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Shop BookWoman in-store AND online March 16 & 17 and 10% goes to Torch Literary Arts. All items are eligible for a 10% donation to Torch Literary Arts. You can also purchase items online and have them shipped to you. Thank you for supporting independent bookstores, Torch Literary Arts, and Black women writers! ebookwoman.com 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.

Literary gangster/seasonal romanticist. Boloere Seibidor—B.S—is an African writer, her work featured on The Temz Review, Feral Journal, Neologism, and others. She is largely inspired by music and art and all things beautiful, unnamed. Say hi on Twitter @ BoloereSeibidor, where she fondly calls herself a black swan. Visit her website and follow her on Instagram. Obsessed by Boloere Seibidor 160 Irene snaked through the aisles in the mall, heading for the toiletries section. If she ran into anyone she knew—and the chances were always high—it would result in a minute of awkward hi's. And if the person was a woman old enough and blessed with the ancient northerly wisdom, she would take one look in her eyes and know. She picked up a packet of Cadbury as she reached grocery and stared at it dubiously, weighing the money she had on her, and weighing it on a scale of importance. One might have thought she was having a conversation with the sealed beverage. “Looking for something, miss? Can I help you?” The man was dressed in the mall’s official navy blue uniform with stripes of orange on the arm. A startled Irene let the Cadbury drop from her hand to the polished floors with a deep thump. Clumsy as always. She muttered profanities to herself, picked it up, and inspected for a tear. There was none. A relieved sigh. “Didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry.” He adjusted his collar with hands that left a damp streak on his shirt. She nodded, trying to pick sensible words from the jumbled nonsense she was mumbling. It was her first time seeing him despite being a regular. Also, his chirpy, vivacious manner suggested that he was new. His smile was elegant for a salesman, illuminating strikingly dark eyes, as the light bouncing off his teeth braces gave to an effortless glitter. She smiled back. “You didn’t.” “Nene!” Gomezga called from the aisle facing hers with a glare that meant focus. The salesman shriveled away like a scolded dog as she resettled the scowl on him. The same scowl she gave every guy who so much as looked at her with a lingering gaze. Gomezga didn’t hate men, she claimed, but if she had to choose between living with one or becoming an owl, she hoped the animals would welcome her. “You didn’t have to be rude,” she said to her on their way out, slightly crossed. “I didn’t say a word to him.” Gomezga, so raven and stone-faced, had sweat tearing down the brawny edges of her face and shoulders. She was dressed in loose clothing and a floppy hat, else she would have been complaining about the Lagos sun and its murderous tendencies. Just before they exited the mall, Irene’s eyes caught on the thin pink box between a pack of Longrich tampons and toothpaste. Her heart beat twice in the same second and sank to the hollow pit of her stomach. After casting a surreptitious quick glance, Gomezga being ahead of her, she snatched it and tucked her hand underneath her shirt. The doorman was fond of her, so even though she acted a bit curious, he let her through. It was a short distance from the mall to their apartment and they arrived ten minutes later. She left her bag on the carpet and hurried into the room before Gomezga followed her. Her hands were sweaty, quivery, and her lips shuddered subconsciously in prayer. It’d been years since she’d spoken to the big guy. Irene took off her jewelry. For accuracy. Then she stood on the weight scale. Her heart pounded loudly, dampening the hope in her chest as she felt the machine's silent buzz underneath her feet, calculating, freezing on its final figure. She took a deep breath after a minute and looked down at the scale, her jaws clenched tight enough to hurt. 160 *** She stayed awake at night to read a copy of Ocean Vuong's novel but only made it to the second chapter. Gomezga snored too loud and it was impossible to sink in anything in the frustration, so she stepped out to the verandah. The air outside was welcoming, but the mosquitoes were wild and famished, so she didn’t stand a chance there either. She settled in the parlour, pinched by the two noises. Pulling her cheeks was all she could do to keep from sleeping, but even then she would doze off and hit her head against the lamp. When she dozed off this time, she slapped herself hard across the cheek. Then she opened the book once again. Gomezga had finished it in one seating. She had to, had to finish it tonight. Four hours ago before her roommate had woken her up for grocery shopping, she had been out like a light, saliva drooling over her favorite couch. That was five hours of sleep that day if she calculated the extra hours she had stolen after morning chores. It was barely midnight now and her eyelids felt like Atlas. It was true that she slept too much nowadays; too much sleep meant extra weight. How else did she move from 140lbs to 160lbs in less than two weeks? Where did the flabby skin and swollen cheeks come from? With a book slouched underneath her breasts and the candle flickering in the breeze, her eyes caught on a loaf of bread. It was beside the box-shaped LED television, on a small stool occupied by everything; make-up, CDs, blue pens, a black bra. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until then. *** The brazing sunlight wasn’t the first thing her eyes opened up to. It was Gomezga's hard, angry face staring at her through an empty bread nylon worn over her head. Irene squinted to be sure she was not dreaming, then she frizzled into laughter. It was always hilarious how Gomezga could be so mad, and yet, helplessly theatric. “It costs seven hundred naira, Nene. Break your piggy bank and give me back my money.” “So you think I have to pull out my life’s savings for seven hundred naira?” “Are you going to prove me wrong?” Gomezga stamped her hands on her waist, beneath a belly fold. She had the accent of an avid Ugandan, but was of deep Malawian descent. “I’ll get you your bread back . . . If you let me have a peaceful morning rest.” She scoffed and swapped a cotton wool, damp with rosewater facial cleanser over her face. “It’s almost noon. You sleep like a pile of bricks.” Irene jumped, cursing loudly and racing to the room. She pulled down the green linen which did little in terms of concealing and stripped out of her nightgown. She had an interview and could not be late. Screaming in fury at her dishevelment, she grabbed the ends of her golden-tinted afro. When she reached the bathroom, which was a small untiled corner in the narrow passageways, Gomezga was already in it, singing in a foreign language. “Oh, Gome! I’ll be late.” “You woke up a quarter to eleven—” “Never mind, I’ll join you. No wahala.” She didn’t like having to shower with Gomezga, even though it was the one time there was softness in her gaze, felinity in her poise. And sometimes, she felt it wasn’t a mistake when their bodies randomly grazed. *** Lagos traffic was the absolute worst. The cars were jammed like pieces of Lego, moving an inch through every five minutes. The sun flamed like a giant stove. Snack and drink vendors shoved their heads against the window, imploring your patronage, demanding it. And all you could do was sit there and try not to lose your mind. Irene, in frustration, gave the driver of the rickety taxi fifty naira and flagged down a bike. She was wearing a beautiful, moth grey gown that easily caught to sharp edges, but what choice did she have? If she didn’t get to the interview on time, she would lose her chance. That was something she could not afford — not after four years of trial. She held on to the biker's shoulder as he sped down the highway, her chest leaning to his back. His lips raised in a smile and he increased the speed. *** By the time she got to the hotel where the interview was being held, her hair was a mess from the ride. Brown petals from masquerade trees that straddled Lolade Abbey fell from her afro as she cushioned it into place. The interview room was on the fourth floor, in a coolly conditioned hallway with homely art and soft-skinned furniture. “Here for the interview?” A bald woman wearing retro-styled round glasses and a dress that looked more like an apron than an English-styled pinafore asked her. She halted, breathless in front of a number of girls like her, sharing the same smug look. Like her, they were pretty. Like her, they were here for a spot at Maiden Voyage. And while she had troubles in selecting the perfect dress for the interview, the other candidates were barely clad, flaunting long, shapely legs. “You’re late. What’s your number?” “022.” She scrolled down a tablet, then paused. “Past. You’ll be back next year.” “W-what?” Irene stuttered. Her knees weakened beneath her. The woman walked away. There were collective snickers from the girls; one lousy northerner—she could tell from her tribal indents—popped a bubble gum so loud and the girls laughed as it splattered across her face. “Candidate 052!” the woman called. A slender, light-skinned girl with large eyes strutted forward. She winked at Irene, who now was one less competition to worry about. *** 180 The scale read 180. “You should throw away that damn board if it’s going to give you a heart attack someday.” Irene didn’t hear Gomezga come in and was startled by her entrance. “I think you’re obsessing over your body, anyone would love and accept you the way you are!” She was shouting. “Anyone but Maiden Voyage.” It’d been three weeks since the interview and she still had not gotten over it. “For five years! Five fucking years!” Gomezga sighed and pulled off her heels, looking at her curves through the mirror. She had recently started to work out. “I left Malawi because it just wasn’t working for me. If modelling isn’t working for you, let it