get the usual: a mocha macchiato with three sugars and almond milk. You never drink the full cup. You just want a little taste. You never see Brooks Brothers. You’re not even sure you’re looking for him anymore. You have all you need. At seven months, you start to have contractions. The doctor says “They’re just Braxton Hicks--false contractions. Lay off the coffee and drink more water.” Your mother-in-law tells you to put your feet up. Three weeks later, you see blood in the toilet and go straight to the hospital. You beg the doctor to save the baby. “I’ll do my best,” she says. “But he may have to stay in the NICU for a while.” You kind of wish you could tell Brooks Brothers. Maybe it’s better if you don’t, you think. Ten hours and twenty-four minutes later, you have a bouncing baby girl. She slid perfectly into your husband’s hands. Tears run down his face. The baby’s wails echo throughout the hospital. “Her lungs are strong,” he says. He whispers into your ear, "I'll look for him if you want." You shake your head no. “She’s right where she belongs,” you say. He calls his mother and tells her the tech was wrong, and you gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. Her creamy yellow skin looks like yours. Her bright brown eyes look like yours. And she has thick curly hair like yours. Not Brooks Brothers. She stays in the hospital for four weeks. The day finally comes for you to take her home. You dress her in a pink dress, pink booties, and a pink hat. “We’ll take pictures when we get home,” you say. At home, everyone is there waiting for you and your baby girl: Cousin Aliza, your mother, your sister-in-law, and a few close friends. Your mother-in-law called them. They each have gifts. Most are for the baby. Some are for you. You open one from your husband. It’s a coffee mug from Starbucks with a note that reads: “For our morning coffee at home.” You lean over and kiss him on the cheek and whisper in his ear, “From now on, you make the coffee.” ### 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.

Applications are open for Torch's inaugural creative writing retreat in Austin, TX. Torch Literary Arts is proud to launch our inaugural creative writing retreat scheduled for July 23-30, 2023 in Austin, TX. We welcome applications from Black women writers with works in progress across poetry, fiction, and script (plays or screenplays). Applications are open and will be accepted from March 19 - April 2, 2023. There is no fee to apply or attend the retreat. Six fellows (2 poetry, 2 fiction, and 2 script) will be selected by a committee. Fellows will receive comfortable accommodations at the Colton House Hotel, breakfast and lunch daily, and dedicated writing time. There will also be curated talks with industry professionals and fellows will participate in a public reading at the end of the week. Visit the retreat page for details and to apply. 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.

Workshops, the TORCH Wildfire Reading Series, panels, and more! Torch Literary Arts provides programs at no cost to attendees. Donations are appreciated. TORCH Wildfire Reading Series Feb. 23 at 6:00 p.m. Black Pearl Books Torch Literary Arts is proud to present an evening with Yesenia Montilla, author of Muse Found in a Colonized Body, and Raina J. León, author of black god mother this body. Jasminne Mendez, author of City Without Altar, will moderate a Q&A after the reading. Workshop: Writers Be Blockin with Ebony Stewart Feb. 26 a 3:00 p.m. - Virtual Writers Be Blockin is an opportunity to find your voice and new ways to tell, revamp, or edit the same story to ignite ideas for writing and creating with a purpose. Expect discussion, digging, and honesty surrounding self, imposter syndrome, and puzzle pieces to start connecting. Registration is now full. The Turn Up: Black Women in the Writers' Room March 16 at 6:00 p.m. Vuka North Lamar Torch Literary Arts is proud to present The Turn Up: Black Women in the Writers' Room featuring Jonterri Gadson (Netflix), Vannessa Jackson (SNL), and Chinaka Hodge (Disney+)! Panelists will share their experiences writing for some of your favorite TV shows and the joys and challenges of building a career inside the writers' room. Breaking Water: Poetry & Storytelling on Black Maternal Health April 13 at 7:00 p.m. The Contemporary - Laguna Gloria Torch Literary Arts and Black Mamas ATX proudly present Breaking Water: An Evening of Poetry & Storytelling. Inspired by Wangechi Mutu’s Water Woman, this program will speak to Black women’s physical and mythical connection to water, specifically during and around the process of childbirth. Workshop: Write What You Know: Creating Relatable Characters for the Screen with Evelyn Ngugi March 27 at 6:00 p.m. - Virtual Before you ever write a script, a lot of foundational work goes into creating memorable characters that viewers will latch on to (or love to hate). In this class, we’ll use examples from popular shows, online skits, and even public figures to understand what makes a truly relatable character. Workshop: Turning a Phrase with Zora with Ariana Brown May 24 at 7:00 p.m. - Virtual Beautiful writing isn’t just about imagery—it’s also about finding simple, innovative ways of expressing an idea. In this class, we’ll study the work of Zora Neale Hurston, focusing on how she uses emotional yet straightforward language to convey complex ideas. 