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Jacinda Townsend is the author of the forthcoming Trigger Warning (Graywolf, 2025) and Mother Country (Graywolf, 2022), winner of the 2023 Ernest Gaines Award for Literary Excellence. Her first novel, Saint Monkey (Norton, 2014), winner of the Janet Heidinger Kafka Prize and the James Fenimore Cooper Prize for historical fiction, was an Honor Book of the Black Caucus of the American Library Association. Jacinda teaches in the MFA program at Brown University. Follow Jacinda on her website . Trigger Warning (an excerpt) Homeowning had been Ruth’s idea, conceived almost the minute she became pregnant: it had taken her only one bout of morning sickness to start resenting the plant-infested bungalow they were renting, to start reminding him how impossible it was to heat the house’s back rooms. To start pronouncing its lone full bath as too small and old-fashioned for the magnitude of what was happening to her body. They were flushing money down the toilet twelve different ways, she argued, lining the landlady’s pockets ahead of their own. It had taken them a couple more years to piece together a down payment, but in that time, Myron took on Ruth’s American dream as his own, perking his ears at interest rate dips, covertly eyeing the real estate circulars he found in the supermarket. He was surprised, then, to feel a bachelor’s lack of regret at watching his house burn. A neighbor, Walt Meyers, pushed his wife to the sidewalk in her wheelchair to watch the fire just as something deep in the living room caterwauled before exploding. Walt stopped her abruptly yet no part of her body lurched forward: Myron found that his anima, too, stayed parked in neutral. His sensibilities, as the roof crashed to the foundation, fell to clinical analysis: he was intrigued at the idea of the power drill in his garage becoming hot enough to melt, and wondered at the thought that flames must, at that very moment, have been shooting out of the splintered screen of his plasma television. Yet even if he himself failed to be moved to regret about the loss of the house–the French doors they’d had installed between living and dining rooms, the crown mouldings that had sold Ruth on the house in the first place–there was Enix. How sorry he was for them now, and how worried for their mind. They’d watched the fire with a look of puzzled wonder on their face, their mouth slightly ajar, the glow of the sodium street light glinting off their braces. But when things went irrevocable, when the roof fell, and then the fire truck dragged into their front yard leaving two deep, muddy ruts behind it, Enix turned into a puddle of a child. Six firemen rushed out with two huge, gray nozzles and hooked the truck to the hydrant, and Myron took Enix’s hand. He felt them swoon a little next to him, as though the square of sidewalk they were standing on had sunk into the recently-rained earth. They didn’t cry, but Myron picked up the weight of them as he hadn’t been able to in many years. He let their head sink into the crook of his neck and felt their legs dangling past his knees, felt them spread into a slow smear of emotion that pooled against his own body and made him lightheaded. Their hair was so smoke-filled that he felt strangled. It was to be expected–Enix had been sleeping downstairs, and the fire had come up from the basement. But he found, too, that close to them, a sweet baby smell that could only have been his imagination, a corrupted memory of having held Baby Annie all those years before. Only through Annie did he feel the loss of the house, the death of the kitchen doorframe where they’d penciled notches to mark her jumps in height, the shattering of the patio door where she’d spent so many summer mornings sitting with her back against the glass, eating cereal out of a mug. Already, Enix was traversing two houses and two sets of rules, having to become emotionally ambidextrous, all because he’d chosen the wrong woman, the one most attracted to impermanence. After a string of girlfriends who’d hinted at destination weddings and sent birthday balloons to his dorm, it had blown Myron’s mind, when he first met Ruth, the way she’d excuse herself from his room right after sex, the way she’d leave him waiting for her in restaurants where they’d arranged to meet. Each time she showed up, fifteen minutes, sometimes half an hour late, flashing across his retina in her red curls and faux-fur coat, the relief shot through his brain like a narcotic. She appealed to the lowest part of his self-esteem, he supposed: she quite conspicuously didn’t need him, but she wanted him. Occasionally. Now she’d left him over a joke and she wasn’t coming back, and it turned out that Ruth’s kind of sexy was all wrong, once you were older, with a mailbox full of AARP solicitations and your body transforming into all the things you’d never wanted for it. He’d seen Ruth as a higher order of person, tethered as she was to nothing, but he’d been wrong. It was the solid brown earth, a man needed under his feet. He sat now in the Holiday Inn, eating the tin of honey-coated almonds that had been gifted to him by the sympathetic desk clerk, mindlessly patting his buzzing phone as if it were a baby, as if he could somehow calm its loud insistence. His old friend Anthony Rutherford had heard about his divorce through their grapevine of college classmates. And had come out of the woodwork to say he'd tried to warn him. She played you , Anthony texted him, out of the blue. You never could get that chick in line Nice to hear from you , Myron texted back, then shut down his phone. But when he turned it on again, fifteen minutes later, it buzzed with a parade of messages. My barber’s sending a guy out , began the final series. He hasn’t reopened since COVID, if you can believe. Get yours buzzed too? Come to my house, brother. Myron winced. After all these years. Anthony was still claiming honorary membership in the Black community. But he was one of Myron’s oldest friends. Freshman year of college, Anthony had sat coxswain as Myron rowed through his drinking problems, Anthony restraining Myron’s shoulders on several occasions as he heaved into the toilet on the men’s floor of their dormitory. And then there was the night at a bar on Limestone, when. After Myron won five pool games in a row, a crew of White frat boys had announced they “were gonna beat the shit out of that nigger.” Anthony had intervened, swinging his pool cue like a samurai sword as they advanced, then hoisting himself atop a pool table to sing Frank Sinatra, distracting the entire bar with his two booming verses of “New York, New York” for a long enough time that Myron was able to slip out the front door unnoticed. Even now, Myron could remember run-walking down the street outside the bar, counting out two hundred dollars of Phi Kappa Psi’s money, folding the twenties into his pockets as whistles and applause breached the sound barrier of the bar’s front window. All these twenty-five years later, Anthony had massaged his way into some sort of vice-presidency at UPS. As his star had risen, so had his hairline receded, but Myron supposed that was all the more reason for him to need a regular haircut. Myron cleared the messages, then used his right-hand fingers to drum the beat of “Green Onions” onto his knee. His phone’s wallpaper was a photo of Ruth and Enix when Enix was still Annie: from the left quarter, Ruth smiled sleepily at the world, holding Toddler Annie on her hip in front of the giraffe pen at the Louisville Zoo. Ruth’s sweetness, frozen in perpetuity: hers was the smile of a woman who’d made love to her husband that morning after asking why they didn’t try for a second helping of baby. Myron vividly remembered that morning of sex: it had been celebratory at the same time it had been like fucking someone he didn’t know. He was trying to make another human at the same time he was wondering if a prostitute, at least, might whimper into a couch pillow afterwards and tell him about her abusive stepmother. Not knowing Ruth had been maddening; not knowing what he didn’t even know made him sad. When Annie had first announced themselves as Enix, Ruth had grown impatient with his skipping, old mind, that could wrap itself around Annie’s new pronouns only when it was uncluttered. She herself had been bringing a book called Found in Transition  to bed with her, and the night she finished, she flung it at him before turning over to lie on her side. “How would you like it if someone kept calling you Myrick,” she said. “I mean, really.” He watched her shoulder slide into further relaxation, found the red curls flowing into the mattress, felt choked with emotion. “It’s not intentional,” he said. “My indifference curve on her gender is completely flat. I mean, if this gets Annie equal pay one day at work, I’m happy. I fully support Annie. Enix. Both of them.” “That’s just it,” Ruth had said, miserably. “There’s not a ‘both of them.’ Just an Enix.” He’d taken his mind to the gym then, sat in his office muttering “Enix they them” over and over to himself; he’d taken an empty lemonade bottle and turned it into a pronoun jar, putting a dollar bill in every time he misgendered Enix: the first week, Enix had taken the seventeen dollars and bought themselves a pair of rainbow leg warmers. He’d changed their name in his phone, and added pronouns. “ENIX THEY THEM,” he’d say aloud, each time it popped up. The money Enix collected in the pronoun jar dwindled to nothing, and what then became indelible in his memory was what Ruth had said to him after she threw the book. She’d rolled over in bed, her eyes still closed but the tone of her voice intent. “What if I told you I wasn’t who you think I am. Would you do that to me, Myron? Would you continue to get it wrong on purpose? What if I told you everything you knew about me was just a construct?” “Ruth,” he’d said, laughing. He hadn’t then been able to imagine anything as large as not knowing his own wife, not grasping her true mind. “Ruth come on. But you’d never do that.” She’d turned back over, he remembered, but then rose from bed, put on a hoodie, and gone downstairs, where he found her, thirty minutes later, sitting on the couch, finishing off an entire bag of potato chips. “Come on, Ruth,” he’d said gently. He descended to the bottom stair. “Come back to bed.” “Later,” she told him. “I’m thinking. I’m thinking hard.” Reticence hung constantly about Ruth, like bar smoke; hers was a love that could never bring them closer. Now, with Anthony’s chiding reverberating through his frontal lobe, Myron changed his phone’s wallpaper from Annie and Ruth to a different photo, one of Annie alone, pitching him a softball. The phone rang. It was a tone he’d coded in jest, the theme music to Jaws. This meant it was Anthony. “Hey,” he said, regret quieting his voice. “The guy’s coming in a couple of hours. Best my man could do on short notice.” “Oh, I’m close to you, anyway,” Myron found himself saying. “At the Holiday Inn on Hurstborne.” “Boy, what you doing at the–“ “My house burned down. I’m wearing clothes from the Salvation Army.” “Brother, what?” “Yeah. Down to the ground. Everything gone. Poof.” “You know you can stay here if you need.” “Lined up for an apartment already,” Myron lied. “I’m fine.” “Well, listen. You got a lot going on, but it’s not gonna help, walking around with some jungle afro. You gonna make it over?” “Yeah,” Myron said, aware that he was adopting Anthony’s phony New York accent. Neither man had ever lived outside the state of Kentucky but when Anthony turned it on, it spread like an infection. Myron wondered if he was in any shape to throw up all the resistance he’d need to sit in Anthony’s presence. When he arrived, he found Anthony sitting in his living room, an old boxing match roaring from his television. Anthony sat Myron down and shushed him, throwing his hands to the screen in supplication. Fury downed Wilder, the referee raised his arm in victory, and Anthony took his remote and switched off the screen. He sat upright on his sofa and sucked in his paunch, a move he’d crafted to smoothness in middle age. “So listen,” he said. “You’re homeless. I get it. But how’s your love life? You back on the market yet?” “Nope. There’s no one. You?” Anthony held out a hand and closed his eyes in the gesture that historically indicated he had a long story. He disappeared into his kitchen, came back with two tumblers of ice and a bottle of Woodford Reserve. He poured, dramatically. Said, “I was fucking this sister–“ “You were fucking your sister?” “A sister. A Black chick. I was fucking this sister but I could never figure out where she was and she’d never call me back, so I just started sitting around at night, smoking a lot of weed, drinking…” “You still messed up about her?” “Nah. When I finally caught up with her, she was living with her moms. And the mom was a real manhater, you know, that type. Real piece a work.” Habitually, Anthony presented Myron with the conversational impossibility of giving what he had just taken. Myron looked glumly down into his lap. “Sounds like you’re better off without her,” he said. “I dunno. It’s been six months and I feel like I’ll never find anybody again.” “You will. You’ll find someone as many times as you need to.” Anthony laughed, but it was the laugh of a dead man, a man who’d poured his life into the mold of a corporate ladder and watched it come away yet unformed. Myron watched his Bourbon sweat through his glass, its malaise seeping out into the ether. When the doorbell rang, it was a relief. The barber’s guy turned out to be a young woman whose mouth pursed disdainfully, in a way so beautiful it defied belief. Anthony paraded her into the living room, downed his drink, then poured a third. “Look at this work of art,” he said, still standing next to her. “What’s your name, sweetheart?” He leaned over her to look at the gold-plated script of her necklace, then answered his own question: “Marina.” “Yup,” she said, pursing her lips into an even angrier heart, one dense enough to pulse. “Marina all day.” “Marina,” said Anthony. “That means you got a boat somewhere?” “No. It means I’m Portuguese.” Myron could see the mump of her tongue, placed angrily into her own cheek. Her irritation was exquisite; it floated above the entire city. “Portuguese,” Anthony said. “I wouldn’t a guessed that. You ever been to Rhode Island? Lots of Portuguese up there. But they’re really all from this one little island. Government relocation.” “Never been to Rhode Island I just came to cut your hair,” she said. She glared at Myron. He felt falsely indicted. Marina was no longer floating anywhere: the exchange had settled back into a real world of sexual harassment and dirty old men. Marina cut both their heads and went away, taking with her a fifty-dollar tip on two fifteen-dollar haircuts. Myron thought of Twitter hashtags. #MeToo. He felt his heart contract. “Mah,” Anthony said, as he closed the door behind her. “You can’t find true love unless you’re stationed in the army.” Myron heard, in Anthony’s affectation, the deep misery of his trying to make a way in a world where both women and understanding were routinely denied him. Myron felt knocked over with grief: there’d be no Ruth to tell all this to when he got home, no Ruth to compare notes with, or bounce his own strange realizations against, forever and ever amen. “Hey you know,” Anthony said conspiratorially, in the exact way of Corleone, “you ain’t the only person from the class of ’01 getting a divorce.” “I’m sure I’m not. Statistically speaking, sixty percent of the country and I are getting a divorce.” “Be serious,” Anthony said, pouring more Bourbon, pitching the tumbler to the back of his throat. “You remember Paulina Wray? “Paulina. Hnnnh. Paulina. Paulina…” Paulina Wray walked across his mind suddenly, as if put there by a bolt of lightning. “Paulina! What happened?” “Who knows. Maybe Danny Todd turned out to be a shithead just like the rest of us.” Paulina Wray had been holding her Bible the last time Myron saw her. He’d known her as a freshman on the women’s floor of their dormitory–she’d come to UK all the way from Trigg County, and risen quickly through some mysterious, churchy ranks to lead the campus homeless outreach ministry. Paulina hadn’t been the prettiest girl in their class: she was short, almost neckless, and wore her purse slung across her body like a bandolier. But Paulina, with her religious fervor, was the most unachievable woman they knew, and thus the most consistently noticeable. Danny Todd, goofy, smelly Danny Todd, with his Tetris addiction and his hobby of intentionally gluing the men’s bathroom door shut, had set out like a conquistador. He joined Paulina’s outreach, wrapping 200 individual care packages for the homeless in one rainy Lexington weekend. Danny lodged his way into Paulina’s heart that month and stayed there: they were married sophomore year of college. She was into permanence, Paulina was. Kingdom living. Eternity. She was a woman Myron should have chosen all those years ago. At the very least, with both their marriages imploding and his house burned down, Myron guessed Paulina might have an intact flat screen television. “I’ve got her phone number,” Anthony whispered, looking around his own house as if it were a crowded bar. He removed his phone from his pocket and rotated it in the air. Once, twice. “Just for you, my man, I’ve got her number.” “What are you doing with her number?” “We actually do business,” Anthony said satisfaction edging his voice. “Stites and Harbison is one of our local firms. How about that.” “So why haven’t you  called her?” “Paulina would never go out with a white guy. She ain’t one a those. She doesn’t swirl.” “Well.” Myron reached into his jacket pocket and put his phone on the coffee table between them. He wondered idly whether Paulina and Danny had ever gotten around to having children. He and Ruth had started late with Enix, but Paulina’s children, if she had any, might be college-aged themselves by now. Out of his way. He imagined Paulina home alone, Danny Todd’s abandoned power drill hanging from a hook in her garage. “Sure,” he told Anthony. “Put her number in. I’ll call her. Maybe.” “Hey. No pressure. No skin off my nose, either way.” Anthony scrolled through his phone, then peered down and input digits into Myron’s. “I’m just trying to help a brother out. But remember–if you don’t call Paulina? Someone else will. You ain’t seen her lately, but that piece won’t stay on the market long.” Myron took his phone back and noted the time. “Hey. My man. I gotta get going.” He’d almost called him brother. At the door both men hugged, clapping each other on the backs in unison. A gesture, Myron thought, leftover from the time of apes. Back at the Holiday Inn, in his houseless, hotel-room future. Myron passed the front desk, noted a besuited man whose puckered, unbuttoned shirt collar spoke of a tie that was no longer there. The man was just standing there, at reception, in a pair of earbuds, and he tapped the toe of his shoe against the floor in some sort of rock/pop time, leather metronome. Myron veered away to put six feet between them but still he heard the man whisper. “Home stretch home stretch home stretch,” the man said, as if chanting it into the dusty hotel lobby might propel him all the way there. ### 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. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