damned be.” She had come too far to quit. Years before she met Gomezga, she watched a video of a local girl who blew up to become an international model. The program was inspiring. She thought herself qualifiedly beautiful—spotless milky skin and tall height. Her stomach remained flat regardless of how much she ate. Her figure was effortless, curved in all the right places, in right proportions. The envy of girls her age as she grew and the attraction of men old enough to be fathers. At fifteen, she came across a modelling agency that was hiring. The manager was a middle-aged westerner, whose picture of his wife and daughter was the first thing you saw when you stepped into his office. It came as a shock when he politely asked her to pull off her bra when he was alone with her. Of course, she hadn’t. So he spread rumours of her coming into his office to bribe him, and upon his stern disapproval, seduce him. Mr. Gordon was the director of Sherry’s Palace. She met him when she was nineteen. He was handsome and richly exotic, so it had felt right. Late-night driving through the streets of the city, the ones with flashy colourful lights; visiting his mansion on the island and cooking for him, wearing nothing but his t-shirt; getting drunk and giving in to his touch. He was the first man she had ever allowed to own her so completely. They warned her that he was a playboy and would break her heart—every girl, no matter how beautiful she was, was only a passing phase in his life. She hadn't listened. Last Christmas Eve, he threw her things out on the subway over a small stupid fight. The next day, he renovated her room for his Sierra Leonean mistress. She had not been able to forgive him yet, nor had she been able to stop loving him. *** 195 She stared at the scale angrily as though it was fabricating the number, then she went out to smoke. She burnt a full pack of Benson & Hedges before Gomezga’s red Peugeot 308 pulled up in the driveway. Gomezga walked her in and gave her a hug. “You’ll be good,” she said. “You’re a very pretty woman.” Her accent was really cute when she said words like, “pretty” and “calm.” She held Gomezga’s cheeks and she flinched a bit. Then Gomezga pulled her in and kissed her on her lips. Irene’s lips were cracked from smoking, but Gomezga’s felt so soft and nice. How was she so soft? She opened her eyes and they were on Gomezga’s favourite couch, hands searching each other’s body. *** 212 “How long have you known?” Gomezga found the pregnancy tube test in the backyard where Irene had carelessly disposed of it. Irene was frying potatoes, turning the pan from side to side, making sure the heat was balanced. “A few weeks.” She didn’t turn away from the pan. “Why didn’t you do anything about it earlier?” Irene stopped. “You mean abort the baby?” She looked away. “I didn’t know I was pregnant. I bought the test tube sometime ago, but the result was negative, so I thought my period was just late.” “Hm. Do you know who the father is?” Irene felt heat around her arm and looked to see the edge of her blouse catching flame. She put off the fire hastily with water, which irritated the hot oil. “You know who the father is?” Gomezga asked again, dispassionately, her face lacking the warmth it had these previous nights. Irene let out a sigh that slouched her shoulders. She had sent him thirty-two mails with different addresses, applying for a place at Sherry’s Palace. She missed him. And once she found out she was pregnant, she knew she had to see him. He had to have known it was her, somehow. Why else hadn’t he responded to any? “Men,” Gomezga hissed, reading her mind. There was anger in her voice and the heat of betrayal. “If you knew about the pregnancy on time, would you have aborted it?” “No.” It was absurd. The child was his; was him. And just maybe, if it turned out to be a boy—who knew the possibilities? *** “Mr. Gordon was sick. Passed away two months ago,” a stoic employee said to her the day she finally plucked the courage to visit his office on Femi-Davis street. Irene shrunk, held on to the desk for support. “Ms. Hussain? He knew you would come. He asked me to give you this.” She didn’t need to open the brown envelope to know what lay beneath its sealed lips. “He p-passed away-away?” The lady placed her small, soft palm over hers and pushed the envelope towards her. Irene felt a small chuckle rise from her throat and the secretary stared at her oddly, pulling back her hands. “He wanted you to have it.” “No, no, thanks,” she said, struggling to control her breathing, which landed in short, quick, irregular spurts. Hyperventilation was next. “I just wanted to see him.” She ran out of the reception. But later, only a few minutes later, she was back, snot-covered nose, but clearer head. The envelope was waiting on the desk for her, almost like it knew she’d be back. ### 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.

Zoë Gadegbeku is a Ghanaian writer living in Boston. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College, where she worked in communications and taught first-year writing. She was a participant in the 2017 Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop at the University of the West Indies-Cave Hill, Barbados, a fellow at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts in June 2019, and the 2021 writer-in-residence at Mother Mercy, an artist incubator in Boston. Her writing has appeared in Saraba Magazine, Afreada, Blackbird, and The Washington Post. Her essay “My Secondhand Lonely,” (Slice Magazine and Longreads) was included on the notable list in the 2018 edition of Best American Essays. Her work also appeared in The Best Small Fictions 2019 anthology and was selected for the 2020 City of Boston Mayor’s Poetry Program Contest. She currently works full-time as a copyeditor for a scientific publishing house. Visit Zoë's website and follow her on Twitter and Instagram. Some Collective Nouns for Black Girls/What We Call Our Selves When We Are Alone/What We Named Our Young Selves in the Grimy Club Bathroom Where We Became Sisters by Zoë Gadegbeku A riot of black girls. A harmony, a chorus, a Sunday school choir with blue and white ribbons pressed into wrinkle-less-ness. A glamouring. A dazzling. A gleaming of black girls and freshly oiled legs. A Dakaroise, have you seen those black girls? A Gentilly, a New Orleans. A Madina, have you seen those black girls? An Erzulie and her sister spirits. A coronation. A rebellion, a [Haitian] revolution. An uprising of black girls. A dancefloor. A shimmer. A hurricane, a storm system. A sorority but not the elitist kind. A group hug, an embrace of black girls, you are missing from us, how did we fail so profoundly to bring you back? A gathering together in the name of Toni Morrison and at the sound of her low voice. A romance of black girls, a Sula and Nel, yes, it really was what you thought about those black girls. A luxury. A softness. A ring shout. A ceremony. A masjid. An altar but not a pedestal. An anointing. A festival. A bacchanal. A celebration. A celestial body. A solar system. A conference but not the elitist kind. A Ramatoulaye and Aïssatou. A midnight. A golden hour. A call to prayer. A sunflower field. A horizon, an endless possibility of black girls. A future. A purpose. A skyline. An imagination. A cleansing. A healing. A lightning. A transcendence. A parade. An extravagance of black girls. A group chat. A blessing. An adornment. A sanctuary. An amazement of black girls. A reconciliation. A galaxy. A mischief∞. An abundance. A culture. An applause. An embodiment. An emergence. A vision. An utterance. A declaration. A tenderness of black girls. An escape. A wildness. A Saturday afternoon. A cosmos. A history. A holiness. A standard, thee standard. A globe. A force. A being. A gala. A subjectivity of black girls. A pleasure. A formation. A union. A wholeness. A ballroom, I bow down, you are the blueprint. A ferocity. A symphony. An echo. A scream∞. A clenched fist of black girls∞. A chaos. A blooming. A flourishing. An insistence. A persistence. A sharpening. A tomorrow. A redemption. A quilombo. A sublime. A glory. A miracle of black girls. An insurrection. An upheaval∞. An ecstatic experience. __________________________ ∞ A mischief of Black girls cast off their demons--toothy and still cackling--and sealed them in the walls of the houses from which they were forced to flee. On the sunny side of somebodies’ breakfast eggs, they sprinkled sandalwood incense ashes and cemetery dust from a great-great-grand’s resting place in a town that didn’t yet exist when these girls began to die. But all this was nothing like enough, so they knocked back one or four Molotov cocktails to render their palates anew and clinked their glasses before breaking them against the swine-pink and peeling foreheads of their enemies. ∞ Tonight at 8pm, reports of a clenched fist of Black girls descending on the crooked jaw of empire and pocketing the rotting teeth their blow knocked out of place. Sources state that this menacing presence also call themselves a rebellion, a [Haitian] revolution, an insurgence of Black girls—STATIC. STATIC. STATIC. ∞ We are an upheaval of Black girls ripping into the wreaths you have drawn around our heads, adornments that do us no good now that we have died once and again. We will stuff those sickly-sweet night blooming somethings as far into your nose as they will go and even further still so that you choke on the residual scent of all the life we will live through the Black girls who will avenge us. ∞Tonight at 8pm you won’t hear a scream, a sonic boom of Black girls because it is only accessible, only audible to: our loves, our sistren, and those among our mothers who have not glued their pride into the raw and dry inside of their mouths. A wailing of Black girls, but to the uninitiated like your selves, you will hear a child’s cry from next door’s backyard; one car’s bumper curling its metal around another post-collision; maybe just past midnight, a moan through a thin wall, a breath temporarily arrested in your own chest. ### 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.

