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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.

Celebrating 15 years of Torch Literary Arts and the future of Black women writers. Photo L-R: E.J. Antonio, Hallie Hobson, Tayari Jones at the first TORCH reading, November 2006, cosponsored by Cave Canem Foundation, Inc. We started with fire. We continue with fire. Thank you for your continued support of Torch Literary Arts and the Black women writers we serve. We are thrilled to announce that our initial TORCH Relaunch Fundraiser was a success! Your donations exceeded our $5,000 goal. These funds will help pay features and publish their work on TorchLiteraryArts.org, resume planning for our Wildfire Reading Series and workshops, and begin planning our inaugural retreat for 2023 in Austin, TX. Because of you, Black women writers will have a table reserved just for them where they can grow and cultivate their craft. We know the impact of supporting one’s creative passion extends far beyond the work produced. It provides hope for the possibility of living a life of one’s own creation. It empowers writers to express themselves freely on and off the page with encouragement and support. And we know that when Black women share their stories, readers and educators benefit from a more representative and inclusive depiction of the world we live in and imagine. To fulfill our mission, TORCH has set a goal of $15,000 in individual giving by the end of 2022. We are already a third of the way there! With your help, we can reach our goal and provide advancement opportunities to Black women writers. Please consider making a monthly contribution or including us in your end-of-year giving plans. You can give via our GoFundMe page or Venmo. Here are other ways you can help TORCH today: Subscribe to our newsletter. Receive news, announcements, and read new work. Follow us on social media. You can find TORCH on Twitter, Instagram, Facebook, and LinkedIn. Be sure to like and share our posts to help spread the good word. Tell a friend about TORCH. Writers, readers, and educators everywhere will enjoy the work we publish. New features are published every Friday! There are many ways to support Torch Literary Arts. Contact us for partnership opportunities. We look forward to building with you in 2022 and beyond. Thank you for your support. Onward together! ### 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.

Angel C. Dye is a poet, scholar of African American Literature, and the author of BREATHE (Central Square Press ‘21). She is from Dallas-Ft. Worth, Texas/Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a graduate of Howard University, and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Kentucky, where she was a Nikky Finney fellow. Dye has received fellowships from The Watering Hole and Furious Flower Poetry Center and her work has appeared in About Place Journal, The Pierian Journal, African Voices Magazine, Blue Mountain Review, Tahoma Literary Review, and A Gathering Together Journal, among other places. Dye writes in the tradition of Lucille Clifton, Amiri Baraka, and Sterling A. Brown, striving to carry on their legacies of unapologetic blackness in the face of oppression, radical self-love, and artistic activism. She aims to discover, as Audre Lorde explains, “the words [she does] not yet have,” and is currently a Ph.D. in English student at Rutgers University. Follow her online at her website and on Twitter and Instagram. The New Normal a Gigan by Angel C. Dye there is a series of words we never said 20 months ago: pandemic, quarantine, isolation, asymptomatic, asynchronous, hybrid, virtual learning, mask, vaccine, variant, virus how could we have known that fall before the outbreak would upend our sense of normalcy we might have gathered more than leaves and thanked God for only angels made of snow now there are angels more numerous than snowflakes there were too many words left unsaid if we had known we would have sent the text and made the amends, hugged tighter not cancelled on our friends instead we have hidden our faces, kept our distance in hopes of keeping ourselves ### 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.