Yona Harvey is an acclaimed poet and professor. Winner of the 2014 Kate Tufts Discovery Award, her poetry collections include Hemming the Water and You Don’t Have to Go to Mars for Love. She is also an author of Marvel Comics' World of Wakanda , becoming one of the first two black women to write for Marvel. Yona Harvey is the author of You Don’t Have to Go to Mars for Love , winner of The Believer  Book Award in Poetry, and Hemming the Water , winner of the Kate Tufts Discovery Award.  Her poems have been published in various journals and anthologies including Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora, The Best American Poetry , Letters to the Future: Black Women/Radical Writing,  and A Poet’s Craft: A Comprehensive Guide to Making and Sharing Your Poetry .  Follow Yona on her website . P.S. Your little dog is miserable Beauty is bigger than The Cold but The Cold is gaining. “The whole story,” she claimed, I didn’t tell it. “He said, she said,” something like that.  “Tele-,” K. used to call across The Yard. “Phones,” O. would answer. Hot dogs are not a vegetable… When wounded, the eyes can hear…  There were no ghosts in the words I left Miss Thang to measure. Only a predictable human hurt. On some: loose black earth, a trail  of highbrow rubbish— I refused— a few bones unburied near it. Sin, Say In this now moment, the persistent gnats persist, the ones who found a hidden home in the kitchen, in the bedroom, in the study, in the living room though oddly not the bath have found a way to survive the winter zipping by in the radiated heat barely making a mark if the thumb presses down and pins them low, flat-splat on the white kitchen table where sometimes you wonder what sin means except sin is not the right word because you don’t believe in sin and all the heavy sin weight the word brings in this now moment and the thousands of moments before now, such tiny beings, these gnats. You don’t want bugs up your nose, or in your mouth or hovering above your dinner plate and therefore you don’t flinch at all when you clasp your hands and trap what feels like the millionth gnat this month—black smear, feather-shadow stain, barely a stain, not even a stain at all, just a silent nuisance that once hovered over a half-squeezed lemon, a half-ripened banana, seriously what do they even want, what do they even need? You’ve let all the potted plants dry out, dried the sink, left no dishes or containers of standing water. You want these gnats turned to spider food for the spiders you’ve spared, the ones sleeping, napping in their undisturbed corners, maybe slow-leg hustling if you accidentally brush their webs. What’s a gnat’s worth? How does something so small become so annoying? How does something so small move so fast? If you were to discover that gnats bred in clothing and furry blankets, in the threads of tea towels and cloth napkins spreading disease could you kill them even quicker, even more thoughtlessly? Three monks wave from the balcony of your discontent, the ochre sway of their robes mimics a modest flag or the slow arrival of ghosts, the ones born at sunset on the other side of their human lives. There are words you feel you have no right to speak, no right to write and so you skim them over in your mind more swiftly than a glance at a WhatsApp message you hardly want to read, you’ve silenced your notifications, which says as much but suddenly at 8:00 AM, there’s a swarm of texts from The Fly Girls or your maternal family “keeping in touch,” swish, quake, buzz motions wanting to show love. But mostly you feel mushy and rotten and maybe messed over like a half-eaten apple tilted near a dishpan free of water. When compared to the priest reincarnated as fairy, the ghost has the upper hand, you suspect. But the fairy has the upper hand over the frog, hidden out there in the low grasses, hoping someone hears its cigarette tinged ribbit, ribbit . You have no right to declare such a thing, but you declare it anyway, the way a three-toothed, Louisiana palm reader might say it with limited grace, hell, no grace at all, without apology, with all the manners opposite of a Rotary Club member or a Mason. The grooves between teeth filled with smirk and the lingering of a decisive and deadly tongue. For Kiki, High School Class of 1985 Ain’t nothing Jesse Johnson’s Revue gon change, even if Jesse jams about changes. The band banging those electronic drums. Those shiny curls. Those knees bent  then snapping back straight as a guitar handle What of the sigh?     What of the sound?  She questions herself    on an eastbound train. She never 80s-pined for light skin Tho she once wanted   her hair to swing Little Lady of the Midwest versus Little Woman on the Prairie. No cap. Correcti on. No worries. She’s grown now   with new books cradled at her chest. She feel s like going on now. She knows she’s be en a mess that she has been made messy. The Subjunctive There are more plastic flamingos in America than real ones. But who cares about the real? “If I were you,” a politician whispers, “I’d lie low a minute.”  In Tampa, a tenth-grade teacher’s lipstick slips from her purse. It’s one of those drawstring numbers, cheap & insecure as a rumor rolling across the gymnasium floor.  “If I were you,” one student says to another, “I’d watch my back.” Cheerleaders & pom-poms shake like some future virus. Anyone heard of a Deep Listening?  The place where we might sit in a measured manner, palms still, hearts calm & camphor clean & undistracted? Flamingos in the wild have lifespans of twenty to thirty years. Plastic bobs in the ocean forever.  If I were you, I’d be worried. A caught politician seems a great catch, an ideal presidential candidate.  THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Yona Harvey and Jae Nichelle on March 31, 2024. In your poem “For Kiki, High School Class of 1985” there’s the line “she questions herself on an eastbound/ train.” Questions—either seemingly rhetorical or that the speaker seeks the answer to—are pervasive in these four poems. Do you enter the worlds of your poems with questions? Do you feel the need to find answers? Oh, for sure. Yeah. As long as I can remember, people—especially adults—baffled me with their behaviors, especially their behaviors contradicting their words. Questioning led me to art and writing to cope and make sense of the world. I don’t think I need to find answers all the time, at least not in a literal sense. The satisfaction is in the seeking. And as far as questioning yourself goes, after a while you just have to trust and decide, take action. Even if that decision might be wrong. When you’re young (graduating, transitioning, whatever) that can be difficult. You don’t want to be judged or ostracized. You doubt yourself.  I was trying to remember what that felt like through writing this poem. Also, shout out to my undergraduate Introduction to Poetry class at Saint Mary’s College of California last spring!  Camila Krenn invented the rules for this “Graduation” form. You mentioned in a recent McSweeney’s interview  that the poems in your previous collections, Hemming the Water and You Don’t Have to Go to Mars for Love have “a restless thinking behind them.” Would you say the same about your upcoming writing projects? How would you describe the thinking behind what you’re working on now? Wow, thanks for that question.  I wouldn’t say the same about my upcoming writing projects. I mean, the thinking is always there. But the restlessness of my previous work had a kind of anxiety attached to it (if I’m remembering that McSweeney’s response correctly). So much uncertainty—about relationships, parenting/mothering, teaching, art making, about my basic human needs, you name it. Hemming  was published in 2013 and Mars  in 2020. In 2013 I started meditation training to deal with what felt like unbearable stress. But I had all these wrong perceptions about meditation—that it was supposed to be peaceful, that I would suddenly feel or be peaceful, that my life and relationships would instantly be improved. And so, I was shocked when I sat down to meditate in those early months and years and felt pure, unmitigated rage. On the regular. I was like WTF is this?! One of my teachers explained that it was the stress melting away. But what was I supposed to do with that? Needless to say, it was a bumpy, uncomfortable journey. And I’m grateful for all that struggle and restlessness because it led me to better decision-making. When the Covid lockdowns came, I accelerated in making tough choices. Toxic relationships, jobs, communications, habits of consumption (food, alcohol, media, social media)  had to end. Best decisions I ever made.  And that ushered in the new work. The thinking behind what I’m working on now is more solid and free.  What has surprised you most about your experience in the Marvel world, having written for Marvel Comics? The Marvel fans surprised me most during my Marvel writing experience. Writing for Marvel puts you in conversation with such diverse readers!  You’re just nerding out all the time.  Folks are so joyful about their favorite characters, favorite runs, or—if they’re older— their memories of collecting before some parent made them trash their comics in the mode of “put away childish things.” But that’s also a misperception—that comics are for kids.  Sigh. Speaking of Marvel, I so love how you mentioned in The Rumpus  in 2017 that writing comics has connected you to a greater audience of Black women. In general, as a writer, when did you first start thinking about audience? Yeah! Well, generally speaking, Black women are very well-read. In the United States, we’re the most overlooked group because some folks can’t imagine us beyond their limiting stereotypes. Of course, it’s important to “be seen,” as is repeated ad nauseam these days. And I’d trouble the waters by saying not being seen also gives us incredible imaginative flexibility. Creativity and ingenuity off the charts. My God. Racism has no imagination. My ideal audience recognizes the hilarity and razor’s edge in that. So as a Black woman, I feel light years beyond the enemy lol. Troubling the water more: I’ve always been seen by the people who love me most. People who don’t show love? Please keep it moving. Don’t see me. Leave me the fuck alone. I definitely credit writing for Marvel as a moment when I began thinking about audience on a more complex (larger?) scale. And before that, Howard University. Because from semester one you’re reading all these incredible black authors—like, in every class—and having these nuanced and revelatory conversations about audience and the disregard for “explaining” yourself to white audiences. That’s power. In an alternate universe where you have one superpower that you can only activate once a month, what would you want that power to be and what would you use it for? This is tough to answer!  