The recipient of numerous awards and fellowships, Desiree S. Evans' work is deeply rooted in the south and imagines the many worlds of Southern Louisiana. Photo by Kathleen Conti Desiree S. Evans is an award-winning writer, scholar, and activist from South Louisiana. She was recently named the 2021-2022 Gulf South Writer in the Woods through a residency program of Tulane University’s New Orleans Center for the Gulf South and A Studio in the Woods. She is the 2020 winner of the Walter Dean Myers Grant for children’s fiction awarded by the nonprofit organization We Need Diverse Books. Desiree’s creative writing has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and has appeared in literary journals such as Gulf Coast, The Offing, Nimrod Journal, and other venues. Her work has received support from the Voices of Our Nations Arts Foundation (VONA/Voices), Kimbilio Fiction, the Callaloo Creative Writing Workshop, the Barbara Deming Memorial Fund, the Hurston/Wright Foundation, the National Endowment for the Humanities, and the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators. Desiree holds an MFA in creative writing from the Michener Center for Writers at The University of Texas at Austin, an MA in international policy from Columbia University’s School of International and Public Affairs, and a BA in journalism from Northwestern University’s Medill School of Journalism. Desiree currently lives in New Orleans where she is at work on her first novel. Visit her website and follow her on Instagram and Twitter. Tenderheaded by Desiree S. Evans Mamma like to say, hold yoself still chile, why you gotta be so tenderheaded? So tenderheaded in fact, the child became known for it. Tenderheaded Lilly of the crowfoot grass and the blue bottle trees, tenderheaded Lilly of the backatown projects. Tenderheaded Lilly of the bush-thick mane, woven through with night dangling cowrie shells. Mama like to say, sit quiet now, be still, stop ya fussing, gentle hands working the knots of Lilly’s hair, gentle hands sliding warm vaseline to dry scalp, gentle hands braiding sunbreath into holy nap. This ritual like a binding, this binding like a prayer. Everybody knew to watch out for mama’s crybaby gal with the soft, raw heart; she cast a two-step zydeco dance in the dark. * something in the earth, swelling in the ground. in the thick of the heat, with mouthfuls of longing. Tenderheaded Lilly growing under the singing oaks. Tenderheaded Lilly ascending from the glass-dark sea. a girl with black skin and a head full of sorrows. * Here in the retelling, in the backroom, across the way. Tenderheaded Lilly crying in the dark, all the names they call her settling like silt on the river’s bottom. The old women stir the pots and the old men spit tobacco, and the child emerges like fairy, like spirit, like heat. Mama like to say, stop ya squirming. Truth is, the child was tenderheaded even in the belly, even in the birthing. Wiggling and jiggling, she came out tap-dancing. In the town, everyone was watching that child weeping. But in the morning, a girl born to them, of soft scalp and nervous seasons. Mama like to say, chile, you be the warning. THE INTERVIEW Your writing has a strong sense of place rooted in the south. How does the region inform and inspire your writing? Growing up in the Deep South definitely shaped my writing. The South is a place where stories hold power—stories of renewal, resilience, of deep survivalism in the face of historic injustice. Into this container of turbulent history, I hope to write stories that honor my community’s past, as well as our current and future ways of living. In my writing, I want to reflect the world and respond to it. I hope to answer a call, and maybe even create a call. In the South, we tell stories in order to build community, to share truths, to survive the bad days. In many ways, I write to and from the Black South. I love taking readers into my Black Southern Louisiana landscapes through stories and characters that introduce them to our specific cultural traditions, foodways, languages, music, and way of life. Your writing is also grounded in the land directly. What’s your connection to the environment through your work? My childhood memories are made up of muddy bayous, flooding rainstorms, and dusty dirt roads. Pecan trees and sugar cane fields. I am really interested in the way the land itself informs character and plot. Through writing I am able to explore this connection — how do we relate to the land around us? How does it define our socio-economic lives and the culture itself? As a child of Black ancestors who worked in Louisiana’s cane fields, I think about the ways the land remembers us, how it can shed a light on our history. What stories can it yet tell us? “Tenderheaded” starts as a remembrance of a childhood memory many black girls share - sitting in the hands of a mother or elder working a comb and grease through a thick crown. But then the tone becomes ominous and that last line is a jolt. What does the warning foreshadow? I love writing about Black girlhood. There is so much magic, as well as danger, that exists for Black girls in our world. I am interested in that tightrope walk that represents coming of age in a world where you can be seen as a disruptor to the dominant culture, where you can be named a threat. In many ways, this prose poem foreshadows a young girl discovering and coming into her own power, and all the ways that moment can change everything. Your depiction of a mysterious, powerful child in this story is intriguing. What’s your approach to building complex characters, especially those of children? I love reading books and writing stories that give Black youth agency and power. A friend once told me that reading some of my work was like reading fairy tales about magical Southern Black girls. Hearing that, I realized just how much I centered children in my work, even work aimed at an adult audience. I love diving into the complex headspaces and intricate worlds of child characters, ones too often discounted and ignored and written off. I ask myself: what does it mean to center these children as protagonists and agents of change? I then ask: what are the ways these characters work to navigate and understand the world around them; how do they survive in it? I also ask: how can Black children live and belong and own their own truths? I seek to write stories that reflect the complexity of the communities I come from, and that can speak to the child that I was, and to the children today building their own lives in those communities. We know you are currently working on your first novel. Can you share a little bit about it? I am actually working on a couple different novel projects at the moment, but the novel I’ve been working on the longest is a fantasy novel about magical Black families in the Deep South. What does your writing process look like? Jotting down observations on scraps of paper while riding the bus home. Falling in love with snippets of speech from an overheard conversation. Seeing a person on the street, and thinking, “That’s my character!” And then getting home and trying to bring all of these things into a sentence, a scene, a world. Sometimes I outline, sometimes I don’t — but usually my process starts with a character or a scene or a sense of place/universe. I dive in often not knowing where I will end up, but I try to listen to the characters and let them tell me who they are, what they want, where they want to go, and why they want their story told. After the first draft, I edit and edit until I feel that the story has a clear arc, theme, and a sense of what it wants to do on the page. What advice would you give new writers? Write. Just write! I spent a long time not believing in myself and not writing because I thought it was impossible, out of reach for me. It took a long time for me to be okay with the fact that writing has to be a part of my life, because it gives me life. It took me a long time to give myself permission to write. So my advice is simple: give yourself permission, give yourself the entire page. For anyone coming to New Orleans, what’s the first thing you would recommend they do? Too often people come to the city and only visit the French Quarter, and they think that is the only version of New Orleans that exists. Oh, they are so wrong. So the first thing I tell anyone: get out of the Quarter. New Orleans is so much bigger that just its tourist areas. Go find that gas station in Midcity with the city’s best poboy. Go and sit on a levee in the Bywater and watch the mighty Mississippi river. Visit Congo Square Sunday afternoons and listen to the African drum circle. Take the ferry to the West Bank and visit the second oldest Black neighborhood after the Treme. Go listen to the singing oak trees in the magical moss-covered playground that is City Park. Go and take a picture by the sign of your favorite New Orleans street name. And don’t forget to visit all the independent bookstores in town and buy a book for a friend! How can people support you right now? Keep an eye out for my future projects. Publishing is a long road and things take a while to come into being, but I hope folks are willing to follow my journey and celebrate with me when good things happen. Keep track of me on my socials — I’m @literarydesiree on both Twitter and Instagram. Who is another Black woman writer people should read? I am going to recommend a Black women writer from my Friday Night Zoom Club (this is a weekly zoom call I’ve been doing with a couple of other Black women fiction writers since the pandemic started in order to cheer each other on with our writing projects and lives). So I want to shout out the wonderful science fiction writer Nicky Drayden. Check out her 2019 space opera Escaping Exodus for your next read. ### 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.