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 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Valoneecia Tolbert has been honing her skills as a playwright during the pandemic, with the dramaturgical support of Florinda Bryant and the mentorship of Sarah Saltwick (MFA Playwriting, Michener Fellow, UT Austin) and Performance Platform Austin. This award-winning artist has extensive professional experience as an actor, voice-over artist, and dancer. Most recently, her new work, Tales of Blerd Ballerina received the B Iden Payne Award nomination for Best New Play and achieved the honor of Best New Comedy. Valoneecia, herself. received a B Iden Payne award for Best Lead in a Comedy. You can view her website to keep up with her most recent works Arts. Valoneecia is an Austin homegrown stage, film, and voice actor with a BFA from Texas State University. She is represented by Collier Talent Agency. Visit her website and follow her on Instagram. Excerpt from Tales of a Blerd Ballerina Black Unicorn James Bowie High School 16 years old He always smelled like Jack and weed. Taller fuller than boys I had seen before, he was A man. His forefinger had the slightest callous that only a demon on the string possessed. His ripped Jenko pants exposed a perfect scarred caramel latte knee cap and that faded Metallica tee popped. And as he pushed kicked his way onto school grounds, his shoulder-length twists would move like a crown of flames. I would watch the sun shine its decorative bolts around him like the gods welcoming their son home. My own caramel Jordan Catalano. Not just a boy Not just a skater He was THE Black Unicorn A Black Metal skater boy. And every time that he pressed his foot down at the base of that skateboard Pop Twists Cradle it into his long and sinewy arms, I imagined myself to be that board. Fingers gently guiding down my side and safely carried with a certain firm delicacy that could only be described as Devotion. He lived a loud life. He skated LOUD He Laughed LOUD He would blast Nine Inch Nails: “You can't have my absence of faith! “(sing it) Loud “Hey! Hi! Why are you listening to this Devil Music?” Why did I say that? I didn't really think that? He would let out a deep sigh- lock his deep chocolate eyes onto mine- then without looking at his CD player switch the sound to Tool's “Stinkfist” I liked it. He could see I liked it My breath would catch My chest would rise. Lips parted. Moist and soft like a freshly glazed Cinnabon at the mall. When he leaned in- I could smell the swag weed he had just smoked in the parking lot. “V” “Yeah” I whispered (oh my god it's happening!) (him) “You're in front of my locker” Oh. OH! Ok. right on. Cool” (him) “You're still here” ... “right” ... I pictured him playing my strings like the bass he loved so. The love we would create would be his own private Ode to Primus’* funk and rhythm. Remembering his head throw back in wild abandon as his long-tapered fingers slip up and down the neck... Stan. “Are you gonna come to my show”? (him) “No” “Why not” (him) “The lack of passion you have for Life shows itself in the art you create” No passion? No passion. My 16-year-old heart that had so carefully learned to be stone, cracked. Doctor Manhattan style, I could feel my eye crinkle. My head only so slightly nodded. My heart exploded willed my eyes to hold back the burn No Passion? [shift into slam poetry style] “When I see your eyes the world in my head is a less dark place where lightning bugs swirl around you like a gold incandescent fire waves crashing encasing our bodies to the rhythm of wind rising earth shuddering and fingers entwined and blended smiles. When I look at you, I see black majesty Panthro strength ingenuity you and me rising to the top of the cat lair. Royalty And with the blessed speed of my Cheetara made a whole new breed of babies that the world would bow down to worship because they blossomed from you.” [Shift] We give little pieces of ourselves. They ask They take We slide and we say it's okay and give again. Is it really cruelty if you never tell them they're taking too much? “I wish I could get away with my hair that?” Take “y'all saw sister Wilson’s baby shaved her head, right? you know what that might means.” Take “You’re so articulate.” Take And you try to adjust! Ain’t that some mess? Being so concerned with adjusting myself to fit into norms that weren't made for me. Like taking the elements away from Storm. Or peasant skirts from Winifred. Being so concerned with making others comfortable that I forgot to comfort myself. People take quiet for acceptance. Sometimes they don't understand that you don't know how to echo the screams that are howling inside of your head. Sometimes they don't understand the silence covers the fact that you are so disappointed in so many ways with people that you should be able to love and trust. Sometimes... the silence Masks that you are in the back kitchen// cooking up your own witch's brew... It really isn't anybody's business but here we are: live and in front of an audience so f*** it I'll say it. Sometimes the quiet is because it's expected. Sometimes the quiet comes because you were waiting Because Passion is seen as confrontation. Because Passion is seen as difficult. Because passion is seen as angry. Sometimes the quiet comes from knowledge that no matter how open and alive no matter how loving Our power. Our oddity, our mystery our beauty will be seen as a weapon. As a threat. And we will be chased down the streets and rounded up X-men: Night of the Sentinel Style. Mystique had it right. “Clothes are just an extension of my body. I'm always naked.” [Beat] So, what do we do? What do we do? What did I do? I hid. I buried that "special" that “unique” under layers of “appropriate” facial movement perfect student Jodie outfits/ still couldn't get the hair right Practicing my urban dialect into a tape recorder dead of night to practice the white out while balancing just the right amount of vocal inflection to put my white counterparts at ease but still letting them know I was black. Take. “Your lack of passion shows itself in your art.” Nah. Hiding. That's what shows itself in my art. I'm tired Screen pops: [Dramatic light shift] Cartoon strip appears Light Shift ### The Interview Conducted in March of 2023 with Amanda Johnston via email. As both a playwright and an actor, you get to create on the page and stage. Do you feel drawn to one more than the other? I’ve always felt most alive and grounded in the realm of acting, but I’ve been excited and terrified to dive into writing. You can hide and re-create