My son and I have this ongoing joke about teleporting whenever we haven’t managed our time well or feel a time crunch (we stay procrastinating). So, I’d say teleporting. Getting somewhere far in a hurry. I’d use it to be with my friends and family as soon as they need me. No train, plane, or automobile required. You’re in Massachusetts now, right? Have you come across any hidden gem spots you can recommend?  Yep.  I’m in Northampton. Hidden gems (or probably not-so-hidden gems because I’m still a newbie!): Smith College’s Neilson Library rooftop (beautiful); the walking trail around the Paradise Pond; the scenic drive to MassMoCA and MassMoCA itself; Montague Books and the surrounding area (river, farm stands, book stands, a blue Tardis!!); the W.E.B. DuBois Library and Center at UMass Amherst.  The vegan eats at PULSE—the Southern Comfort Bowl (like, whose grandmama did they steal the collards recipe from?). But let me not instigate. On top of everything else, you’re also leading Cave Canem’s Cultural Preservation Project. What aspect of this project are you most looking forward to? I’m most looking forward to people—everyday people—accessing those incredible recordings! It’s gonna sound cliché, but those conversations capture the heart of Cave Canem, its soul origins—as a feeling, as a need, as a balm—which is different from an institution. How can people support you right now? If there’s a burning question about writing, the writing life, or whatever you’d like me to think through with you, contact me!  I’ll make a point to address it personally or in my newsletter. This also forces me to recommit to that damn newsletter. The procrastination is real. In the meantime, ask a Black woman in your life how you can support her.  And then do it!  It will have a healing, rippling effect on us all.   Name another Black woman writer people should follow.  There are so many!  For starters tho: Gabrielle Rucker and Jalynn Harris. Complicated, devilish, progressive. Community builders. Community givers. Change-makers. They will lead you to more. ### 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. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

Adrienne Dawes (she/her/hers) is an award-winning playwright, screenwriter, and teaching artist originally from Austin, TX. Her plays, including AM I WHITE, TEEN DAD, and THIS BITCH: ESTA SANGRE QUIERO, have been developed/ produced by Salvage Vanguard Theater, Theatre Bedlam, New Harmony Project, The Fire This Time Festival, Theatre Lab at FAU, Queen City New Play Initiative, Stages Repertory Theatre, Teatro Milagro, National Black Theatre, and English Theatre Berlin, among others.  Adrienne received her BA from Sarah Lawrence College and studied sketch & improv at the Second City Training Center in Chicago. Recent honors include: Walter E. Dakin Fellow at the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, Alice Judson Hayes Fellow at Ragdale Foundation, and artist residencies with Colt Coeur, PlySpace, & Crosstown Arts. Just before the strike, Adrienne staffed on her first TV show, working on a limited series for Hulu/ABC Signature (EP: Ellen Pompeo). She's easy to find online at www.adriennedawes.com and @heckleher on most social mediums. Future is F***** CAST (3) RONNIE: (20s/F or femme person, Black) programmer/hacker MARGARET: (20s/F or femme person, Non-White) VP of Human Resources, nervous energy/ also a training assistant named Xaria (pron. Zarr-ee-ah) CENAC: (early 20s/M, White) an intern bro, completely mediocre yet exudes an outrageously eerie excess of confidence ALSO: prerecorded COMPUTER VOICE performed by either Ronnie or Margaret. SETTING The future. A government tech bro office. Lights rise on a futuristic government co-working space. Ronnie sits at her desk, frowning at what looks like a personal device of some kind. RONNIE (quietly, into device) System entry. System entry. (louder) System ENTRY. With a few keystrokes, she tries another setting. RONNIE (soothing voice) Please: system entry. As Margaret enters with her lunch leftovers, Ronnie tries to hide the device under her desk. MARGARET Hey is this - - RONNIE Oh, I just, sorry - - MARGARET No, I’m sorry, lunch break. Just trying to find an open desk - - RONNIE No, it’s fine, I’m, I’m- - MARGARET Ronnie, right? RONNIE Ronnie. Yeah. And you’re - - MARGARET Margaret. HR. Thanks for letting me sit here! They replaced my entire staff last week and I uh don’t think the new guys like me very much. Margaret awkwardly chuckles. Ronnie continues working on her device. MARGARET What’re you working on? RONNIE New program. MARGARET New program? Doesn’t look like our interface - - RONNIE It’s not, it’s – this isn’t for work - - MARGARET (laughs, awkwardly) Oh no, I didn’t mean like stern voice , “Why aren’t you working Ronnie” - - RONNIE Yeah, cause it’s a personal device, private hotspot - - MARGARET Yeah, your own private personal lunch so you work on whatever you want! Or don’t work! Totally you, your - - RONNIE Margaret – we cool. MARGARET (relieved) Oh, thank God, thank you. I’m . . . kind of on edge all day. Every day. Barely sleep or eat. This is – I just bought an entire meal? Don’t know why I still – my lunch hour – I think I just go to be someplace else to be for an hour. Are you, would you want my lunch? Do you eat lunch? RONNIE I’m okay. Thanks. MARGARET Thanks, I mean, yeah OK . . . so . . . what does it do? Your program? RONNIE (frowns) Uh nothing yet. Still buggy, I can’t figure out why it’s not - - Cenac enters with an entitled swagger. He carries a bottle of Soylent. Ronnie and Margaret sit up, at attention. Ronnie hides the device under her desk. CENAC Oh here you both are. Together. RONNIE Cenac. CENAC Ronald. Just got back from a two-hour lunch with Geographic Operations - - RONNIE (dumbfounded) Two hour lunch - - ? CENAC I’m speaking . And apparently, there’s been some complaints about my “work behavior,” which is hilarious because - - MARGARET Allegations are actually quite serious - - CENAC Margaret , doesn’t concern you - - MARGARET Uh, I’m VP of Human Resources - - ? CENAC And I’m an intern who will probably run this division one day. Margaret’s eyes widen. Cenac leans in, way too close to Ronnie. CENAC So Ronald, what is it about me, exactly , that you find so inappropriate ? RONNIE (calmly) Well first, my name’s not Ronald. It’s Ronnie. It’s on my department profile, digital signature - - CENAC Allegedly - - RONNIE Not alleged, actual fact. My name is Ronnie - - CENAC Well, I guess that’s not a name I “recognize.” RONNIE Yeah, well, all I’m asking is that you remain courteous and civil - - CENAC That’s not an ideology I “represent.” RONNIE I know, Cenac . And I’ve been trying to figure out some way to . . . translate . And closest thing I can think is: the way you treat Chad, Blake, Garrett, Other Garrett - - CENAC They’re executive staff - - RONNIE So am I . I deserve the same consideration, same respect. Does that make sense ? CENAC (frowns) I dunno, I think if you continue to suppress my expression of freedom in the workplace, you’ll be fired. Does that make sense? MARGARET (quietly) You can’t fire her - - CENAC Can’t I, HR? MARGARET She’s head of your department. Technically, she’s your boss. CENAC “Technically,” I’m just a White guy with a Twitter X account. So you’ve both been warned. He exits. The women sigh in relief. Ronnie returns to her device. MARGARET (sighs loudly) God, I’m sorry, that’s not what the agency - - RONNIE Isn’t it? Look around, Margaret. We’re the only ones left. Margaret nods, solemnly. Beat. RONNIE But it’s alright. It’ll be alright. Eventually this will work. (at device) System entry. COMPUTER VOICE (VO) (soothing computer voice) Entry link. RONNIE (excitedly) Alright! Here we go! OK. (to device) Entry link: . . . Solange, A Seat at the Table. COMPUTER VOICE (V.O.) Solange uploaded. MARGARET I don’t understand: it’s an oldies app? RONNIE Not an app. More like a bot. You enter whatever self-care script you want and . . . let me just show you. (to device) Entry link: Rose water. Entry link: Coconut oil for skin and hair. Entry link: Pad See Ew with tofu. Entry link: Rihanna Devotional Prayer Candle. Might as well add, entry link: A$AP Rocky and Rihanna extended wedding playlist - - MARGARET (nods) I was going to say at least ‘Fashion Killer’- ahem ‘Killa?’ Beat. They both stare at the device, waiting. COMPUTER VOICE (VO) . . . Uploaded. RONNIE (relieved sigh) OK! So, let’s say you find yourself in a hostile environment - - MARGARET (nods) All day, every single, all day - - RONNIE (nods) There’s a multi-billion-dollar industry created around the defense of negative stimulus. From outerwear that inflates to create a protective barrier, to wearable technologies that distort the victim’s neural signals, so they have no experience of the attack - - MARGARET Dissoci8. My sister had one for work. She taught critical race theory. Until it got too dangerous. RONNIE (nods) Yes, current technologies can defend or deflect attack, but you have to continually purchase expensive upgrades to remain “functional” meanwhile nothing ever happens to the attacker. The next day they return to the courtroom or the classroom - - MARGARET Or government office - - RONNIE Government office. Yeah. Physical confrontation just continues or - - MARGARET Escalates. RONNIE Exactly. But I’m not building defensive technology, it’s offensive . I don’t want to stun or hurt somebody - - MARGARET We don’t - ?! RONNIE (smiles) I want to rewrite their entire genetic code, so their great grandchildren are born pacifist anarchists with heightened empathetic and collaborative skills - - MARGARET YESSSSSSS!!! Margaret raises a fist, excitedly then quickly recovers. MARGARET I mean yes. Very cool. Yes. And your program, it’d be ready exactly when?!? RONNIE Still testing the entry points. If it works, the victim should remain in a relatively “safe” functioning space, but the attacker would be disarmed completely - - Cenac reenters with what looks like a workplace device. CENAC Uh Ronald? I still don’t have access to the new dashboard. RONNIE Then you need to talk to the Help Desk, Cenac. That’s not my - - Cenac leans in again. CENAC What exactly is your job, then!?! COMPUTER VOICE (VO) Threat detected. Initiate? CENAC What did you say?! Margaret and Ronnie