April Sojourner Truth Walker, PMP is a Dallas native, who studied at Emory University in Atlanta and Hollins University in Virginia prior to calling Oklahoma City home. Before starting her writing coaching company – A Little More Truth, LLC – in April of 2020, she worked for seven years as a Senior Project Manager at AT&T. April is also currently an Adjunct Professor at Oklahoma City Community College where she’s taught a myriad of classes in the Humanities since 2016. A perfect day for April is one spent in nature with her camera, a cup of tea, and nowhere to be. Her current manuscript, Fire Psalm, grapples with how the history of the black community in Dallas is covered up by the city’s constant need to revitalize its image. Follow April on her website and on Instagram. SOCIAL STUDIES by April Sojourner Truth Walker 1. Graduate School My mother hands me the latest version of Texas History textbooks. I’ve asked for it. And though she doesn’t know how it will help she’s taken a copy that can be spared. The book is heavier than I remember, its cover simplified—metallic star emblazoned on royal blue. I flip past chapter assessments, colored pages highlighted critical thinking prompts until I find what I need—the Civil War and Texas. But I don’t read the text. My eyes are drawn to the corner of a page where black children, women, men stand or stoop in rows of cotton—women with baskets balanced on scarf-wrapped heads, burlap sacks slung over men’s shoulders, children no more than six hugging their mothers’ thighs. The picture is not photo but cartoon. A colorful rendition of white fields dotted by black faces staring blankly. How many daguerreotypes of slaves did the artist study before creating the image my mother teaches to distracted nine-year-olds. 2. Middle School We have a visitor—Roland Warren’s mother— who apparently wrote a book about a great-grandfather or uncle. But I am busy watching my crush drop popcorn kernels into the heater in the back of the room. Before our class she stands, prattles on of her great so-and-so. See, she says, beaming, pointing to the man in sepia, cowboy hat cocked back, right hand on hip where a holstered pistol rests, he was a bit of a rebel. She passes the book. When it reaches me I look long into his eyes, relieved our paths will never cross. 3. Elementary School It is the first day of class and in the back room Mrs. Connor hands each of us a textbook and paper cover. At my desk I place the book’s spine in the center of the paper. But the book is new and I am distracted by the beautiful sand-colored binding the Texas borders enclosing scenes of oil rigs, longhorns, men on horseback gallantly waving hats in an unseen breeze. I consider leaving the book unprotected. But I know in May any damage will be my responsibility— so I follow instructions, cover. ### 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.

Join Torch Literary Arts for a virtual relaunch party on March 4th @ 7:00 p.m. Subscribe to receive a link to access the live stream. Due to Austin being at Covid Risk Stage 5, in-person attendance is limited and at capacity. Please subscribe to our newsletter to receive a link to join us virtually for a live stream. Our February Feature, Ebony Stewart, will share work from her new book, BLOODFRESH. Music provided by DJ Sample Vampire. Join us to celebrate 15 years of Torch Literary Arts and the future of Black women writers! Many thanks to our donors, sponsors, and friends for making this possible. Vuka, Future Front, The Steeping Room, Wine for the People, Bookwoman, and Cindy Elizabeth Photography. 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Kindall Gant is a poet and New Orleans, Louisiana native based in Brooklyn, New York. She holds a BA from Sarah Lawrence College where she received the Lucy Grealy Prize for Poetry. Kindall finds herself in evolution through lyrical storytelling and her main inspirations are rooted in relationships, home, and heritage. She has participated in workshops with the Cave Canem Foundation, Roots. Wounds. Words. Inc., Wing On Wo & Co., Winter Tangerine, and more. She currently serves as the founder and Editor-in-Chief for Arcanum Magazine, a newly established literary magazine featuring the visual art and writing of Black creatives. In her free time, she volunteers reading poetry manuscripts for the Tenth Gate Prize. When she isn't reading or writing, she tends to her plants. Kindall aspires to obtain her MFA, participate in more workshops and residencies. Though this is her first published piece, she hopes to share more of her work in the future. Follow Kindall on Instagram. Elegy for [Redacted] by Kindall Gant —after Zora Neale Hurston, Glenn Ligon, & Morgan Parker’s I Feel Most Colored When I Am Thrown Against A Sharp White Background (1928, 1990, & 2019) A foodgasm is problematic if it feels how it must have when America was discovered. Your tar tongue twists when you try to explain the confederate flag on your feed. Saying I can’t see color, won’t be your great escape from this conversation. I shouldn’t be surprised when you offer to read The White Card & never touch it. Yes, I’m angry, but I also challenge you to convince me I don’t have a reason to be. In my nightmares, you appear on the stage in blackface ready for the next minstrel. Aretha Franklin frowns & my ancestors shake their heads, in heaven, as I show my ass. We watch The Last Black Man in San Francisco & it ends with you calling me a gentrifier. We buy plants for the apartment. I name my cactus Spike Lee to remind myself I’m black. We argue the fault line between the cop who stopped you, your speeding ticket, & black lives. I get uninvited from your friend’s wedding. It would be uncomfortable because you’re black. I knew the truth when you asked what my feelings were on people rapping the n-word in songs. Jason, your one black friend, can’t spare you from the supremacy & neither can I. I feel most colored when I am thrown against [Redacted], so I pack my bags. I can’t be sorry enough. I grew up learning loving was uncomfortable. ### Torch Literary Arts is a 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Torch Literary Arts joins Amplify Austin for the city's largest joint giving campaign. Amplify Austin was founded by I Live Here I Give Here in 2013 and is the biggest day of giving in Central Texas. For 24 hours, March 2-3, 2022, Amplify Austin brings our entire community together to give to local nonprofits. In the past nine years alone, this fundraising event has raised over $81.5M for hundreds of local organizations, including $12.5M for 684 Central Texas nonprofits in 2021. You don't need to wait until March to support. You can donate now! As a registered 501(c)3 nonprofit, Torch Literary Arts joins Amplify Austin to secure vital funding to support Black women writers. Your donation will help TORCH pay, publish and promote Black women writers, curate our Wildfire Reading Series, and provide writing workshops and retreats. Multiple matching grants from generous sponsors are available through Amplify to increase our fundraising potential. Help TORCH get a share of the nearly $400,000 in available matching funds by making a donation today. You can also register as an individual fundraiser for TORCH to personalize your giving efforts. Click on the "Fundraise" button to get started. I Live Here I Give Here is providing additional support for BIPOC organizations to increase visibility and support. When you make a donation to TORCH, be sure to share a post on your social media pages with these hashtags to amplify TORCH's campaign: #amplifyaustin, #ilivehereigivehere #torchliteraryarts You may also copy the graphics below to help spread the word to your family and friends. Thank you for your continued support! Questions? Contact us at contact @ torchliteraryarts.org Torch Literary Arts is a 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Brianna Johnson's stories have appeared in Cosmonauts Avenue, Gigantic Sequins, The Molotov Cocktail, Wigleaf, Kenyon Review, Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora, and elsewhere. An alumna of the Tin House Summer Workshop and Hurston/Wright Weekend Workshop, she is a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee with work longlisted for the Wigleaf Top 50. An MFA graduate from The University of Tampa, she teaches college English in Orlando, FL. Visit Brianna online at her website, on Twitter, and on Instagram. We All Do Stupid Things By Brianna Johnson “Please don’t shoot me!” said the man I shot. I don’t know why I laughed when I did it. Maybe it was the irony. Is that