yourself when acting. When it’s your writing, especially when writing about yourself you are very naked. In a time that I've really been exploring myself and wanted to see more characters that I feel reflect my journey I've really fallen in love with writing. In your one-woman play, Blerd, the audience is transported back to a complex childhood in the ‘80s. Can you tell us about the moments that influenced this play, and the stories you chose to include and leave out? I chose to frame these stories about moments that most of us can relate to. Most of us were told we weren't enough by people that looked just like us, but didn't know why- most of us had a boy we liked who clowned us or just moments where we went along to get along. We were seen but not present. Most of the “uncool crowd” has had the moments. Heck- most of the “cool” crowd had these moments. Very few people who didn't peak in high school would count those as the glory days. I just tried to tell stories of when I was living as my most authentic young self and what that meant to the outside world looking in and more importantly, what happened to change that authenticity into something else. The play is full of laugh-out-loud moments while addressing some very vulnerable subjects. What’s your approach to including humor in your writing? Oof. That’s a tricky one. I don't write with the intent to be funny. I feel like all humor has a truth at its core. It involves a person being emotionally naked and being honest and the humor really comes from how we, as adults, reflect on those moments. I also think that we, as a people, tend to translate trauma and tragedy into humor as our coping mechanism. Your work is also very much centered in the body and incorporates a lot of movement. Is this a choice that begins when writing or does it develop in collaboration with the director? I am an actor that dances. Being a piece about my life, the piece incorporates a lot of movement and dance positions. Dance breaks are literally written into the script. My brain is wired to always be moving (maybe blame the ADHD). I was lucky that I always had a specific director in mind, Florinda Bryant, who also loves to play with movement and flow. Her own background as an actress and her love of movement and her strong background in the jazz aesthetic made her the perfect choice. How do you approach the relationship between you as an actor and playwright working with a production team? How much do you let go of when it’s time to step on stage? Lol! Asking my team and asking me may yield two very different answers. I think I let go as much as I can. You hire a team you trust for a reason. You have to be able to leave your writers at the door. You have everyone add their flavor to the production so it’s not just yours but everyone’s. “Everybody adds their spice to the gumbo,” a Flo-ism I have now stolen and use as my own. Everyone was committed to making this reflection of our lives and I walked away incredibly proud, humbled, and honored. I’ll be interested to see other productions and what their take on the work is. You recently moved to Atlanta from Austin. Do you feel this move was necessary for your career or was it a lifestyle change? Good question! It was both. While I love the performance community in Austin, I wanted to be able to perform more roles centered on the black experience (especially in film). Also, having lived in Brooklyn for so long, I missed being surrounded by a multitude of diversity. Atlanta has its own energy. It has the perfect balance between Austin’s laid-back vibe and New York City’s diversity and hype. I do come back into town often. I was born and raised here and it will always be home. Can you tell us about any new projects you’re working on? Sure thing! I am so thrilled to share the film Premonition, directed by Mahalia Jackson-Butler. It starts streaming soon. I'll have a great new character coming out in the DCUO Wonderverse soon! I cannot reveal too much, but the game will be fire! And an animation as well as live-action series coming up with Wingster & Philibert Studios. This is all while I am working on part 2 of the Tales of a Blerd Ballerina story and developing a new film short. I've been booked and blessed. As a new Atlanta resident, what advice would you give to those considering making the move? Planning, planning, planning! As a new Atlanta resident, I would encourage you to visit a few times during different parts of the year. Figure out where you want to be. Each area has its own unique flavor. There are lots of groups on Facebook that let you meet new like-minded people. Take advantage of that. Build your village. I also want to give a heads up that Austin traffic's got nothing on ATL traffic, lol. It’s crazy! Tell us about your artistic practice. When and where do you write? Well.. it really depends. I plan out times to sit at my work desk and write bi-weekly when a project has been tinkering around in my mind, but really it can be anywhere. If there is a lot that pushes me forward in a rush, I use word-to-text while driving or talking, or cleaning. I rarely have an intended outcome - I just let the words fall out as they will and move forward from there. What will you miss most about Austin? I am never gone long enough to truly miss it, LOL. On an everyday, I will say a huge variety of good Tex Mex and barbecue. What is your go-to self-care practice? It depends on the week but the perfect circle consists of: Sleep Vegging out to a favorite series or movie A tasty meal with a glass of wine Therapy How can people support you now? Please check out my work, Pass on the word of the production to your favorite local theatres, and Please Please Please go to see plays from new black female artists. We are all connected. Name another Black women writer people should read. I'm currently reading Jelani Wilson’s Space Wizard: The Ballad of the Bladeslingers and Ruha Benjamin’s Virtual Justice. 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.