exchange looks. In unison: RONNIE MARGARET I don’t know . . . Uh . . . CENAC You don’t know? You’re department head, I thought you knew everything - - RONNIE I . . . I’m just asking you to follow procedure like everyone else - - ? CENAC When have I ever been everyone else - - He leans in again. Too close. Sound of device activating. MARGARET (softly, to Ronnie) Do it. Initiate. RONNIE Initiate - - ? CENAC What? Ronnie shoots up to her feet. She holds her device held out like a weapon. RONNIE INITIATE! Ronnie’s device suddenly lights up, sound of a soothing R&B music chime. Cenac and Margaret both freeze. Black out. RONNIE (breathing heavily) No! No, no, no! Lights flick back on. Ronnie is seated at her desk, wearing a virtual reality headset. She tries to stand up. Margaret, a training assistant dressed in futuristic business casual, rushes over to help her. MARGARET Ronnie. It’s over. Ssshhh. It’s OK. You’re done. That was amazing - - Margaret pulls off her headset. Ronnie charges forward, pulling out of her reach. RONNIE Where is he?! Where did he go? She falls over, losing control of her legs. Margaret rushes to her side. MARGARET Give yourself a minute. It all feels really real - - RONNIE Margaret? MARGARET Xaria, actually. I’m present in the training module just for narrative support, increased safety, sometimes technical assistance or or - - RONNIE (nods) Xaria, Xaria . . . we cool. MARGARET Cool, cool. Well. You did really well . . . Margaret reviews data on her device. MARGARET Addressed each micro aggressive behavior but maintained a position of authority, which is incredible considering . . . well, everything. But in real life, as you know, they will resort to physical intimidation and violence, so - - Ronnie rolls onto her back, breathing hard. RONNIE I wanted it to be real . . . just to see if my program worked . . . just to see his FACE. MARGARET (grins) Yeah only a programmer would enter VR and try to build an app to disarm generations of violent attackers – clever workaround the non-violence parameters. You’re definitely the woman for this job. Not that it’s a “job” - - Ronnie slowly sits up. RONNIE I want to finish. MARGARET Wait, careful - - RONNIE Put me back in. MARGERET Oh, you don’t have to go through all that again! You passed the basic module - - RONNIE I’m supposed to maintain employment at government agency so that I can hack into their private servers undetected, right? That’s what you’re asking me to do? Months and months of harassment, ridicule; every moment of every day I have to be ready to defend my work, my worth, my physical self? MARGERET Yes. RONNIE Then I have to see this module through to the end. I have to know I can survive. MARGARET Ronnie, are you sure you really want to - - ?! RONNIE I want to be done, done with all of this! Then I’ll remake myself. Build a version that can’t be broken. Ronnie returns to her desk, puts on the VR headset. RONNIE Load it! Margaret loads the next simulation. MARGARET Alright I’ll uh – guess I’ll see you on the other side, Ronnie. RONNIE I’ll see you, Margaret. Xaria. Simulation activates, Ronnie’s body goes limp. Blackout. END OF PLAY. ### 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. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

NitaJade is an Affrilachian Poet and a self-proclaimed weirdo hailing from Asheville, NC. NitaJade earned their B.A. in African and African American Studies from Berea College in 2019. In 2022, they earned their MFA in Creative Writing (Poetry) from the University of Kentucky. During the 2022-2023 academic year, NitaJade served as the Visiting Assistant Professor of English at Centre College. They joined Emory & Henry's faculty as an Assistant Professor of English and co-director of the annual Appalachian Literary Festival in 2023. NitaJade proudly serves as a Narrative Organizer for the Black Appalachian Coalition and as the Vice President of the Kentucky State Poetry Society. They insist that their late O.G. Queen's sweet potato pie epitomizes love. Ultimately, they aspire to embody the aesthetics of sloths and narwhals (slarwhals, if you please.) They laugh loudly and stubbornly. C R O S S F A D E Ancestor visits your sleep   \   asks if you have something to say   \   pauses long enough to hear your answer   \   makes space for you to sit   \   Ancestor challenges your tongue   \   to split in testimony  \\    in waking life   \   when you voice your visitor   \   all your mama hears is  thisisit!   \   her tone insists   \   tellmewhohurtyou!    \   tellme!tellme!tellme!say!   \   call them out and   \   i’ll call away they breath     \\      you can’t remember vividly   \   enough to gamble lives on      \\      yet, you know your molestation(s)   \   the same way you know   \   your names:  one day out the blue   \   they were called on you      \\      syllables swallowed   \   so often   \   you can’t recall   \   the first time   \   you spoke them   \  ( your names    \   not theirs)      \\      your mama needs   \   rescinded-stamped confession   \   your mama needs   \\    un-gulped wine   \   she needs   \   un-inhaled blunt  \   she needs   \   unmarred midnight moon  \   a trick of the light \ illusions of successful safety    \   smoke in mirrors   \   your mama needs erasure      \\      until your tongue reverses  \  or (un)splits  \  she   will   never   stop    \         reaching        \          for   their   names. C R O S S   F A D E Ancestor visits your sleep   \   asks if you have something to say   \   pauses long enough to hear your answer   \   makes space for you to sit   \   Ancestor  challenges your tongue   \   to split in testimony  \\    in waking life   \   when you voice your visitor   \   all your mama hears is  thisisit!   \   her tone insists   \   tellmewhohurtyou!    \   tellme!tellme!tellme!say!   \   call them out and   \   i’ll call away they breath     \\      you can’t remember vividly   \   enough to gamble lives on      \\      yet, you know your mo lest ation(s)   \   the same way you know   \   your names:  one day out the blue   \   they were called on you      \\      syllables swallowed   \   so often   \   you can’t recall   \   the first time   \   you spoke them   \  ( your names    \   not theirs)      \\      your mama needs   \   a rescinded -stamped confession   \   your mama needs   \\    un-gulped   wine   \   she needs   \   un-inhaled blunt  \   she needs   \   unmarred midnight moon  \   a trick of the light \ illusions of successful safety    \   smoke in mirrors    \   your mama needs erasure       \\      until your tongue reverses   \  or (un)splits   \  she   will   never   stop   \          reach ing        \          for    their   names. C R O S S F A D E Ancestor visits your sleep   \   asks if you have something to say   \   pauses long enough to hear your answer   \   makes space for you to sit   \   Ancestor challenges you r tongue   \    to   split in testimony      \\      in waking life   \   when you voice your visitor   \   all your mama hears is   thisisit!   \   her tone insists   \   tellmewhohurtyou!    \   tellme!tellme!tellme!say!   \   call them out and   \   i’ll call away they breath     \\      you can’t remember vividly    \   enough to gamble lives on      \\      yet, you know your molestation(s)   \   the same way you know   \   your names:  one day out the blue   \   they were called on you    \\    syllables swallowed   \   so often   \   you can’t recall   \   the first time   \   you spoke them   \  ( your names    \   not theirs)      \\      your mama needs   \   a rescinded -stamped confession   \   your mama needs   \\    un-gulped wine   \   she needs   \   un-inhale d blunt  \   she needs   \   unmarred midnight  moon  \   a trick of the light \ illusions of successful safety    \   smoke in mirrors   \   your mama needs erasure       \\      un til your tongue reverses   \  or (un)splits   \  she   will   never   stop   \       reaching      \   for   their   names. ### 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. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

Photo credit: Katherine Tejada Fatima-Ayan Malika Hirsi is a mother who writes beside forests and waters. She fantasizes about living in Anne Spencer’s garden and she strives to write poems that instigate action in service to world-building. Her work is forthcoming or appears in MAYDAY , Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora , Honey Literary , sin cesar , Elysium Review , Rise Up Review , and other portals. She is a fellow of In Surreal Life, Anaphora Writing Residency, and Pink Door Writing Retreat. Her first full-length collection, DREAMS FOR EARTH , is forthcoming from Deep Vellum Publishing. Travel with her at fatimaayanmalikahirsi.com or on Instagram @fatimaayanmalika. She wants you to scream FREE PALESTINE with your whole body. Tornado Sirens When You Have A Sleeping Baby a singing refrigerator / a baritone front door / the porch door / metal songs of a cabinet door releasing scents of cinnamon coriander cloves  QAnon in school boards / judges robes / Congress  any and all doors ever made / the creaking wood of the floor / silverware on a plate / the fall of Roe v. Wade / the metal top scraping a glass jar of peanut butter / baby birds nesting outside the chimney / a sneeze / a neighbor mowing or blowing leaves / a neighbor parking / Juno barking / the taste of sepia smoke swallowing sky / the kitchen faucet / the toilet flushing / a mouse exploring the kitchen / some rodent reading in the walls / sudden jitterbug of a fly / a phone you thought was set to quiet / a phone falling off the bed / fingernails scratching your head / the fall of affirmative action / Proud Boys / Women Talking / truths behind horrifying fictions / horrifying truths collections of collective griefs the gasp during that first new episode of Black Mirror where FATIMA  appears across the screen in Netflix Graphique / terms and conditions each time we sign / and haven’t they been doing this since forever / make it look like a choice / contracts in unknown languages / listen to them tell us to recycle as if in that lies our redemption / Google recycle plants near me  then find maps of race and wealth / this / everywhere / ours is the air they poison Cop City / 61 protestors indicted for waging love / SB 63 come to stomp on mutual aid your landlord bowling above in his living room / your shriek at reading news / silence about genocide from tiny town neighbors / this silence is a tornado siren / what is this world I give my daughter / what is this world / what is this world she wakes to each day / sirens everywhere ### 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. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