irony? I’ve never understood what that means. I didn’t even know the man, just some guy by himself in the park. He was probably homeless. He must’ve been, his death didn’t even make the news - I checked. I never told my son about the man I killed. It was before his time. I was young. We all do stupid things when we’re young. Besides, what kind of man would he turn out to be if he knew his mother was a murderer? I met my son’s father shortly after; I never told him either. I wanted to be my best self for him. He looked at me in a way I’d never seen, like I was cast in gold. He looked at me like that until our boy was born. We never married, so it was easy when he left. I almost shot him too, the gun grasped behind my back when he walked out the door. I only hesitated because he turned to wave. Even in leaving he was beautiful. We agreed the baby could visit him on weekends. He used to look so much like his father, just a few of my traits sprinkled across his face. Sometimes growing up he’d look at me like he knew what I’d done, a low down look that would chill me. I smothered him with love, spoiled him silly just in case he did. I gave him everything he wanted; no was never an option – anything to stop those looks. Now, looking at him I see my full self in his face, in his body, in his smile. My gun in his hand, that same one, now pointed at me. “Please don’t shoot me,” I say. He laughs and so do I. I think I get it now. ### Torch Literary Arts is a 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Alexa Patrick is a singer and poet from Connecticut. She holds fellowships from Cave Canem, Obsidian, and The Watering Hole. Alexa was the 2019 Head Coach of the D.C. Youth Slam Team and has held teaching positions through Split This Rock, The University of the District of Columbia, and the Center for Creative Youth at Wesleyan University. Alexa has coached the slam teams of American University and George Washington University for the College Union Poetry Slam Invitational. She is an open mic host at Busboys and Poets and has performed at The Schomburg Center and the Kennedy Center. Her work has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, as well as led her to be selected to participate in Tin House’s Winter Workshop. You may find Alexa's work in publications including The Quarry, ArLiJo, CRWN Magazine, and The BreakBeat Poets Vol. 2: Black Girl Magic. Her debut collection Remedies for Disappearing will be published by Haymarket Books in 2023. Follow Alexa on Twitter and Instagram. Vigilante by Alexa Patrick In the war against me I am the fortress, cold, standing. Around me, a moat that is also me, running circles and licking dirt. Cannonballs flying from the roof, Black as me, exploding like me, clapping through the air. In the war, the nights are me and the knights are me, riding their strong, tired horses whose hooves arpeggio the mud, creating a song that is me. My dance card is full; soldiers keep coming to offer their gentle hands: Men who live in my building, Whose daughters went to my school, Whose daughter I am, Who are 20 years my senior, Who aren’t men yet, Who’ve signed my checks, Who, against metro stations, line themselves like artillery, and whistle clean as exit wounds. Of course my humanity hollowed; mercy burned down with all the other small towns. The smoke? That’s me, too. ### Torch Literary Arts is a 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Award-winning playwright, mental health advocate, and one of the most decorated poets in Texas, Ebony is a respected coach & mentor, one of the top touring poets in the country, and a Woman of the World Poetry Slam Champion. Photo by Harris Shootz Ebony Stewart is a Black woman, an award-winning writer, spoken word artist, playwright, actress, and world slam champion. She is a Houston native and one of Baytown's finest. Ebony has a BA in English & Communication Studies and is currently obtaining her Master’s in Clinical Social Work Therapy where she hopes to work with and provide affordable therapy to artists. She is the author of The Queen’s Glory & The Pussy’s Box, Love Letters to Balled Fists, and Home.Girl.Hood. Her newest manuscript, BloodFresh, will be published by Button Poetry and released in February 2022. Her work aims to validate the human experience and provide a layered perspective of mental wellness by recalling through poetry, storytelling, and reflection. You can learn more about Ebony Stewart's work at EbPoetry.com and follow her on Twitter and Instagram. DARK STAR I’m obsessed with writing love letters to Black women, even more so if she dark-skin I figure, if I’m going to go where the love feels like home, where I can rest, where someone gets me, then it’s better to be in the hands of Black women I’m committed to loving us, even more so when we dark-skin Cause I know, no one loves us if they not pretending There’s too many dark complexions treated (un)fair-ly Too much proof be in the pudding Black women, be tolerated or ignored Got it out the mud clear as day Dark-skin holding the light they think God forgot to give But God, bless(ed) Black women, anyway (sometimes it’s easy to forget) Black women, Even more so if she dark-skin, learned early on to self-soothe and overcome The anger is justified, but unexpressed in response cause they expect it (so) when they go low/We go higher Black women, even more so if we dark-skin, wading the tide of high blood pressure and other “unknown” micro-aggressions I choose us in spite of the African-American’t urge to boost (us) Only once, have I wanted the luxury of being someone [other] than myself Never once, have I not been seen as a Black woman, even more so since I’m dark-skin I’m still here, always alpha & omega be my own resolve But ain’t nobody thinkin about me but me The dark star Forever writing a love letter to myself #storyoftheblackgirlwinning A Black woman, with dark-skin (finally) seen. # ANXIOUSLY AVOIDANT shared as PDF to retain formatting # Slapboxing Not just another hood game Slapboxing “is a physical activity somewhat simulating boxing, where open hands are used in lieu of fisticuffs.” The art form is “an intersection between sparring and fighting usually performed in an informal manner,” the hood, the bus stop, the park, on yo block where there’s no vaseline but still two young men (some niggas) squarin’ off, talkin’ trash, wit a hard gaze. Think of it as a tool to be used to test one’s hand speed and power. Where males show dominance over each other. i.e., who has the longest reach, the quickest hands, who can bob and weave, block and move forward, all while showboating and being the most flamboyant. A rite of passage if you will. Little brother finally defeats and connects with older brother to gain his respect. Aggression used as an outlet when one cannot otherwise communicate their feelings. A spontaneous game or training drill between acquaintances that never lasts more than a couple of minutes because 120 seconds is actually a really long time and usually ends from a really good hit a.k.a. “That nigga hit me too hard and now we ‘bout to fight for real.” a.k.a. how else is a black man allowed to express himself in anger, when being tempered still get red confetti slung from his body? or name a black man that hasn’t squared up daily with his white opponent and lost— not because of skill, velocity, reach, or endurance, but because white men break the rules when black men get the best of them. (i.e., George Zimmerman, Timothy Loehmann, Michael Dunn, Donald Trump, ...) (white men, white men, white men, …) Crumble under pressure, only slapbox those they know they can beat by bringing a knife or a gun to a fight that only requires the use of hands. Name a coward that didn’t break the rules, make a fist, a bomb, a “law”, and hit a nigga hard enough for the ground to open up and fit a whole body in. Or at the very least, didn’t send the police mob to our neighborhoods with maximum power and chains. The one who gets the most licks wins the game. And some of this country’s greatest slapboxers (i.e., Nat Turner, Malcolm X, James Baldwin, Muhammad Ali, Jackie Robinson, Chuck Berry, Eric Garner, Sandra Bland, …) said, “I know my rights and you can get these hands” got the most licks, is legends in these streets/ but was born defeated/dusted and given a tombstone for it. Remember half-swings are wasted energy. Develop an eye for what’s coming. The idea is to strike your opponent without them striking you. Stick. Move. Block. The blindspot to this strategy of revenge, escape, or attempt to not be erased is: white men never intend to use just their hands. Compassion