c.r. glasgow (doc/she/we) is a non-binary, queer, first-generation Afro-Caribbean-American interdisciplinary healing artist. c has received fellowships and support from Hugo House, VONA, The Watering Hole, Hurston/Wright, and Anaphora. doc has been the recipient of VONA’s 2021 Haitian Heritage Scholarship. Their chapbook the Devils that raised Us was longlisted at Frontier Poetry. c’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Black Lawrence Press, Moko: Caribbean Arts & Letters, Rigorous Magazine, Lion’s Roar, Obsidian, Torch Literary, and other cross-genre spaces. Follow c’s multidisciplinary healing arts online and on Twitter and Instagram. $ luck baby PDF available if meh dream dey tooth fall out dey mouth dey dead. watch dey number come tomorrow straight. 769. and run she run to meh bedside whatchu dream? Ma belted in excitement and she would finger through The Red Devil Dream and Numbers … decoding. oh gosh, Ma!! (an’ meh suck meh teeth) can’t even wipe the sleep from meh eye meh gonna play that tonight! come, lenme $20 till friday come wha’ massa yuh know itchin’ to pay? meh jus’ a chile jus’ six years pass maybe her susu hand come. her palms would itch she would play. itch. play. her ears would ring hard coco-head bangles rattle as one finger dislodged whatever voices knockout any number... when i get rich, she would wish, and the next breath – money is the root of all evil. dat some twin talk she a perfect gemini yuh know. puhfect! a 3x5 index card etched numbers and coordinates: straight 50/50 box pick 4 pick 3 instructions a hazed echo... jus’ hand it to him, she said sternly. don’t talk! she said. keep the change, she said smirking the unspoken thank you. “go quick!” at 6 years i long learned to sprint through e v e r y t h i n g it was her only speed. so i sprinted the 2 blocks to ricky’s corner store handed the stuffed folded card over and as he entered the numbers into the machine i rushed pursuing jar after jar of artificial goodness: now n’ laters, jawbreaker, razzles, bazooka, king candy cigarettes, jolly ranchers, necco wafers (save the white ones for communion), nerds, candy button sheets, red hots, lemonheads, and, of course … fun dip. he joined me in the opposite corner with printed tickets folded back into 3x5 stray bills and coins ... do i save what remains? or indulge ... coat every artery in artificial flavors this forgetting serum ... the night’s comfort. luck baby if dey number come! it was a secret trade: bills folded small to shake or pass into a 6-year-old palm don’t tell your aunt, Grannie would whisper. here, whispered Auntie, with a slight nod a raised brow and finger to her lip… a currency to– s t r e t c h a little make some more; it brought their absence but filled my hands later it was the love they knew my Future of ease. ### 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.

L-R: Karl-Mary Akre, Faith Miller Torch Literary Arts is thrilled to announce our Spring 2023 Administrative Fellows, Karl-Mary Akre - Program Fellow, and Faith Miller - Creative Content Fellow. During their fellowships, Karl-Mary and Faith 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. Karl-Mary Akre is a first-generation Ivorian American writer based in Austin, TX. Currently, she is an MFA Screenwriting Fellow at the Michener Center for Writers where she is developing a horror feature film script for her thesis. At UT Austin, she works as a Moody Center Writing Coach, helping undergraduate screenwriters with their creative projects. She has also been a Finalist for the 2020 PERIPLUS Fellowship, a mentee in WOC Unite’s #Startwith8 program, and a selected participant in the 2021 Athena Film Festival Virtual Writers Lab. As a TORCH Administrative Fellow, Karl-Mary hopes to grow in her interests in creative collaboration, arts administration, and uplifting Black artists’ work. 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. She is excited to support Torch Literary Arts as the Creative Content Fellow this spring! 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.

