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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.

Shinelle L. Espaillat teaches writing at Westchester Community College in NY. She is a 2022 Kimbilo Fellow, and a Best of the Net 2021 nominee. She completed an M.A. in Fiction at Temple University in Philadelphia. Her work has appeared in Tahoma Literary Review, Two Hawks Quarterly, Minerva Rising, Ghost Parachute, The Westchester Review, Cleaver Magazine and Midway Journal, as well as in the collections Ghost Parachute: 105 Flash Fiction Stories, Shale: Extreme Fiction for Extreme Conditions, and How Higher Education Feels: Commentaries on Poems That Illuminate Emotions in Learning and Teaching. Follow her on her website, Twitter, and Instagram. But Did You Die? By Shinelle L. Espaillat Shreds of winter sliced the March morning as sunlight struggled to pierce the clouds. Mellen pushed herself to keep running up the hill, though each muscle fiber screamed and her breath came in hard, hitching explosions. Behind her, an angry rottweiler closed the distance, its owner barking toothless threats and commands. There was no tree to climb, no fence to jump. The houses lining the street were all in darkness, and she couldn’t even gather enough air to scream. A deer bounded into the road ahead. It paused, its hefty body a solid roadblock, and stared at her. She pictured herself bouncing off the brown flank, back into the foamy maw of the furious beast, or impaling herself on a whitened prong. It seemed unfair that this day was demanding her blood. She skirted around its back end and kept running, despite the sounds of a terrible bleating, a high-pitched howl of pain, and the shrieking cries of the rottweiler's owner. She picked a house and began pounding on the front door, pushing the Ring and waving her arms frantically at the camera even as she turned to see a flailing mass of species, propelled by its own violent momentum. “What the hell!” She snapped around to face the barrel of a rifle. She hit the paved walkway on all fours. The man in the doorway wore only flannel pajama pants. He glared at the chaos on the street, then down at her, lowering the rifle so that it pointed at the welcome mat. She pressed her palms flat to the stone and tried to find the strength to push herself up, but her shaking limbs would not comply. “Help.” Her voice trembled, weakened. He tilted his head and stared at the street, his face a contortion of confused disbelief. She shifted so that she was sitting instead of crawling, wrapped her arms around her knees and watched as he moved closer to the snarling mess. He didn’t seem too concerned about his own safety. She guessed the rifle helped. The men worked together to disentangle deer from dog. The red-splotched leash slithered along the asphalt as the men frowned, gesticulated, twisted and pulled. Finally, they managed to separate the animals. The deer bounded off immediately, and Rifleman pointed his gun in its direction. Mellen shut her eyes and tightened her palms against her ears, contracting herself into a tight circle as she waited for the sound of the shot. It didn’t come. When she opened her eyes, both men were standing in front of her. The dog lay panting in its owner’s arms. She pushed to her feet, managing to stay upright, though her legs wobbled. “Gotta get this dog to emergency. You coming?” Rifleman asked. The owner sniffled. “He’s a good dog. He’s just been having a bad time lately. He wouldn’t have hurt you.” She looked at his blood-streaked shirt, heard him make soothing, crooning noises as he cradled the dog as though it were a baby. Maybe she could reverse the energy of this day—this year—by extending the compassion she herself needed. Maybe all three of them were caught up in chaos and could use a little support. “Okay.” She followed Rifleman to his truck, climbed into the backseat next to the dog owner, and pressed the dirty t-shirt that Rifleman tossed to her against the dog’s seeping wounds. A vet met them at the entrance and quickly disappeared with the dog. The three of them sat in the green-tiled waiting room, and the owner broke into dry sobs. Mellen patted his leg. Rifleman shook his head and crossed his arms. “Hell of a way to start the day.” Mellen closed her eyes. She’d been trying to follow doctor’s orders, getting a little exercise to clear her mind, so that the copper coils of anxiety that bound her might loosen. She’d been huffing and puffing along, waiting for the calm to kick in, when the good-dog-having-a-bad-time had shimmered into being, like a hellhound behind her, she thought and shivered. She would have to work harder on finding that compassion. She peeked at her watch. She was meant to be at her desk in less than two hours, but her entire body revolted at the thought. She stepped into the hall to call her supervisor. Fred didn’t drip with sympathy. “But so, you’re alright?” She’d been chased by a possibly rabid dog, watched dog and deer mangle each other, and had a rifle pointed at her head. She still needed the tremors beneath her skin to cease. “I’m really—” “So, what time do you think you can come in? We need those reports today.” As far as Mellen could tell, nobody ever actually read the department’s reports. What would happen if the reports were