Fatigue To the white womxn whose YouTube comment said, she is tired of every other American poem being about race or rape. I’m not sure if compassion fatigue happens because no one taught you how not to be oppressed or because no one taught you how not to be the oppressor, but your comment reminds us that no one cares about us but us. You’re right. There are no new topics, just old problems written into new pleas to a country that refuses to reckon with its own sickness. We Americans, land of the free, can only keep our motto if we keep our mouths closed. And isn’t that what all rapists want? Control and a silenced victim. Do you realize someone has stopped listening to this poem because I am first black and also a womxn? Black, if I’m alive still. Womxn, if I haven’t disappeared yet. Got anything anybody in the world might need except my voice— which means, my body must be what’s left for the taking. I’m not sure how we became treasures we can’t afford to keep. But there are womyn of all kinds who’ve been raped; who also hoped their warm bodies’ heart would stop beating, but still went to work the next day. What we know is, it’s hard to comfort a girl who doesn’t let on she’s hurting. So praise every womxn who speaks out against her rapist in an effort to heal. Praise the ones who didn’t, but got their healing from the poems you are tired of hearing. How easy it must be to only sit through the happy. While we try an’ believe the only thing we need to remember about suffering is that, eventually, it ends. Three times now, on social media, I’ve watched a black person be murdered because the United States is still making us pay for the way we look or the guilt it feels. But a person of color’s only glory hallelujah is as long as we didn’t die, then we didn’t die. Do you realize that when our mothers say, “I love you,” she is also saying, stay alive, come back to me whole, in one piece, and not a hashtag or another dead nigga whose death she’ll have to watch on repeat? Us poets, whose duty is to write about the times, write, because we don’t know when we’ll become extinct. We are what’s left. Black ink from black poets, who dare to respond to all this black death, instead of hiding behind everything we’re thinking. How privileged your life must be, that you can be tired of hearing poems about race or rape, while we write about an extinguished race and violated bodies that keep being raped. It’s not hard to believe you’re tired, but can you empathize with how exhausted we must be? THE INTERVIEW Your work is at once powerful and vulnerable. How do you balance these positions in your writing practice? I don’t think either of those things happen on purpose. As intentional as I am in telling it like it is and being visibly unwavering on what I believe to be true, I don’t know if it’s something I try to balance in my writing practices. Often I’m told, my writing doesn’t do enough, and isn't as strong as someone hoped it would be. I’ve also been told that my work is too forward and angry and should be toned down. Folks love to make Black women jump through hoops, sit and straddle fences, while balled and chained, then ask us to hang ourselves. Before, when I went hungry or grew tired from tricks, I didn’t know, but now, I’ve come to the conclusion that I wrote it the way I wrote it because that’s how I write. At times your writing speaks directly to lived experiences of violence, your own, and others covered in mainstream news. Do you feel a sense of responsibility to address violent events in your work? I think I’m responsible for telling my own truth and the times I’m living in. I am asking (and sometimes demanding) the reader to absorb and admit the role they've played in it. I’m asking the reader to not just look at color or gender, but to also observe how our lived experiences could be the same in some ways, especially through matters of violence. Sometimes White folks say that they can’t completely relate to my work, and while that’s true, I think it’s a nice excuse and an easy out. Racism and oppression affects everyone, whether you’re the one doing the oppression or receiving it, both are having an experience that is affecting the lives and daily task of being human. For instance, in my poem Slapboxing, surely if you are not Black you have still faced the oppressive nature handed to you by “The Man'' or have had heinous things happen to you by White superior behavior too? Another person [online] said, “I wish all White people didn’t exist; then what would Black people write about!?” If Whiteness didn’t exist, in the vile ways it does, in this country, I’m sure our writing would be different too. So, [hahahahaha] me too, Blood. Me too. In addition to being an experienced writer, you are a Sexual Health Educator and Activist. Do you feel your writing and activism support each other? If yes, how so? Absolutely. Writing about my body or queer self as well as how sexual identity informs or denies cultural experiences support each other and align with life practices of how I am seen and help others feel seen as well. Affirming folks is important and I think writing bravely about the lack of affirmation given is also a form of activism. Congratulations on your forthcoming book, Bloodfresh. What can readers expect from this collection? Do you feel it is a continuation or departure from your previous collection, Home. Girl. Hood.? I don’t know if it’s a continuation or departure. I just be writin to end and begin again. There are a lot of themes that I come back to and write about: Black women, colorism, body image, and my relationship to family, mental health, and writing itself. It should be said, a lot of the poems in BloodFresh were written during the pandemic. So, it’s raw and observing. I chose poems that matched what was coming up for me and how they swirl around in my brain. I did not romanticize my depression by trying to be clever. I did not pretend to be unbothered when I was hurt, felt betrayed, abandoned, or was longing. I felt all my f feelings with no resolution. I made it (or whatever that means), so BloodFresh does reflect triumph and acts as an artifact to document, I was here. Your work is strong on and off the page and it’s apparent in your performance that you are no stranger to the stage. How do you care for yourself before and after delivering work that some may find heavy physically and emotionally? Before I get on stage I decide what poems are for which audience. There is no point in baring my soul for an audience that is only there for the feeding or isn’t deserving or won’t hold me. In some cases and if possible, before sharing the poem (while on stage) I will inform the audience of what kind of feedback I am open to hearing afterward or appropriate interactions about the piece. Afterward, I try to remove myself from the space for a bit. And then do some grounding and breathing exercises, plus drink water before re-entering the space. When conversing with folks I let them do most of the talking. If they're asking questions or wanting to dig deeper or even express what came up for them with my work, and they’re unconsciously asking me to do the labor of being completely present after all I just gave, then I'll be honest about my capacity at that moment and suggest we talk at another time via email or DM. What’s something that comforts and lifts you up? Food, laughter, the Sun. Bonus points if this can happen with family & close friends. What’s playing in your car on a long drive? Oh we gone switch it up! But we probably gone start out with Rapsody, JayZ, Meek Mill. Then switch over to Bruno Mars & Silk Sonic. I might go silent and just tend to my thoughts. Then put on some gospel music for praise and worship! If someone's in the car with me, I wanna hear what they wanna hear so I can understand them better. How can people support you right now? It would be really dope if folks requested my books (Home.Girl.Hood. & BloodFresh) at their local book store, purchased copies, and left reviews for the books as well. Who is another Black woman writer people should read? Ariana Brown & Suzi Q. Smith Torch Literary Arts is a 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Obi Nwizu received her MA in Creative Writing from Bath Spa University in the United Kingdom. Born in Anambra State, Nigeria, raised in Atlanta, Georgia, but currently calling Harlem home, Obi is a lover of month-long international vacations, vegan food, afrobeat, and rom-coms. When not writing, she teaches Creative Writing for the City University of New York and frolics around the city in six-inch heels. You