Dramatist Guild member Mildred Inez Lewis writes for stage, screen, and ears. In 2023, she won the AGE Legacy Award. Other honors include Humanitas’ PLAY LA. With a feature film, three shorts and a UCLA MFA in film producing, Mildred is shopping two pilots: i-CLASS about a fallen Vine star turned substitute teacher, and XO MICKEY inspired by country star Mickey Guyton. Mildred writes with EST-LA, PlayGround-LA, and Towne Street Theatre. She holds commissions with the Lucille Lortel, Finish Line (Chicago), and ReproEco (NYC). Her work is published by Broadway Play Publishing, LazyBee Scripts (UK), and NextStage Press. Recent plays include WE, FOUR, about a conservative Black fraternity for The Road Theatre’s 2023 Under Construction Festival. JUKED, her adaptation of Sophocles’ ELECTRA, will premiere in Asheville, NC in 2025. In 2022, her comedy THE MUSEUM ANNEX, an homage to George C. Wolfe’s THE COLORED MUSEUM ran at Central Works (Berkeley, CA). Her audio work includes $10 AND A TAMBOURINE for the Antaeus Zip Code series which was nominated for an Ambie Award. MEETS PRINCE, LOVES FROG is part of Realm’s Feminist Fairytales series. In 2023, she was part of the Orchard Project’s Audio Lab. LOUISIANA SHOAL SCENE 1 IN DARKNESS, Zydeco music gives way to the sounds of fire burning fish. Perhaps, there is smoke. A weak DAWN lights the stage as EARLENE stomps the fish ashes. Job done, she sits to enjoy her pipe of weed. The lake in front of her is illuminated by the surviving fish. They emit glimmering colored light. EARLENE finishes her pipe, grunts with pleasure, grabs her fishing rod, wades into the lake and casts. Something catches. EARLENE Dinner. LICIA runs in and immediately chokes on the toxic fish smoke. EARLENE (without turning) You all right over there? LICIA coughs, struggles to nod. EARLENE stops to look around. EARLENE Breathe shallow. Try to relax. Want some weed? Purifies the lungs. LICIA vigorously shakes her head ‘no’ , but still can’t quite catch her breath. EARLENE I might have some VapoRub in my bag. That and mom spit will cure close to anything. LICIA (choking) No. EARLENE You sure? Don’t want nothing to happen to you. Something goes down wrong with a dogooder, it stresses everybody out. Doesn’t change anything, but oooo the dust flies. LICIA You’ve got to get out of there! EARLENE Soon as I catch my dinner. LICIA What?! You can’t eat that fish! EARLENE Why not? It’s Friday. This is Louisiana. LICIA They’re poisoned. EARLENE I took out the ones that were bad. LICIA (points to the embers) The smoke? EARLENE I sure wouldn’t leave ‘em for the crows. They don’t know no better. Why should they suffer? The rest are all right. LICIA They’re not. Please believe me. EARLENE Cancer Alley’s not safe? Now there’s some up-to-the-minute news. You must be with the feds. LICIA (angering) Not every “fed” -- Beat. EARLENE You’re too easy. You got kids? LICIA Not yet. EARLENE If you had, you’d know to (sings) “Take a deep breath and count to four.” Smoke’s starting to come out of your ears. (breathes) One, two, three, four. Don’t you love you some Daniel Tiger ? My grandbaby turned me on to it. LICIA I appreciate ..., but we’ve got to move. A storm’s coming. A Cat six. EARLENE Mmm hmm. Felt something coming on a few days ago. LICIA Then may I ask what you’re waiting on? EARLENE You mean wading on ? EARLENE greatly enjoys her own joke. LICIA It’s not that funny. EARLENE slaps her side. She can’t help herself. LICIA You can’t hunker down in a Cat Six. EARLENE We used to. Oops! Not gonna cancel me for that, are ya? LICIA Things change. We’re not built for it anymore. EARLENE Damn straight we’re not. Y’all feds doing something about that? It’s late in the day, but -- LICIA Let’s go! (Beat.) Ma’am. EARLENE doesn’t budge. EARLENE Running through your training? How to deal with non-compliant seniors. LICIA Let’s try again. I’ll talk and you walk to me when you feel ready, okay? I’m Licia. Licia Knowles. What’s your name? EARLENE Mrs. Earlene Iridessa Jackson. Buster’s widow. LICIA Pleased to meet you Missus Jackson. I’m with the EPA. EARLENE That’s a FEMA jacket. LICIA I’m on temporary assignment. EARLENE EPA jacket’s got a better fit. Not that that matters. You’ve got a real, nice figure. See? I notice things. LICIA I’m temporarily assigned to FEMA. This lake, this whole area was declared an irretrievable hazard last night. That means -- EARLENE I know what it means. (softer) Damn. LICIA Everyone else in town’s been evacuated. As of five minutes ago, this officially became a ghost town. EARLENE In the time it took to smoke a pipe. LICIA It’s been coming for a long time. EARLENE Don’t I know it. The bugs are gone. They used to slick my windshield. No more. Last summer, during the heat wave? A pelican dropped from the sky right in front of my car. The state bird, DOA. Never seen anything like it. “Don’t worry,” they said. And now what? Where are we supposed to run to? LICIA The administration’s going to work with the refinery to buy everyone out. It’ll be enough to start over. Somewhere better. In a place that’s sustainable. Maybe with green architecture. EARLENE I’m not talking about buildings. I’m talking about the heart of us. Where’s that supposed to relocate? LICIA I’m so sorry. If we’d done our jobs sooner -- LICIA holds out her hand. EARLENE advances. EARLENE You mean back in the 70s? Or the 20s when Union Carbide and Carbon birthed the Carbide and Chemicals? LICIA You know? EARLENE Everybody round here knows. Looks like you’re the ones slow on the uptake. LICIA Maybe, when this is over, we can find a way to work together. LICIA extends EARLENE a clipboard. LICIA But first, let’s get you to safety. Just sign at the x. EARLENE (reads) What about our personal belongings? I’ve been holding things for my son and his kids. LICIA I’m sure your insurance -- EARLENE Insurance stopped covering us years ago. LICIA Oh. EARLENE Can you give me a personal guarantee? In writing? LICIA The EPA’s not responsible -- EARLENE Hmmm. Then maybe I’ll take my chances. LICIA You can’t. Not with this storm. It’s stirring up things you don’t want to meet. EARLENE Things like what? LICIA We’re not 100% certain so I can’t go on the record. EARLENE Area 51-type situation? LICIA You can trust me. I’m a post-doc in emergency management. I’m here to study the site. But I’m committed to making sure people here get taken care of. (Beat.) A post-doc means -- EARLENE I grew up here, but worked admin at Chicago State till I retired. I understand all about fish and post-docs, ground soil and promises. LICIA It’s personal for me, too. I’m Penny’s girl. Penny Corkle -- EARLENE The school cafeteria. Long time. You got something against Christmas and Easter? LICIA No ma'am. EARLENE She still with us? LICIA Passed. EARLENE Cancer? LICIA nods. EARLENE Explains a lot. Condolences. Know your people. They didn’t deserve. That said M iss Licia, there’s a difference between being from a place and of a place. LICIA You left and came back. EARLENE I took these hallows and swamps with me. They called me back. Not a job assignment. LICIA That doesn’t make my commitment any less real. EARLENE Guess we’ll find out. LICIA This storm’s bad. There’s something malignant about it. Best case scenario, it unleashes bad things for a long time to come. I’ve got a towel and dry clothes in the car. EARLENE Me and the fish and crawdads? We’re good. You go ‘head on. LICIA At least come out of that water. EARLENE I’m good where I’m at. EARLENE stirs the water. EARLENE Look at how they’re lighting around me. We’ve made our own little shoal here every Friday since I got back. This is my happy place and my safety. It won’t betray me. LICIA Shoals aren’t stable in a cat six. EARLENE You’re thinking ‘bout sandbank shoals. This kind’s where fish and other creatures move together. Each one on their own rhythm. Their light’ll let me know what’s up. LICIA The light that comes from those fish isn’t what it used to be. It comes from chemicals now. Toxic chemicals. EARLENE Some of their light still comes from joy. That’s the part that’s safe to eat. I can tell the difference. LICIA How? EARLENE Just do. LICIA You might feel okay, but the poison’s building in your body. EARLENE Air was already bad. Make sense the water would follow. A siren sounds. EARLENE (lightly) That last call? I’ll take a margarita. LICIA No one’s coming back for you. The rest of my team’s gone. EARLENE But you came. LICIA Some kid told me you’d be out here. I’m not going to lie. I didn’t believe him. But he kept tugging on my pants leg. Rich? Ricky? EARLENE Little Ricky Pontcharian. He’s another one. LICIA Another one what? EARLENE Another of this place. Shoot, it might’ve been your mama talking through him to you. LICIA The dead don’t speak. EARLENE The dead never shut up. Teasing us. Warning us, They just don’t speak directly to folks who won’t listen. LICIA I’m counting to ten -- EARLENE Ha! That didn’t work on me when I was seven. Damn sure won’t work now. What else you got? LICIA walks away. EARLENE That it? You just gon’ run off? LICIA I fight through science. I’m not throwing my life away in some overgrown pond. You want to stay. You’re welcome to it. LICIA tosses EARLENE a Sharpie. LICIA Write your Social on your arm so they can identify the body. EARLENE Handy trick. Will do. LICIA You don’t make any sense. EARLENE I make more sense than you do. I’m willing to stay and fight for this place. LICIA There’s nothing left to fight for. EARLENE Says who? What good’s your science if you don’t have the guts to fight for what it shows? Another, more urgent siren. EARLENE Says them? Where’ve they been hanging all this time? While everything was going bad. LICIA The past is past. EARLENE The past is now. The past’s the future. You dig deep enough anywhere round here, you find fossils. That’s the dead living with us. That dead pelican gave its life to warn us about the heat. We’ve got responsibilities to the dead and we owe the past more than another scientific study, ‘specially one telling us what we already know. A crack of thunder. EARLENE See? That’s the earth fighting back. She’s fighting back! And she’ll win. We need her. She doesn’t need us. Stand with me. LICIA And die? EARLENE Fight. As god is my witness, during the last storm I stayed under for two hours. The fish gave me air. LICIA Impossible. EARLENE You study things. I gut know them. That’s the difference. It’s too late to run now anyhow. Time to hunker down. The rain begins. EARLENE holds out her arms. LICIA wades into the water. LICIA We might not survive this. EARLENE Then we bear witness from beyond. This ain’t N’awlins, but laissez les bon temps rouler. (howls to the storm) Let the good times roll, baby. LICIA Oui cher. Oui. EARLENE, then LICIA submerge themselves in the lake as the storm hits. FADE TO BLACK. The sounds pass. EARLENE and LICIA take a sharp, deep breath. The sound of television news anchors reporting the devastation begins. END PLAY ### 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. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