a day late, or if she just didn’t do them at all? She lay the shaking fingers of her free hand over her eyes, pressing hard enough to make pops of light appear against the darkness of her lid backs. “Could I do them from home? I can access everything I’d need. Fred . . . I had a rough morning.” “Right, some dog chased you. But it sounds like you’re fine. And listen, it’s really better if you come in. That way, we can talk in real-time.” She pressed her thumb against a tear duct, like a dam against the rising tide. “Fred, —” “It’s, what, 7:30? I mean, you could still put in a full day, but whatever. Take a few hours to pull yourself together. So long as you get here by noon, you can charge it as a quarter sick day instead of half. Our little secret. See you then.” She heard a beep, and then Fred talking to someone else. “Yeah, that was Mellen. Some story about a dog and a hunter, or something. I’m like, ‘but did you die, though?’ You didn’t die, you can come to work, right?” Mellen pressed end and turned to find Rifleman standing behind her. “This could take hours, and I’m here no shirt, no shoes, no coffee. I need to throw something on, grab some food. You coming, or do you want to stay with Brad?” She shrugged, and he nodded. “I get it. You feel guilty. If you hadn’t run, the dog wouldn’t have chased you, wouldn’t have even seen that deer, probably, but look, I don’t blame you.” So, Brad did blame her? She’d thought his rambling about the dog not hurting her had been a sort of apology. And when did Brad and Rifleman exchange names? Did they know each other already? She pressed a hand against a sudden queasiness. “I’m supposed to go to work.” Rifleman shrugged. “Blow it off. I’m damn sure not going in.” Mellen considered: sit in this animal-scented waiting room with Brad and Rifleman or spend the day compiling data that nobody reviewed? She thought of the truck, likely still scented with blood and sweat, and the unused rifle sitting in the front. “I’ll just get an Uber.” She was going home. She’d had her fill of white privilege for the day. ### 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.

Emmy-nominated writer, comedian, and award-winning author, Jonterri Gadson has written for notable TV shows including A Black Lady Sketch Show on HBO, THE UPSHAWS on Netflix, and other projects for NBC and Adult Swim. Jonterri Gadson is a former creative writing professor who chose writing/directing/producing TV & Film over seeking tenure. She currently writes for the upcoming EVERYBODY STILL HATES CHRIS. She has also written for HBO’S A BLACK LADY SKETCH SHOW (for which she is Emmy-nominated), Netflix’s THE UPSHAWS (Season 2), NBC’s MAKING IT with Amy Poehler and Nick Offerman, The Kelly Clarkson Show, and Adult Swim’s half-hour comedy Bird Girl. Additionally, she was a Comedy Consulting Producer on 12 Dates of Christmas (HBO Max) writing comedic host copy for Natasha Rothwell. She won Kevin Hart’s LOL Film Fellowship for a short she wrote/directed and premiered at the American Black Film Festival. She’s an alum of the NBC Late Night Writers Workshop, New York Stage & Film Filmmakers Lab, Refinery29 & TBS Riot Comedy Writers Lab, and the IFP Project Forum. She’s published three poetry books, including the full-length poetry collection Blues Triumphant (YesYes Books). Visit Jonterri's website and follow her on Twitter and Instagram. BLISS HOUSE Written by Jonterri Gadson (click for PDF version) INT. BLISS HOUSE RECEPTION AREA - DAY STEVE holds open the door for ANGIE. He bows. She curtsies. They’re white. It’s cute. They approach DANIELLE, the receptionist. She’s black and her smile is beaming. DANIELLE Angie! Is this the infamous Steve? ANGIE Yes, I didn’t leave him at home to watch the kids while I luxuriate this time. STEVE I’m finally gonna see what all this luxuriating is about. DANIELLE I won’t let you wait a second longer. Angie, you know where to go. Steve, you’ll change across the hall. Danielle holds the door open for Steve. STEVE Ooh, I feel luxuriated already. DANIELLE You two are the best. Welcome to Bliss House. INT. FACIAL STUDIO Steve enters in his robe and slides into the chair next to Angie. She squeezes his hand. NAOMI, professional facial tech with flawless dark brown skin, leans Angie’s chair back. NAOMI The usual? Angie nods. Naomi massages Angie’s face with her fingertips. ANGIE Now do you see why I never miss an appointment? STEVE Looks like it feels amazing, Ang. ANGIE It does and you’re next. NAOMI Relax the muscles in your face. Inhale. Exhale. Say it. ANGIE Nig-aaaaaaaah.... Angie relaxes into the chair. Naomi places a hot towel over Angie’s face. Steve’s eyebrows shoot up and stay there. STEVE I have your back, Angie. If anyone wants to hit you, they have to come through me. Naomi SHUSHES Steve and points to a bronze plaque on the wall. It says: OFFICIAL PC REFUGE Bliss House is a certified refuge for people who feel oppressed by political correctness. Naomi hands Steve a services list and sits him down. He looks at the list. It says: Say “Retarded” $50 Say “Gay” but mean “Stupid” $50 Be Racist or Homophobic w/Good Intentions $100/$150 for both NAOMI It’s against the law to call anyone out for not being PC in here. Choose a service. STEVE No, I’m okay. I’ve gotten used to avoiding confrontation instead. NAOMI The walls are soundproof. We sign confidentiality agreements. Angie takes Steve by the hand. ANGIE Remember the rap concert? STEVE I’ll never forget. I knew the words to every song. I could say every word. But one. ANGIE Everyone watched your mouth to see if you would say it. STEVE I didn’t say it. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Angie hands Naomi $20. NAOMI Sing your song, Steve. Angie nods at Naomi. Naomi changes the soothing music to: SFX: GANGSTER RAP SONG Steve’s breathing quickens, until he bursts out with: STEVE (rapping) This is for my day one niggas/ those east side niggas/ those fuck a cop, snitches get dropped type niggas Angie hypes him up and hands Naomi another $20. INT. FACIAL STUDIO- LATER Steve reclines with cucumbers over his eyes. STEVE So this is kinda like a safe space? Angie SHUSHES Steve. NAOMI We don’t use the “SS” word here. REVEAL: Angie with her hands all up in Naomi’s hair. ANGIE So exotic! Angie puts $20 in Naomi’s hand. INT. MASSAGE STUDIO Steve lays on a massage table. STEVE You represent all black people, right? NAOMI That’s the massage you paid for, so, yes. STEVE So...I’m not racist, right? Naomi leans in toward Steve’s ear. NAOMI You’re not racist. Steve MOANS. STEVE A little to the left! Naomi switches to Steve’s left ear. NAOMI You’re not racist. Steve MOANS. STEVE Lower! Naomi thinks for a moment, then gets face to face with Steve: NAOMI (deep voice) You’re not racist. Steve MOANS louder and longer than before. STEVE Ah, that’s my spot. Steve hands Naomi a $20. INT. MUD BATHS Steve and Angie sit in mud baths next to each other. They look into each other’s eyes as one smears mud on the other’s face until they’re both in black face. They wave at Naomi and Danielle who are restocking towels. DANIELLE They paid $250 to be able to do that. INT. BODY WRAP STUDIO - MOMENTS LATER Naomi slathers cream on Steve, then wraps him in a steaming hot American flag. Steve MOANS then shouts: STEVE Not all white people! INT. BLISS HOUSE RECEPTION AREA Steve hands Naomi more $20s. Angie drags him away. STEVE Can I stay? I’m not ready to be held accountable again. You’re doing god’s work here! DANIELLE I’ll give the owner your feedback. REVEAL: Owner’s picture on the wall: A black woman with a huge smile, holding huge stacks of money. ANGIE See you in two weeks for the white history month special! DANIELLE We offer that deal every day. Steve spins around before he gets to the door. STEVE Wait! Steve inhales, then shouts: STEVE (CONT’D) I don’t see color! Witch hunt! All lives matter! Do black people get tan? I have a black friend! You’re racist for calling me racist. What about my feelings? Quit playing the race card! Not my flag! You’re so articulate! O.J.’s guilty! If you were nicer to cops, they wouldn’t shoot you! #MeToo, more like #MeBooHoo! Racism is in the past, except reverse racism, that’s called Affirmative action! Pull yourself up by the bootstraps. All it takes is hard work and determination. White Jesus is the only Jesus. If Oprah can get ahead, you all can. What about my freedom of speech!? He makes it rain on Danielle, clears his throat, tips a fake hat, then exits. DANIELLE Goodnight! Danielle locks the door. Naomi enters counting her tips. They look at the clock and their faces light up. NAOMI DANIELLE (CONT'D) Shift change! Shift change! Naomi and Danielle rush through a door on the opposite end of the spa labeled: THE OTHER SIDE OF BLISS. INT. OTHER SIDE OF BLISS LOUNGE AREA - NIGHT Danielle polishes a sign that reads: OFFICIAL PC REFUGE for those who must insist on political correctness. Rejuvenate! A WOMAN IN A HIJAB sips champagne with a BLACK BUSINESS WOMAN and a PERSON WITH A PHYSICAL DISABILITY. INT. MASSAGE STUDIO Business Woman enters in a robe and lays on Naomi’s massage table. She hands Naomi $20 and Naomi swats it away. Naomi pours hot oil on the woman’s back. The woman EXHALES as the oil rolls off. NAOMI This is what it would feel like if offensive things could just roll off your back. BLACK BUSINESS WOMAN Ahhhh. Must be nice. INT. BODY WRAP STUDIO - NIGHT Naomi unwraps a FOOTBALL PLAYER’s legs, then she turns on a soothing version of the “Star Spangled Banner”. The Football Player rises, then he takes a knee. He gives Naomi thumbs up. INT. FACIAL STUDIO - NIGHT Someone reclines in a facial chair with a white towel over their face. They hand the List of Services to an unseen spa tech who removes the towel to reveal it’s Naomi in the chair. NAOMI “Nigga” is ours! FADE TO BLACK. ### The Interview You’ve written for page, stage, and screen, and TORCH was honored to publish some of your early poetry in our 2009 issue. Did you always know you were a writer? When did you know you wanted to share your writing with the world? I’ve known since 3rd grade that I was a writer. That’s when my short stories for school got me pulled out of class to work with a private instructor. In 7th grade, I entered my first poetry contest, so I guess that’s when I felt ready to share my writing. You’ve published three incredible poetry collections, Interruptions (2014), Pepper Girl (2012), and Blues Triumphant (2016). Are you still writing poetry and do you think you’ll publish another collection in the future? Sometimes I accidentally write a poem when I’m trying to write