can visit her at Obiwrites.com and follow her on Instagram and Twitter. Grapeseed Fields By Obi Nwizu The sun seeped through the white gated window and drew Nneka’s eyes open. She turned on her side and felt the stiffness of the wooden bed panel covered with a light sheet. It was Tuesday. Uncle Wang, her Chinese father, sautéed eggs and tomatoes in the kitchen, the aroma entering the bedroom and rising Nneka to her feet. She wrapped her body in a heavy jumper and closed the window, cutting off the brisk air from entering. Mrs. Wang was always in charge of closing all of the windows in the house first thing in the morning. Her feet would shuffle on the floorboards, a slow and steady stride, a motherly demeanor as she pulled the comforter over Nneka’s body if she spotted the cloth shifted to the side or fallen to the floor. “Sleepy Nneka” Uncle Wang, said, cheerfully. He placed a large plate of food next to two small bowls of rice. “Sit sit,” he said in usual eager manner. Nneka felt the weight of Mrs. Wang’s absence the moment she sat in her seat. Twenty-four hours hadn’t passed since she died during her afternoon nap. Uncle Wang sat frozen by her side on the couch. He watched her as if a dreaded day had finally arrived, a prophecy fulfilled in its due time. “Wǒ měilì de gōngzhǔ,” Uncle Wang quietly wailed as he dropped his head into the lap of his beautiful princess. Nneka watched from the bedroom door. She crossed her arms over her chest, pressed them deeper into her breast. She felt inept to cry. She liked Mrs. Wang, but her encounters with her were reduced to small acts of kindness similar to her Nigeran mother, a reinforcement through duties rather than words. Mrs. Wang would spread a napkin on Nneka’s lap before she ate. She encouraged her to drink hot tea three times a day and to sleep on her back to improve her posture. When Nneka arrived at the Chengdu international airport, it was Uncle Wang who greeted her while Mrs. Wang prepped dinner at home. When Nneka need a piece of clothing to remind her of New York City, of home, it was Mrs. Wang who accompanied her and gave a thumbs up and a joyful “beautiful” whenever Nneka emerged from the dressing room. Little, random acts of heightened volume spanning four months. She left Uncle Wang in the living room. She heard his sniffles through the bedroom door left ajar. The house was quiet from the bickering of a marriage of 42 years, the quick snapping, teasing, laughing, scolding, remnants of growing, changing love. “You’re in a cheerful mood,” Nneka said as she spooned off a piece of egg and dug it into her small bowl of white rice. Uncle Wang filled her glass cup with hot water as the jasmine flowers settled underneath. “Each day is a new day,” he said. “And we must live today, not yesterday.” Nneka ate quietly, not sure whether to mention Mrs. Wang. There was mechanicalness about Chinese society she hadn’t understood, a repressing of feelings as though expressing anything but positiveness endangered souls and their existence. In her few months in the society, everything was approached with joyful inquisitiveness, down to Mrs. Wang counting the number of individual braids in her hair after they ate dinner. Nneka laughed uncomfortably unable to lash out at the invasion and the feeling of an animal displayed at a petting zoo. Uncle Wang understood. As a retired construction worker, he’d traveled around the globe enough to know when to reel back his lack of boundaries. In Nigeria, he was treated like a king though he was simply a worker without recognition in China. He told Nneka of being offered women by village chiefs as a means to thank you. Nneka laughed at the image. Five-four Uncle Wang. Muscle-less Uncle Wang. Skin and Bones Uncle Wang in sexual proximity to a voluptuous Nigerian woman. “Did you take them up on the offer,” Nneka had asked. “No, no, no,” Uncle Wang humorously confessed. “I was there to work.” The same easy spirit covered Uncle Wang in the house that he would soon live in alone. Sichuan University offered Nneka a position to teach English Language and Literature. And if she agreed to read English books to rambunctious Chinese third graders, they would throw in an near-campus modernized apartment equipped with Ikea furniture and an American toilet. However, a week before her trip, the admissions office informed Nneka that her apartment move-in date was delayed for four months, and she would be paired with a host family, an English-speaking Chinese family who was well-traveled and liked American food, pizza with pepperoni preferably. Nneka was determined to leave New York City behind. The swiftness of its streets matched the badgering of Chike and Ijeoma, her parents, who constantly needed to know how Nneka could not find a man to bring home in a city of millions. “How is it that at 25 years, you don’t bring me someone you can marry?” Ijeom would say as though witnessing an abomination in the flesh. Nneka could not answer what her mind did not focus on. She grew tired of tripe and goat cooking in soup as her diet switched to consuming only turkey, fish, leafy vegetables, tomatoes, bell peppers and mushrooms. Every time Ijeoma screamed Nneka’s name to grab something she could easily grab herself, Nneka thought of leaving. When Chike failed to show enthusiasm at her published articles in the Caribbean Daily, she thought of leaving. Chike and Ijeoma tried to stir Nneka to return to school, to forget the useless Journalism degree she acquired and reimagine herself in a white coat with Dr. Odo stitched onto the top right pocket. China was Nneka’s escape. A place her finger landed on when she spun the globe on top of her bedroom dresser. It was a place of fluidity within her own parameters. No one would follow her there. Chike and Ijeoma’s peers could not expose her for downing afternoon beers. They could no longer take the false title of aunts and uncles for the sake of inquiring and invading. Leaving became a heightened obligation. An obligation to unshackle the expectations of her country, of her city; to release them from her ankles and slide them under her feet. “I can stay longer. Here. With you,” Nneka said, finishing her bowl of rice. “I can take a bus from the university.” “That’s a long way. There is nothing to do here. This isn’t a place of a young person.” “I can’t leave you here…with what just happened.” “Oh, Nneka. You are very very kind,” Uncle Wang said. He patted Nneka’s hand. “I will be okay. Death comes to everyone. And Měiíng is coming today. She gets here tonight. 7 pm.” Nneka hadn’t met Měiíng. She’d left for the University of Texas in Austin before Nneka arrived. She was a girl of American dreams, that’s what Uncle Wang said. She regularly asked for money to eat and shop and attend movie theaters. Uncle Wang wondered how much studying she was doing. "The dog ate my homework" became a common excuse when asked for a picture of her studies. Mrs. Wang said she learned that saying from her American friends. Once, Měiíng asked to speak to Nneka on the phone. Her voice was elevated as if there was something to prove or display. She spoke quickly, jamming her words together in an attempt to imitate the Texas drawl of her surroundings. The call was on speaker. Uncle Wang and Mrs. Wang giggled at how silly their daughter sounded, comically blaming it on American corruption. Nneka cleared the table. She ran hot water into the wok and dumped the breakfast plates inside. She paused and looked over her shoulder. Uncle Wang was staring at the living room couch as though someone was there. He held his arms between his legs and simmered to a child as if drifted to moments long ago, a place separate from where he sat. His parents didn’t want him to marry Suìpíng. She was the daughter of a widowed brown farmer. Suìpíng’s mother died while giving birth. Sometimes her father looked at Suìpíng as though seeing his wife and cried. Sometimes he screamed at Suìpíng for taking too long to sell all of the grapeseed flowers. He believed giving her away would have been a relief. For he could die and she could be reborn into a better life. On Sundays, she pulled grapeseed flowers out of obligation and sold them on the end of Wangjang Xi road, at the dead-end which led to heightened bushes. She sat at a wobbly table with a tattered sign soliciting customers. She sat there until she had enough money for a week's worth of pork and chicken. One late afternoon as the sun settled, Léi Wěi, approached Suìpíng’s table. He stuttered how many flowers we wanted to purchase. He fidgeted with his hands in the pockets of his creased trousers. He rocked