Elizabeth de Souza is a writer and curator with a special focus on the arts emerging from the African diaspora. She is particularly interested in the mysterious link between artistic genius and mental health. Elizabeth earned her MFA in creative writing from George Mason University and has received awards, fellowships, and grants from MacDowell, Hedgebrook, Twelve Literary Arts, and Creative Capital, among others. Her essays have appeared in print and online publications such as Southern Indiana Review, Callaloo, Surface Design Journal, Solstice, and the Journal of Baha’i Studies. Her first book, Sleeping in the Fire: Reclaiming the Lost Legacy of M. Bunch Washington and Other Seminal Black Visual Artists in America, is forthcoming. She is the Director of the Bunch Washington Foundation, which she co-founded in 2021 with her brother, journalist and filmmaker, Jesse Washington, to support Black painters and sculptors. Elizabeth currently lives in the Pittsburgh area with her husband and two young children. Follow her online at her website and on Twitter and Instagram. THE COLOR OF NANA’S WISH By Elizabeth de Souza “Can you believe,” she asked from across our dorm room, “that my Nana is like that?” The only light came from the clock radio, a small plastic box with green glowing numbers that made an odd clicking sound each time a minute passed, like a fingernail flicking against a ceramic button. “Well, she’s from that generation.” We paused, our thoughts drifting together like summer clouds, trying to imagine ourselves in sepia instead of full color. The present moment was stamped around us in various forms; a coffee mug, a T-shirt, even encircling a rose quartz set in a beveled ring: Class of 1994. “When I was dating a guy who was dark-skinned, Nana’s only comment was: “Why in the world would you want go backwards?!” I gasped, sharp and high. “And when my little brother brought that cute gymnast home, Nana had the nerve to say the girl looked like a runaway slave!” My hand flew to my mouth. “She did not!” Our laughter, dark and guilty, spilled between us. I shifted in my narrow twin bed, tugging the fitted white sheet back onto the impermeable blue-green plastic-coated mattress. I thought of the proud way my father sometimes carried himself; shoulders stiff, everything held taut. His skin was blacker than Southern sharecropping on an empty stomach. “They used to call me liver lips,” he’d told me so many times, eyebrows comically raised. Folks were often surprised he had a daughter who looked like me. When I met my roommate’s Nana at their family barbecue, she lifted a bony, jeweled hand to my cheek, then gently pressed my long, silky, heat-straightened tresses between her thumb and the crook of her pointer finger as if she were handling new money, her light eyes bright as a young girl’s. ___ Someone passed the story to me casually, like a discarded banana peel. Right away I called, although we’d drifted apart after graduation. It’d been five years. She was in Texas, I was back in Brooklyn. “How did you know to call me?” she asked. “Did you hear…?” The rumor was true, but incomplete; deathly wrong. Yes, she was pregnant. She’d also spent a month in the hospital with fractures and broken bones. The man was a familiar stranger. He’d made deliveries to the office where she’d worked for two years. A white man. It happened in her car, a new Nissan with leather seats. Right outside her workplace. After the hospital, she’d stopped talking to just about everyone. They all said the same thing. “I tried to do it,” she confided that day on the phone. “But I couldn’t. I walked out of the waiting room. Everyone thinks I’m insane. I just can’t force myself to do it.” I said everything I could think of. She was silent. I pushed on and on blindly, not knowing what to grasp and what to let slip away. The moment I thought I’d lost her for sure, she spoke. It was only one word, but in the smallness of her voice a note of certainty rang clear and true. “Yes.” And again, when I stumbled toward an empty word, I could hear her nodding: Yes. The photo came in a little white envelope months later. I was transfixed by the tiny face and copper ringlets, loose and dreamy as a future memory. Heavenly seawater eyes gazed into mine. With a jolt, I realized that Nana’s wish had survived the passage of time, even though it was the ordeal of the journey that had first conceived it. ### 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.

New Website, New Publishing Model, New Programs, and More! For over 15 years, Torch Literary Arts has provided a space for Black women writers to take risks in their work and grow their literary careers. We are excited to continue our work with you and relaunch TORCH in 2022! Our new website will feature Monthly and Friday features year-round and new programs beginning in the fall. Thanks to our partners and individual donors like you, all contributors will be paid for their work. Follow TORCH on social media and subscribe to our e-newsletter to receive future updates and announcements from Torch Literary Arts. 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, Elizabeth Alexander, Natasha Trethewey, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, workshops, and retreats. Subscribe to our e-newsletter to receive future updates and announcements. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Torch Literary Arts is accepting submissions for Friday Features. WHAT WE PUBLISH Torch Literary Arts seeks original creative work by Black women writers. We are interested in work that challenges and disrupts preconceived notions of what Black women’s contemporary writing should be. Your stories and poems are valuable and necessary. Write freely and submit work you are excited to share with the world. We accept submissions of poetry, prose/hybrid genre, and drama/screenwriting for consideration for our Friday Feature. Thanks to our partners and individual donors, all selected features are paid upon publication. Visit our submission page for guidelines. 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, Elizabeth Alexander, Natasha Trethewey, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, workshops, and retreats. Subscribe to our e-newsletter to receive future updates and announcements. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

The grant, made possible by Future Front Texas provides a gift of unrestricted funds and professional support. Based in different cities around Texas, each recipient has received a $1000 micro-grant and a year of educational support from FFTX, so they can continue to nurture creativity and community-building in their own work as women and LGBTQ+ founders. Torch Literary Arts is thankful for this gift of financial and professional support. Funds will be used to relaunch TORCH in 2022, pay artist fees, and cover administrative expenses. FUTURE FRONT TEXAS IS A 501C3 NONPROFIT, HOMEGROWN IN AUSTIN, TEXAS. Started as a grassroots meet-up series called Boss Babes ATX (bbatx) in 2015, Future Front is run by a four-person staff and a network of amazing volunteers. Alongside members, collaborators and partners, Future Front nurtures creativity, community-building and professional resilience in Texas and cultivates spaces where women and queer creatives, founders and leaders can grow together. Currently, Future Front produces an annual festival and market, a year-round learning club and conference, as well as multiple community-care initiatives. Learn more about Future Front. 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, Elizabeth Alexander, Natasha Trethewey, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, workshops, and retreats. Subscribe to our e-newsletter to receive future updates and announcements. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Photo: Jeff Swensen / Getty With so many organizations doing incredible work, we at Torch Literary Arts are thankful to be included on NewsOne's list of institutions to support that uplift Black people through cultural events and social justice organizing. Other organizations listed include Michelle Obama's call for Girls Alliance, The King Center, the Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, and the NAACP. Your gift to TORCH helps us to fulfill our mission to publish and promote Black women writers at all stages of their literary careers. Make your donation today via Venmo. Thank you for your support! 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, Elizabeth Alexander, Natasha Trethewey, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, workshops, and retreats. Subscribe to our e-newsletter to receive future updates and announcements. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.