something else when I want to show and not tell. Poetry was my go-to for that. But, no, I don’t think I’ll write another collection. I feel like I said what I needed poetry to be able to say. You were teaching creative writing when you started writing comedy and pursuing a career in screenwriting. What made you leave the classroom and move deeper into writing for television? Starting the year after my MFA, I would apply for post-grad fellowships and jobs and TV writing fellowships. I was going to follow wherever yes led me. I kept getting teaching jobs and fellowships and being rejected for TV writing programs, so my dream of becoming a Creative Writing professor came true. Once I’d made it, I felt lost. Now what? Devote my life to students after being my own lowest priority for a lifetime? Tenure terrified me because it felt like it meant those years of following the yes were over. Becoming a professor was the yes I needed to follow to get to my next yes, which was comedy/writing for TV. Your short “Bliss House” is hilarious and pulls back the layers of white fragility and politically incorrect desires. Do you see comedy as a tool to address challenging topics? Absolutely. I’m funny… for a reason. Meaning I don’t write comedy just to be silly, I write it to connect with people who can relate and make those who think they can’t relate realize they might be wrong. By putting funny first, it’s easy to slide in something important without hitting people over the head with a message. I love that. You’re also a stand-up comedian. Do you have any concerns about performing live with recent onstage attacks? Nah. I’m not saying anything that makes people want to jump me. I’d like to think attackers want their impact to have an impact. I’m 5 foot tall and unknown. No one’s making a statement by tackling me. Congratulations on your recent Emmy nomination for A Black Lady Sketch Show on HBO! What has your experience been like writing for the show? Has it been different from other writers’ rooms you’ve worked in? Thank you. It’s my first Emmy nomination! Writing for the show is like a comedy writing boot camp. It’s the writers' room where I’m most myself because my kind of weirdness is most appreciated and valuable there. A majority of the rooms I’ve been in have been great and I’ve felt like my contributions are welcome and matter. I’m just more free in a room full of Black women comedy writers. What suggestions do you have for others looking to build a career writing for television/film? The same advice I tell anyone who wants to write anything—READ. Read produced screenplays and TV episodes and figure out what works and what doesn’t, in your opinion. I love a good writing book. I recommend Joe Toplyn’s Comedy Writing for Late Night TV for joke, bit and sketch writing. Ellen Sandler’s TV Writers Workbook helped me understand the structure of a tv episode. You made a big move early in your career to leave New Jersey and live in California. Which coast is the best coast? West. Sorry! I loved New Jersey, New York, and the Midwest. But the weather in California is perfect almost all the time. And most of the type of writing I want to do is all done here. This is where I needed to be. So, for me, the West side is the best side. Hahaha. You have unlimited funds and access to create a dream cast for a project. Dead or alive, who are the top five you are bringing in? Ooh, great question. Let’s see… my two faves right now star on A Black Lady Sketch Show–Gabrielle Dennis and Skye Townsend. As Big Red from The Five Heartbeats said, “What do they don’t do?!” They’re super talented, especially with creating characters. Aisha Hinds because I will never forget how she portrayed Harriet Tubman on the TV show Underground (that should’ve never been canceled!). Michael Keaton, since his performance in Dopesick made me say he was acting his ass off every week. Zendaya. No explanation needed. Euphoria. You’ve got one full day to treat yourself. What are you eating, where are you going, what’s your big indulgence? I’m eating a Raising Cane’s Caniac Combo with no slaw, extra bread, extra sauce. I’m going anywhere my generation of cousins can heal together. My big indulgence is treating myself to whatever the most luxurious suite is at an EDITION hotel somewhere in the world because the chain holds sentimental value for me since I was put up there when I premiered a short and I put myself up there when I went to the Emmy’s. I know you are working on many exciting projects. Can you share anything we can look forward to seeing? I’m working on a feature that I call my “heart movie” because it’s the story I most want to tell and it’s the truest thing I’ve ever said. I’m working on an extremely fun reboot now that I’m not sure if I’m allowed to say I’m on, but it’s a dream project with some great people heading it up. I shared nothing and I’m sorry. hahaha. How can people support you now? When you see me post links to anything I’ve worked on, please watch, like, follow, and/or share! I’m on twitter @jaytothetee and IG @jonterrig. Help me spread the word. Projects die without viewer support! Who is another Black woman writer people should read? Michaela Coel. Read her everything. In all genres and formats. ### 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.