Charla Lauriston is a comedian, writer, director, and educator known for People of Earth (TBS, 2016), Ghosted (FOX, 2017), and The Last O.G. (TBS, 2018). Charla Lauriston  is a Haitian-American, Vancouver-based comedian, writer, director, and creative coach. Most recently, she served as Supervising Producer for Grand Crew on NBC and has previously written for The Last OG, Ghosted, People of Earth, and Hoops. Her 2021 episodic short, Witchsters, is the official selection of the 2022 Slamdance Film Festival, New Filmmakers Los Angeles, and the 2021 Austin Film Festival and American Black Film Festival. Charla is also the Creator of The Werking Writer, a career-focused podcast, online course, and community built to help writers and creatives live their best lives. Follow Charla on Instagram . WITCHSTERS "Episode One" EXT. FOURPLEX - DAY Establishing. A woman looks out the window. INT. MICHELLE’S APARTMENT, LIVING ROOM - DAY MICHELLE (kind and naive) looks out the window, then paces her apartment drinking wine, distraught. A young, modern witch, she wears all black and conjures a POLAROID of her boyfriend that APPEARS in her hand. She looks at the picture, sad. MICHELLE TALKING HEAD MICHELLE Me and my boyfriend had a fight last night. INT. MICHELLE’S BEDROOM - LAST NIGHT Michelle and her BOYFRIEND (super dumb but incredibly hot) are under the covers in bed and making out/canoodling. MICHELLE (V.O.) The whole thing was so stupid. MICHELLE Wait, close your eyes, I want to try something. BOYFRIEND (laughs, closes his eyes) OK. What? Michelle waves her hand over his penis (already bulging underneath the covers) and we see it MAGICALLY ENLARGES. MICHELLE TALKING HEAD MICHELLE I thought he would like it but... (shakes head no) INT. MICHELLE’S BEDROOM - LAST NIGHT Back to scene. He opens his eyes mid-enlargement. BOYFRIEND (jumps out of bed freaked out) What the [bleep]?! INT. MICHELLE’S APARTMENT - LAST NIGHT Michelle fights with her Boyfriend. They scream at each other. BOYFRIEND So you can ‘Honey I blew up the kids’ my dick but we can’t add your friend Amanda as a third? MICHELLE I told you I think her neck is weird. This hits him hard. He takes his things and leaves. She stews alone. BOYFRIEND TALKING HEAD - LAST NIGHT He holds a box of his stuff. BOYFRIEND (pissed/ embarrassed) I don’t...need anything...down there. When I was born, the doctor took one look at my [bleep] and said god damn that boy’s got a big [bleep]! PULL OUT to REVEAL his dick is still comically large. He bumps it on something as he leaves then doubles over in pain. MICHELLE TALKING HEAD MICHELLE No, his dick’s not small. It’s my vagina that’s huge. Michelle uses her arms to demonstrate how big her vagina is. MICHELLE (CONT'D) It’s like a black hole. INT. MICHELLE’S APARTMENT - DAY A knock on the door. Michelle opens it and it's her Boyfriend looking sad and mopey. He enters and they hug. He FREEZES. They stay like this for a long time before Michelle realizes he’s not moving. MICHELLE (confused) Babe? (realizing he’s frozen) Maya! Michelle’s SISTER (older, cold, serious,) APPEARS out of thin air. MAYA What? We said we’d get lunch you stupid witch! Where’s the wine?! TITLE CARD: WITCHSTERS INT. MICHELLE'S APARTMENT - MOMENTS LATER Boyfriend is still frozen in the hug position. Maya sits on the couch with a glass of wine. MICHELLE I know I said we’d get lunch but- MAYA You messed with his dick. MICHELLE (finishes her sentence) -we’re in the middle of an important dickulational discussion. MAYA I told you to stop messing with guys dicks- MAYA (CONT'D) MICHELLE It’s emasculating. It’s emancipating. A beat. MAYA (CONT'D) Emasculating. MICHELLE That’s what I said. Michelle tries and fails to unfreeze Jeremiah while Maya lectures. MAYA We might as well get lunch, it’s not like he’s going anywhere. Michelle makes an annoyed face at the camera. MICHELLE TALKING HEAD MICHELLE My sister’s a pretty powerful witch and she doesn’t approve of me and Jeremiah’s relationship. MAYA TALKING HEAD MAYA Let’s just say he’s not the brightest crayon in the box. EXT. STREET - FLASHBACK Boyfriend chases a plastic bag with the word ‘fun’ written on it. REVEAL Maya moves the bag around with a string/with powers. INT. MICHELLE APARTMENT - CONTINUOUS MAYA I think his stupidity could destroy the planet. MICHELLE TALKING HEAD MICHELLE Love spells are a real thing but they’re complicated. (then) In order to cast one, you need tea tree bark, sugar and the last ingredient is...you have to love...yourself. So...I’m working on that. INT. APARTMENT - BACK TO SCENE Maya sits Michelle down on the couch. MAYA You need a partner, not a project. How else are you going to fight the monsters out there? MICHELLE There aren’t any monsters. ANGLE ON: Someone wearing a MAGA cap passes by outside the window. MICHELLE (CONT'D) But I get what you’re saying. MAYA (hugs her) Good. I just want you to be happy. Maya’s words leave Michelle quiet and contemplative. Then, standing up- MICHELLE (shaky) I want you to unfreeze him and leave my apartment. MAYA Excuse you? MICHELLE You heard me. MAYA (incredulous) But I’m your sister and I’m hungry! Michelle doesn’t say anything, she’s said enough. MAYA (CONT'D) (stung) Fine. Have it your way. Maya grabs her wine glass and the bottle of wine and POPS out of the scene, leaving behind a small plume of smoke where she was standing. Michelle gets back in her boyfriends arms. Moments later, he unfreezes and continues what he was doing right before he was frozen- hugging her and finishing what he was saying. BOYFRIEND It’s OK. I spent a lot of time alone with my [bleep] last night and (looks down at dick) -we got some plans. Her reaction is half relieved and half confused. Inside, she feels bad about what she said to Maya. EXT. ROOFTOP - SUNSET Maya drinks wine, licking her wounds alone on the roof or over a scenic hilltop. MAYA I guess we just have different ways of seeing the world. I know I should let her make her own decisions, but I guess I’m a little overprotective. EXT. PARK - FLASHBACK Maya spills something on herself. Michelle gives her the shirt off her back. MAYA (V.O.) She’s a give-you-the-shirt-off-herback kind of person. EXT. ROOFTOP - SUNSET MAYA (sad smile) Not everyone deserves her. INT. APARTMENT - LATER Michelle and boyfriend sit together. He’s suddenly struck with an idea. BOYFRIEND We should rob a bank! MICHELLE (shaking her head) We’re good witches so- BOYFRIEND If I had powers, I’d rob so many banks! MICHELLE Why would you have to rob them if you have powers? BOYFRIEND I want the power of explosions. MICHELLE You know I’m a superhero right? BOYFRIEND I’d just be like explosion! Explosion! Explosion! As Boyfriend talks, Michelle realizes she’s made a mistake. EXT. ROOF - EVENING Maya watches the sunset when Michelle POPS into the scene. It ’ s awkward, they don’t say anything to each other. They don’t have to. After a long beat- MAYA Such a beautiful toxic sunset. MICHELLE Yeah - (coughs) -Wow, it’s actually really polluted. God LA sucks. Michelle puts her arm around her sister. They gaze out at Los Angeles. Together. END THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Charla Lauriston and Jae Nichelle on April 28, 2024. The script for “Witchsters” is absolutely hilarious. I love that we get to hear the inner thoughts of the characters told directly to the audience. Did you know going into this script that you wanted to use a documentary/mockumentary style or was it something that developed across drafts? Thanks! The short initially was single cam style, not mockumentary. I started thinking about changing it to mockumentary because I felt like the single cam version made the show feel a little serious and I really wanted this to be a silly show. I found that the mockumentary style was also helpful in quickly establishing a story. I could have the characters give backstory and share information about their dynamics with other characters. When I shifted over to mockumentary style it immediately felt more natural. It took a few drafts to really utilize the style as much as possible but when I got the hang of it, it really shaped the show and the way I told the story in a positive way. What was the most exciting part of filming “Witchsters” and transforming it off the page? Are there any plans to continue the series? Well let me give you some context. This was my first time directing so that was very exciting for me. I always feel like I’m using my director brain as a writer so I really wanted to direct something myself instead of bringing someone on to do it like I had in previous projects. It was also the first project of my own that I was doing in many years. I had been busy writing on other people’s TV shows and had put my own