Born and raised in California, devorah major served as San Francisco’s Third Poet Laureate (2002-2006). In 2020 she toured Southern Italy where her sixth book of poetry with open arms was released in a bilingual edition. A Willow Books Editor’s Choice her seventh book of poetry Califia’s Daughter was published by Aquarius Press in 2020. Her other five poetry books are: and then we became, with more than tongue, where river meets ocean, street smarts (Winner PEN Oakland Josephine Miles Literary Excellence Award), and travelling women (with Opal Palmer Adisa). major also has four poetry chapbooks, two biographies for young adults, and a host of short stories, essays, and individual poems published in anthologies and periodicals as well as two novels Brown Glass Windows and An Open Weave (winner of ALA Black Caucus First Novel Award) Ms. Major is featured on a number of CDs including Fierce//Love and The Tongue is a Drum as a part of Daughters of Yam, a poetry and jazz performance duo. In June 2015 major premiered her poetry play Classic Black: Voices of 19th Century African Americans in San Francisco at the San Francisco International Arts Festival. devorah major performs her work nationally and internationally with and without musicians. She has been a participant in international poetry festivals in Italy, Belgium, Bosnia, Jamaica, and Venezuela, and performed her poetry in France, the Bahamas and Germany. She works as a part-time Senior Adjunct Professor in Critical Ethnic Studies and Writing and Literature at California College for the Arts. Visit devorah's website and follow her on Instagram and Twitter. word time how old is your language he asks and pauses for answers that will not come to the tongue my language of memories is buried in bone marrow spilling out in blood rich with copper salt and ancestor breath my language of touch was inherited from the first ones who tasted green, swallowed night and learned by stroke and knead to know each other my language of dance choreographed on waves and undulant meadow grasses now rests in lamp lit shadows and my language of speech is words welded and wielded round the globe a language of jazz and goobers okra and okay opening the wow of africa while hindi lies with norse and latin is a bedfellow of german a trade language english smelted by a people committed to war and domination my language bends and recreates itself claims a lineage measured across light years of knowing forgetting and learning once again 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 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Ari Foster was born in Japan to parents serving in the United States Air Force. Raised in South Carolina, Ari has been writing poetry as a means of reflection and expression since early childhood. Currently, she serves as a social worker and licensed therapist, providing advocacy and therapy to children, adults, and families impacted by violence, abuse and trauma. Ari’s writing most frequently visits themes of coming of age, odes to southern imagery and black art, and reflections on motherhood and relationships. She tells stories of hurt and healing, including her own, and believes deeply in honoring the aesthetic of her nostalgia. As with her own healing, she finds beauty in the healing experiences of others, and continues to be inspired to creativity and storytelling that honors the unique journeys within and around her. Follow Ari on Instagram. stale smoke and hot sauce sometimes i was attracted to sadness or rough things but when i wasn’t in grown folks’ conversation i could stir up my own essence with grown folks’ music tingly feelings and love poems thrust upon my naiveté my role models had glasses of beer mixed with contempt a shared hurt bubbling over fried wings and lips that cursed the fathers of their children blending their bitterness and exchanging sorrow between bellies under a glass table steady choruses of Mary J. and other proverbs a strange peace when they hum together, candles burning with the cynicism of wives the younger ones, a little older than me, cooked for boys from school had already learned how to feed the male belly and his body watched American Pie and circled smoke between their mouths filling their lungs with familiar mood dust numbing their skin as they got tattoos in back rooms pierced their bodies and colored their lips and nails with dark lacquers and cremes rebellious pain, patterns of hormonal prerogative for the love of abandoning rules and boxes made for brown skin curves cloaked in oversized jeans minds drinking the melodic and obscene from their boom box yells from the kitchen “turn it down!” just to slowly turn it up again though i often hid from smoke and venom in the glass there was something attractive about that darkness watching a dignified grief wrap their military serving bodies in song too enraptured to hear or see their daughters mindfully straying 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 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Support Torch Literary Arts' Amplify Austin campaign to reach $10,000 in donations! Photo by Kevin Garner at the Paramount Theatre With your help, our Amplify Austin campaign raised $2,842 in 2022. Your generous contribution made TORCH's relaunch a huge success! Look at our 2022 Recap to see the impact you made. Check out the TORCH Spring 2023 Season and join us! We need to raise $10,000 during Amplify! Can we count on your support again this year? Amplify Austin is March 1-2 and Central Texas's largest giving event. But you don't have to wait to give or live in Central Texas to make a difference! Donate NOW to boost your gift and unlock matches and other benefits for TORCH. Enter "#LoveTitos" in the public message box at checkout and Tito’s will add an extra $25 to your donation! 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 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.