For 55 years, Resist has resourced and supported people's movements for justice and liberation. Resist redistributes resources back to frontline communities at the forefront of change while amplifying their stories of building a better world. TORCH is grateful for this gift of general support to help fulfill our mission to create advancement opportunities for Black women writers. Funding will support our programs and operational expenses. 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.

Written by TORCH's August 2022 Feature, Sharon Dennis Wyeth, Evette: The River and Me is the story of a young environmentalist on a mission to protect the Anacostia River and heal the wounds of her divided biracial family. Photos provided by American Girl and Larry Choyce Photography In support of Torch Literary Arts' mission to amplify the voices of Black women writers and to celebrate the release of Evette: The River and Me by TORCH feature Sharon Dennise Wyeth, American Girl has graciously donated copies of the book to TORCH for Central Texas families. To maximize the reach of this inspiring story, TORCH will donate the books to local Austin libraries to be enjoyed by all. Meet Evette Peeters A nature-lover, Evette is full of crafty ideas for upcycling and taking care of the planet, especially the Anacostia River near her home. When she discovers a cute vintage swimsuit buried deep in her grandmother’s closet, she uncovers a secret from the past. Evette wants to know why her mother’s side of the family, which is Black, and her father’s side of the family, which is White, don’t get along. Evette works hard to heal her world—family, friends, river, and all. Learn more about Evette at AmericanGirl.com. Sharon Dennis Wyeth is an African American writer with a multi-generational mixed-race legacy–the descendant of enslaved West Africans. free people of color, European colonists and indentured servants. Born and raised in Washington, D.C., she is the author of numerous award-winning books for children and young adults. Ms. Wyeth attended public schools and graduated from Anacostia High School in Washington, D.C.. She received an A.B. with honors in a combined discipline of sociology, psychology and anthropology from Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts and an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Hunter College in New York, New York. American Girl is a premium brand for girls and a wholly-owned subsidiary of Mattel, Inc. (NASDAQ:MAT, www.mattel.com), a leading global children's entertainment company that specializes in the design and production of quality toys and consumer products. Headquartered in Middleton, WI, American Girl offers an inspiring world of dolls, content, and experiences that nourish a girl’s spirit and help develop her strength of character. Best-selling lines include Truly Me™, Girl of the Year™, Bitty Baby®, WellieWishers™, and American Girl’s classic historical characters. The company sells products through its award-winning catalogue, on americangirl.com, in its proprietary U.S. experiential retail stores, as well as at specialty retailers nationwide. By inspiring girls to be their best, American Girl has earned the loyalty of millions and the praise and trust of parents and educators. 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.

We're back! Save the date for our readings, panels, workshops, and more. Torch Literary Arts is thrilled to announce our Fall 2022 season! Join us for the return of our Wildfire Reading Series featuring LaToya Watkins and Jasminne Mendez. Register for virtual and in person workshops with Faylita Hicks, Erin Roberts, and Anastacia-Reneé. Join TORCH at the Texas Book Festival for a panel discussion, reading, and reception with Remica L. Bingham-Risher and Destiny O. Birdsong. All events are provided at no cost to participants. TORCH programs are made possible with support from the following sponsors and foundations: The Burdine Johnson Foundation, Amazon Literary Partnership, Resist, Vuka, Texas Book Festival, Central Market H.E.B., Tito's Handmade Vodka, Bookwoman, and others. Be sure to subscribe to our newsletter for updates and announcements. 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.