back and forth on his heels. His black hair hung to his shoulders and his skin was a mark-less pale. A backpack was strapped to his back. He took the wrapped up flowers, but was reluctant to leave. “I am Léi Wěi Wang,” he said in English, feeling impressed with himself that he’d remembered the order of the introduction. Suìpíng eyed him, confused as if he spoke a foreign language. “Ah,” Léi Wěi said at the realization. “Wǒ jiào Wáng Léi Wěi.” “Wǒ shì Suìpíng,” she said through laughter. Léi Wěi focused on Suìpíng’s eyes. They were an unusual light gray and bigger than all he’d seen. Determination rested in them with an outer layer of sadness, one Léi Wěi wanted to discover and heal. Five months later, Léi Wěi wanted to propose. He did not have his own money for a ring and his parents refused to barter on their son’s behalf. Farmers were ostracized. They married other farmers and their offspring, never those of civilizations who didn’t meddle in dirt. Upon hearing that Suìpíng's mother did not survive birthing her, the Wangs’ heart did not soften. The shame of a windowed man would not be attached to their name. Léi Wěi fetched Suìpíng in the middle of the night. They both agreed that at three in the morning, Suìpíng would creak the kitchen door open and wait for Léi Wěi’s arm to appear and wave her out. She left a letter next to her father’s pillow, cried a little for the red envelope she wouldn’t receive, the wedding gown she wouldn’t wear, the red, the yellow, the celebratory occasion that she thought herself better than, the exterior materialization for strangers to witness. But walking away, giving up on what all Chinese girls wanted even though ashamed to announce and focus on it, made her miss her mother. She realized that some things she will never have, and that realization had to be accepted. She breathed in the cold air entering through the slightly opened kitchen door and waited. Beneath Uncle Wang’s expectance, Nneka knew he mourned. All humans did when they weren’t upholding the shield their society called for. When Uncle Wang finally dozed off for his afternoon nap, she covered his small body with a hefty blanket. He sat upright, head trust backward, and Nneka lifted the fabric up to his chin. She stayed at his side throughout the afternoon, not saying much beyond the routine questions of what he grabbed from the downstairs market. The market women hadn’t heard the news or if they did, they did not show Nneka pity. They hadn’t rid themselves of the need to stare at her as if her presence hadn’t become familiar. They often stopped what they were doing. If someone was handing over money for apples, they stopped mid exchange as if frozen in time. If a woman was arranging the vegetables on her table, she did so with her eyes glued to Nneka as she walked past. A short weighty woman waited for Nneka. She was the only seller who executed patience with Nneka’s choppy Mandarin while treating her like any other customer. “Laowai!” she called from her booth, excitedly waving Nneka over. “Ni hao,” Nneka said shyly, cautious of bringing more attention her way. She hadn’t learned the seller's name. For a name created a sense of intimacy she hadn’t convinced herself she was ready for; not in a place that one person returning it wasn’t enough to combat those who refused to see anything beyond her foreign black body. She pointed at a block of tofu drying on a brown mat. “Yīgè,” Nneka said. “Wǒ yào yīgè,” the woman corrected. “Shì, de,” Nneka smiled. “Wǒ yào yīgè” “Fēicháng hǎo!” The woman gave a thumbs up. This mini-lesson continued until everything Nneka wanted was purchased. Uncle Wang had moved to the exact spot where the ambulance removed Mrs. Wang’s body. He stretched out, hugged the throw pillow close to his chest, pulled his knees below the bottom of the pillow while a faint smile sat on his lips. He did not acknowledge Nneka’s return. A memory engulfed him. Drizzle tapped on the windows like nail tips on wood ushering in the early darkness of winter. Měiíng would soon arrive. She never gave Nneka the appearance of a comforting daughter, even on the phone as her calls mere more so demands or pleads for things. But hours later, the doorbell rang and Měiíng quickly collapsed into Nneka’s arms before she could close the door behind her. Women were allowed to physically grieve. It was expected to see their tears fall for issues of grave magnitude and simplicity such as the sun rejecting their opened umbrella and tanning their skin. “Your father’s in the bathroom,” Nneka said, hesitantly patting her back. “I made mapo dofu and some bok choy if you want to eat.” “Eat?” Měiíng said, lifting her face from Nneka’s shoulder. “How can you eat at this time?” “Your father and I ate breakfast. He said it’s ok.” Měiíng’s eyes reduced Nneka to a house girl. “Where’s my father?” “He’s in the bathroom.” The toilet flushed, igniting the clanking pipes. Uncle Wang called Měiíng into his arms upon seeing her in fancy American attire—a knee-length black wool coat, a lavender scarf wrapped around her neck and a wool beret. “You look very pretty Mey,” Uncle Wang said. “Bàba, nǐ hǎo. Nǐ hǎo ma?” “I am very good,” he said. “Very very good.” Měiíng peered over her shoulder at Nneka for verification. They were close in age with Nneka four years older, tipping towards thirty. If she considered Měiíng her actual sister rather than one appointed to her, she would return her attitude with a side of threatening cuss words. Měiíng helped Uncle Wang to his kitchen seat and sat him down. He tried to make a fuss about it, reiterating that he wasn’t a cripple and unable to guide or walk on his own. “Are you sure you don’t want Mama buried?” Měiíng asked. “You’re English is so much better, Mey,” said Uncle Wang. “Bàba, focus.” “I am focused.” “You really are not having second thoughts about burning Mama up? I don’t think you should do it. If you spread the ashes in the grapeseed field of her home, where can I visit her? You’re throwing her away.” “It’s not about what we want. Your mother wants this. I have to give it to her.” “You do not,” Měiíng yelled. She paced around the kitchen table. “Why can’t we do what makes us comfortable? We are the ones that are left. We are the ones that have to deal with her being gone.” “That’s selfish,” Nneka mouthed to herself, not quite enough, however. “No one asked you,” Měiíng shot out in anger. “You are not family.” Uncle Wang called Měiíng’s name several times to calm her down. “We did not teach you how to talk like that to your elders.” “But she’s not an elder.” “She is your elder.” Měiíng released a sigh of frustration before turning to apologize to Nneka who was not looking for one. Emotions were high, she knew, especially for a daughter who hadn’t seen her mother for three years since leaving China. She gave Měiíng the grace she simultaneously did and did not deserve. Mrs. Wang wanted more for Měiíng since time had rolled into an era of opportunity. Měiíng could step into open doors that valued her brain rather than the paleness of her skin or the bright red lipstick spread across her lips. Mrs. Wang believed waking Měiíng at five in the morning to prep breakfast, forcing her to make market runs for lunch, and learning to prepare three main dishes for dinner while not faltering in her studies would somehow instill the value of hard work. Instead, Měiíng shed the cloak once arriving in America. She indulged in the preconceived notions of college life, the wildness and independence of it. She avoided Chinese boys and swallowed three Plan Bs. She hiked her skirts above her knees and squeezed her thin frame into curvaceous jeans. It was freedom. Měiíng took a leave of absence from the remaining of the semester to return home. She was on the verge of flunking. Grief struck at the perfect time. The kitchen fell quiet as Měiíng contemplated accompanying Léi Wěi to Suìpíng’s home. It was a two-hour drive, a destitute village that illuminated the humble beginnings of her lineage. Nneka volunteered her attendance, even offered to drive if Léi Wěi became too distraught. “Your mother would like for you to be there,” Léi Wěi said, attempting to shift Měiíng in his direction. “She’s not here and she still forces me to do things I don’t want,” said Měiíng through teary laughter that shattered walls of hidden emotions. Society’s expectations, its requirements in times of pain, fell to the hardwood floors and seeped into the cracks. Honesty, the underlayer, dawned. ### Torch Literary Arts is a 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. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.