Rohanna Ssanyu is a black, biracial, and diasporan writer born in Fairbanks to a mother from Kampala. She often writes about the complexities of identity, motherhood, and memory. She is a public school teacher experimenting with ways to use poetry in her history classroom. Rohanna is the 1st prize winner of the 2023 Nutmeg Poetry Prize organized by the Connecticut Poetry Society. She is published in Kaleidoscope by Long Wharf Theatre and is forthcoming in Obsidian. She lives in Connecticut with her husband and son. Follow her on Instagram. NOTES ON TURNING SELF INTO MUGANDA GIRL I crave Luganda so I stuff myself with words at night when no one can stop me, sugary words like kabalagala that get stuck on my tongue, wash them down with water so when Auntie asks me, do you speak, I can burp out a few, or cry them onto my cheeks, or cough them into her hands. Auntie finds my language distasteful, so I invite her to sit on my uncovered couch and serve her lemongrass tea, a decade old, and I fall to my knees and speak nonsense to her— regurgitated words, sticky. Auntie scrunches her nose and tells me, just speak in English, so I curse her in Spanish. 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 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Victoria Adams-Kennedy is a Baltimore-based writer whose work engages in the complexities of Black Love. Her first novel, Sometimes Love, was published in 2017 by Brown Girls Books. Don’t Walk Away, her second novel was published in 2019. She has contributed to three anthologies, including The Dating Game (Brown Girls, 2015). Her short story “A Handful of Dreams'' may be found at midnightandindigo.com. Victoria is the founder of Zora’s Den, a social and support group for Black women writers for which she co-edited two anthologies – The Fire Inside, Volumes I & II. Victoria holds an MFA in Creative Writing & Publishing Arts from the University of Baltimore. She is currently working on her third novel. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter. Something Wonderful by Victoria Adams-Kennedy As Sequoia leads the protestors west on North Avenue, water surges from a fire hydrant, flooding them with relief from the July heat. The air is thick with humidity and oppression, as people armed with rage and nervous energy fill the street. Another police shooting is the last thing the city needs and there’s a good chance no one will pay for it. A teenager has been killed by an overzealous cop. The angry words voiced from her podcast have found fertile ground in her listening audience and the multitude is growing by the minute. Today is the day she trades her microphone for a bullhorn. This isn’t the first time she’s pushed back against fear to speak her mind. But it is the first time she’s wondered if she is doing it right. She jumps the curb to avoid the stream of trash: broken glass, swirling cigarette butts, and God only knows what else. Cameras are everywhere: TV crews, freelance journalists, and the ubiquitous cell phone in the hands of yelling marchers and spectators. Becoming the face of this movement is a stroke of luck. She doesn’t know yet if it’s good or bad. At her command, the crowd comes to a complete stop and turns to face her on an abandoned stoop. “What do we want?” She yells into the bullhorn. “Justice!” They call back. “When do we want it?” “Now!” They’ve seen enough marches and protests to memorize the slogans. Calling them out used to bring her more satisfaction. The image she projects is one of a secure and confident woman, but the strong opposition to her role in this protest has her rattled. It doesn’t help that the mayor has labeled her his foe in this fight. That reminder is unnerving but not enough to silence her. Sequoia has been using the airwaves to paint a picture of the victim’s life, beyond the stereotypes. His mother shouldn’t be mourning the death of her oldest child. She is compelled to make sure people know the complexities of their story and feel the loss of another Black life. She moves on to another overused chant. “No justice.” “No peace,” the crowd replies. A rumble of thunder echoes the unrest. “Know justice.” “Know peace.” Though the chanting rings familiar, it doesn’t make her feel safe. When an explosion rocks the place where she stands, filling the not-so-distant sky with flames and smoke, her concerns are validated. Chaos claims control of the moment. One minute, Sequoia is caught up in the passion of the protest; the next, she is sprawled across the steps on her back, the bullhorn knocked askew. A strong grip tugs her from the lopsided concrete. She is on her feet but dazed, as the crowd closes in. She doesn’t know whose hands pull her to safety and panic rises in her throat like bile. A voice enters the confusion. “Come with me.” The command is given with such authority, she doesn’t think to question it, at first. The man, upon whose back her eyes are now glued, clutches her hand and guides her through the crowd that seems to part just for him. His damp tee shirt clings to him, making every movement visible through the thin white fabric. She walks a few more steps before coming to a halt and prying her hand free. When he turns to face her, she falters. The eyes peering into hers belong to none other than Michael Franklin, the mayor’s son and her high school crush. It takes her back twenty years to when she shrunk in his presence. “Michael?” “Yeah. You hurt?” For someone known for using her voice to make thousands move, she’s speechless in the middle of her own protest. “I-I think I’m okay.” She dusts off her jeans to help regain her composure. “You hit the ground pretty hard. You sure?” “Ask me that again tomorrow.” She offers with an empty chuckle. He reclaims her hand and continues to walk with purpose. There’s an ease in his movements as if they’ve touched before … as if he’s never been rejected. They are walking in silence, but Sequoia needs to know his plan even if it happens to go awry. “Where are we going? I can’t just disappear.” “Someplace safe.” He pauses and looks around. “Have you forgotten about the threats?” She hasn’t but she’s shocked he’s been keeping record of the public warnings against her. She takes a minute to survey their surroundings and notes the sound of approaching fire engines. “Of course not. But these people came because I called them.” “These people wouldn’t want you to get hurt.” She gives a compliant nod and allows Michael to lead her to the “someplace safe” he mentioned. When they reach the middle of the block, he lets go of her hand to push open the door of a popular Pan-African bookshop. The bell clanging overhead announces their arrival. The scent of Black Love incense greets them, as they enter. They find seats at a table in the rear next to a large fan blowing hot air, while the clerk behind the counter talks on the phone. “You ok?” he asks again, as she scans the crowded space. “I need to know who did this and if anyone is injured…” “I’ll find out from my father, as soon as things settle.” “Your father is somewhere safe and comfortable.” “As he should be. I’m out here.” They sit in awkward silence and listen to anxious chatter from other patrons. The loud voices are especially grating because of the protestors’ silence outside. Their chants wouldn’t be stale, like before. They’d be welcomed and reassuring. The bell calls their attention to the front door and Sequoia bristles at the sight of a sunburned police officer whose eyes are sweeping across the room. She fights the urge to slide down in her seat. Perhaps they consider her complicit. “Folks, I need you to shelter in place until we get the streets settled. We don’t want any of you in harm’s way.” His smirk doesn’t go unnoticed when his eyes meet hers and hold. She lifts her chin in defiance. The store clerk comes from behind the counter, at his beckoning. “Please keep the door locked,” he instructs. “I’ll give you the all-clear when it’s safe.” The clerk doesn’t look convinced by his show of concern. By now, Sequoia is standing, speaking under her breath. “Too bad, they were the harm in Corey’s way.” The sympathy in Michael’s eyes touches her. He seems to really care. “I need to get a word on the air and reassure people,” she says. “I think we just need to be patient.” Michael urges her back down into her chair and tries to reassure her. There is no indication he recognizes her other than her connection to the protest. She is just as sure he never knew she existed during the four years they spent at the same high school. Sequoia never had any delusions of dating anyone like him. He is from a very different class of Black people who arrange marriages to join prestigious families and present their children to society. He has a storied background steeped in the Civil Rights Movement with local trailblazers as his forefathers. Where she comes from, guys like him don’t date girls like her. They play with them and when playtime is over, they go home. He answers his cell phone on the first ring. “Hey, Pops. I’m safe. I’m in the bookstore on North Avenue and it’s locked down.” Her eyes are fixed on him, as he converses with his father. She can’t decide whether to feel confident about his connection to the mayor or bothered by his privilege of feeling protected. “Yes, sir.” He continues. “Let me know if there’s anything else.” When he ends the call, he returns her glare. “What,” he asks. “Did your father send you to spy on me?” Her question seems to take him by surprise. He sputters before answering. “Excuse me?” Sequoia tempers her accusation with a mischievous smile. “He has given me the dubious honor of naming me a troublemaker,” she says. It is Michael’s turn to smile and his already handsome face transforms into something so beautiful, she’d probably forgive him anything, even having Wes Franklin for a father. “Give me some credit for choosing to come to a troublemaker’s assistance on my own.” “I’ll have you know, I make good trouble.” She surprises herself with the declaration. It’s spoken as a joke, but she means it. “That’s what I like,” he says. Sequoia’s face heats with embarrassment. For as outspoken as she is, her confidence with attractive men could use some work. Usually, she thinks of everything she should have said, after she’s left their company. “So…the trailblazing Sequoia Cantrell, huh?” The label shocks rather than soothes her. As a teenager she wanted so badly to be seen by him and now that she has his undivided attention, she wants to disappear. “I actually think you and my dad have more in common than either of you know. You’re on opposite sides that need to come together.” She has no retort for his remark and the silence prompts her to fill it. “You don’t remember me, do you, Michael?” “I know exactly who you are.” The way he clenches his bottom lip with his teeth makes something deep inside her clench too. She can’t tell whether she should cross her heart or her legs. “But I admit, up until an hour ago, I only knew you as the freedom fighter on the news. I had a déjà vu moment while watching you on that stoop. It reminded me of high school when you wore an Afro and championed every other cause. The fellas feared you – called you Sista Souljah.” As his speech drifts into slang and its cadence changes, she realizes he’s getting more comfortable. He’s drifting into a rhythm that sounds like home. It feels good – his remembering her as someone with grit and not the mousy girl she imagined back then. She is more than another face in the crowd. Sequoia’s not sure why this matters, after all these years, but it gives her a boost. Though she wants to, she doesn’t dare look away. “I guess it prepared me for this,” she says with a nervous laugh. “I’m sure of it.” “Were you... scared of me… too?” Those six halting words are filled with so much daring, he looks like he’s measuring his response with care before it crosses his lips. “Nah, I wasn’t scared. Some girls ain’t meant for flings and you don’t step to them if that’s all you’re looking for.” She’s thankful the blush is hidden beneath her brown cheeks. ******** Lounging in the back feels like she is hiding away. In the lull, she rises from her seat and walks past the front counter to the door. Michael follows her lead. “Thanks for coming,” the clerk says, without looking up from the book she’s reading. Outside, a few officers linger. The sidewalks are clear of people but not debris. Discarded water bottles and protest signs are strewn about. All is quiet but the tension remains. So much for the “all clear”, she thinks. It makes her feel like the fight is only postponed, not abandoned. Far off, a bolt of lightning streaks across the sky. There is no reason to stand around, but she can’t seem to pull herself away. Michael doesn’t move either. “Where’d you park,” he asks. “I walked.” “You walked?” She smirks at the indignation in his voice. “I don’t live that far.” “Until this clears up, everywhere is far.” Before they can finish negotiating her transportation, a reporter and cameraman are upon them. It is obvious they aren’t planning to leave the scene empty-handed. Sequoia accepts it as a benefit and decides to grant a brief interview. “What do you think the mayor will have to say about this recent development, Ms. Cantrell?” The ginger-haired reporter is assertive without being too pushy. Sequoia looks back toward Michael before answering the question and is disappointed to see his spot beside her empty. What the hell? She isn’t ready for the conversation between them to end. Allowing the reporter that one question, she ends the interview with a vow to find something wonderful on such an ugly day. Then she prepares for the walk home. The air is still heavy, and the heat is stifling. By comparison, it makes the muggy bookstore much more appealing, and she considers going back inside until the sun sinks lower in the sky. She swallows the bitter pill of Michael’s abrupt absence and stands at the curb weighing which route she’ll take. When playtime is over, they go home. The thought pricks at her pride. While she thumbs through her phone, she hears an engine revving and steps back. “Hey Sista Souljah! Today’s your lucky day.” She looks up to see Michael sitting on a motorcycle. His smile is a beam of light in what is quickly becoming an impending storm. The mischief in his voice entices her. “How’s that,” she asks, cocking her head to the side. It feels too good to stop flirting now. “Looks like I’m headed your way.” He coaxes her onto the back of his bike and hands her the only helmet. She loosely wraps her arms around his body. “You wanna meet my father?” “Is that a trick question?” “I think it’s long overdue.” She leans into him and holds on tighter. He smells like soap and summer and man. When they pull off, she enjoys the breeze created by his speed. She doesn’t balk at the first drop of rain. The skies tend to open up on summer days, calming the heat as well as the pressure of untapped possibilities. It’ll be over, as soon as it starts, she muses and wonders if this feeling she’s clutching close to her will have the same fate. When they stop at a red light, she feels the second drop and moves close enough to place her lips against his ear. But she refrains. Not wanting to lose momentum, she shoots her shot. “So, you were intimidated, huh?” She asks, emboldened by their tête-à-tête. “Yeah,” he says, after a pause. “I was. Just a little.” She can’t see his smile, but she can feel it. There’s something so magical in this moment. A peace she can’t name is relaxing every inch of her. “I was sixteen,” he adds. “Don’t let that go to your head.” As they ride against the wind, Sequoia wonders if she’s doing this right. She allows the fleeting thought to drift away. Before she can stop it, her smile is bold and goofy. She finally replies. “Too late.” ### 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 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Jenelle Samuels a.k.a Neptune Naiadis, is a versatile creative writer, artist, and jewelry designer. She is a poet whose work has appeared in the Caribbean Writers Journal, Rebel Women Lit, and as of 2022, she was shortlisted for the National Library of Jamaica’s Poet Laureate Prize for Poetry. In her spare time, she explores photography and a wide spectrum of creative storytelling through her comics, illustrations, and short screenplays. As of 2023, her favorite book is Cannibal by Safiya Sinclair. Follow her on Instagram. To Find Beauty In Downtown, Kingston, I plant my bottom on the swollen old asphalt, and through the thick scent of rotting fruit and dirty bodies, bright red blood mixed in the dirt, I will breathe in air, to begin searching for peace. I will suck my breath past people whose words are thrown up like catapults, their hatred bleeding from watching the 7 o clock news, Breaking News, Woman and her four children were stabbed to death today in Cocoa Piece, Clarendon. The killer is still at large. They can only bow their heads in prayer, shake their bodies a few times to let everyone know the lord is in the air watching, and like him, walk away as if nothing happened. But, through this, I’ll still continue to search the air, I will stick out my tongue and taste the rot if I have to, I will sit on the ground searching, lay in a windowless room, collect wages just enough to buy me a meal for the day, then, sleep on a low mattress on the floor to avoid stray bullets, just to find the breeze, untainted, the smell of coal-pot fire, wild bougainvillea’s thick-sweet scent that I can breathe so deeply, my lungs begin to bloom. 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 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.