ideas on the back burner. And if I’m being honest, I was also a bit jaded from the TV industry after several of the shows I had sold didn’t make it past the development phase. I started as a creator so Witchsters was this project that I was doing as a way to dip my toe back into autonomy and my own work again. There was so much adrenaline the day of shooting because I paid for it out of pocket and I had a super tight budget. We shot it all in one day. The day went by so fast that I kind of wish that I had planned for a second shoot day to be able to get a few extra shots. But overall, so much fun, and I was pretty happy with the final product. Yes, I do plan on doing a few more episodes. You work in stand-up comedy, screenwriting, and podcasting (to name a few of your many hats). What inspired you to transition between these creative mediums, and how has each influenced your approach to storytelling? I’m just following my instincts. I had the urge to do standup so I did it. I had the urge to create my own short comedy films and that led to screenwriting. Podcasting felt natural. I had ideas for shows that I wanted to see in the world and I have a love of producing. I feel like writing for television has been the most influential in terms of my approach to story. I didn’t really know what I was doing before I was in a writer’s room. I had good instincts but no hard skills. Being in a writer’s room and being a part of the Hollywood machine has given me hardcore skills. It’s elevated my storytelling brain in every possible way because I’ve had the opportunity to ideate and execute story after story on a professional level over many years. I know how to follow interesting threads that are surprising and delightful to the watcher. I know the importance of character and relationships and all those things that are fundamental to a good story. It’s made me a better storyteller on stage, in podcast interviews, and on the page. Speaking of your podcast The Werking Writer , what’s an episode you’ll never forget? Oh man…there've been so many good ones. Probably the one with Phil Augusta Jackson, my friend and former boss on Grand Crew. I love Phil’s creative brain and he was so intentional about the culture he created in the writer’s room that I was curious to talk to him about the experience from his perspective. Highly recommend that episode. Would you rather stream a movie at home or go to the theater? I’m a streamer. I will occasionally go to the movies under special circumstances. Otherwise, I only leave my house if I have to. Are there any misconceptions about Vancouver that you’d like to clear up? It’s beautiful, quaint, and not very diverse. Could you share a memorable experience or lesson from working in writers' rooms that significantly impacted your craft? It’s more like a thousand memorable lessons that have significantly impacted my craft. The thing most of the memories had in common though is that each one involved me feeling like I had failed in some way (wrote a draft that needed to be rewritten from page 1 by the writer’s room, didn’t pitch an idea that I had, etc). But each failure proved to be an important lesson in something that I needed to learn. I needed to learn to speak up and share my ideas without fear and hesitation, and I needed to improve the quality of the drafts I turned into the writer’s room. Learning these things has made me a better artist and a better professional. Failing used to really get to me - especially because as creatives we take so many L’s and it can be difficult to stay positive. But now every time I feel like I’m “failing” at something, I just remember “this is teaching me something I need to know” and then I start to pay attention to why something isn’t working so that I can get the lesson I need to learn. How can people support you right now? Share, follow, like, subscribe. Name another Black woman writer people should follow. There are so many. Shenovia Large (@iheartnovi) is a super funny writer. ### 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. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

Sharyon A. Culberson has a background in creating content dedicated to social justice, as well as facilitating and moderating conversations that promote a more egalitarian society. She has developed and presented programming on DEI, anti-bias, micro-aggressions, and reducing sexual violence to universities, corporations, all five branches of the U.S. armed forces, and the U.S. House of Representatives. As an actor, Sharyon has has appeared on stages across the country, most recently appearing as ‘Britney’ on “The Chi”. She has also co-starred in “Chicago PD,” “Chicago Fire,” “The Big Leap” and “Proven Innocent."  She has been in several Independent films over the last few years - one of which won the “Best Sci-Fi” award for the HollyShorts Film Festival. Sharyon is currently featured in several commercial spots and an upcoming episode of “Mayor of Kingstown” on Paramount Plus. She has also been published as a contributor in a number of anthologies centering Afro-Futurism, including “Black Imaginations: Black Voices on Black Futures” published by McSweeneys, and “Into a Black Beyond: Authoring our Futures” published by Contextos.  Sharyon’s main area of expertise and interest is creating and performing content that introduces perspectives of overlooked and marginalized societies, with the goal of increasing empathy. Her first feature film project, ”Black Joy Always Wins” and her first short film screenplay “Daughters” (now in post-production) have placed as semi and quarter-finalists in a number of screenplay competitions. Her piece “Space is the Place” is an homage to her years as a military contractor, with all of the complications and opportunities that the military affords many US citizens. SPACE IS THE PLACE INT. SHARY'S APARTMENT, DAY SISSY (Early 50s, earthy), pours bourbon liberally from an elaborate decanter. She takes a long swig from the glass. SISSY If you're wrong... SHARY (late 40s, Sissy's sister, decorated military officer), joins her at the table with the bourbon. SHARY - I'm not. And it's way more complex than right or wrong. It's about what you want. For right now, and for all of our futures. Sissy rolls her eyes and flops on the couch, slightly spilling her drink. SISSY Such a cornball. Ugh - and stop interrupting me all the time. Shary cracks a smile. SHARY My bad. Please continue, Sara. Sissy makes a face. SISSY Really? I haven't heard that name since granddaddy died - who I see left you his bourbon decanter, by the way. Everybody knew I had my eye on that. Shary carefully pours herself a drink, and stands over Sissy. SHARY It's a biblical name, Sissy...and you know I got the decanter because I followed in his footsteps with joining the Air Force. Plus, he said you didn't need any more help escaping reality. SISSY He didn't say that shit - asshole! And I don't see how you can bring up reality and the bible in the same breath anyway. SHARY You're so damned disrespectful. Granddaddy's probably turning in his grave - SISSY -shit, if he's turning in his grave, it's more likely because you drank the last of his good bourbon. Shary notices the empty decanter on the table and winces. SHARY Oh, dang! I meant to grab another bottle yesterday. SISSY Not like you to forget to get a bottle of anything. SHARY Is everything a joke to you? Let's focus on the future, shall we? Sissy sits a spell stirring the ice in her glass, thinking. SISSY The future, eh'? Wouldn't we be selling our future if we do this? SHARY C'mon - don't start with that foolishness again. This is progress! How do you think Big Daddy felt when he first got to Chicago? SISSY You still call him that? Gross... SHARY What? He hated "great-grandpa", so - SISSY His name was Sammy - I'ma call him Sammy dammit. And you know he didn't even look white people in the eye until 1998. You wanna follow his lead? SHARY 'Cause they were dangerous! That kept him and us alive! Look - the point is, there is no progress without a good amount of risk involved - and everyone in our family, including you, knows that well. Sissy drains her glass, and sighs loudly. SISSY Fine, whatever...tell me the details again? SHARY The long and the short is this. If all of our known current relatives relocate to the Alpha-12 space station, we'll be eligible for the newly minted 'future family' program. And since we'll be the first ones there,they'll financially provide for any and all debts and living costs with a stipend that increases with inflation for the next eleven generations. Sissy whistles. SISSY Inflation in space? Of course. Shit, that does sound good though - what about education? SHARY They can either attend the schools established by the military on the space station, or attend via zoom to any schools on Earth - and it's also covered for up to three PhD's per person. SISSY Cotdam! SHARY I knew your nerdy butt would like that part. Sissy chuckles to herself for a bit, then stops abruptly, suddenly solemn. SISSY You know your nieces would love this program. SHARY I do. Have you talked to them? SISSY No. They haven't returned any of my calls or emails. Last I heard, they're refusing all communication with me unless I donate to that damned cult - eh, church they belong to. Shary touches Sissy's shoulder, consoling her. SHARY At least you know they're safe. SISSY ...if you call that safe. SHARY You know bringing them to the program could help you all reconcile. Sissy jumps to her feet, angry. SISSY Selling my children to the government is not what I consider to be a way to make amends! SHARY Don't get dramatic, I'm just saying - SISSY Being the sister of possibly the largest slave trader since the sixteen hundreds feels like pure drama to me. SHARY Jesus, here we go... SISSY I just want to know why you? Why us? How did we get this 'opportunity' to relocate our entire family to space? Shary hesitates uncomfortably for a moment, then answers. SHARY Look, you know I'm up for Lieutenant General. The President herself said the optics of being the 'first Black space family' on Alpha-twelve would be wonderful for the country - SISSY - heh. Optics. Here we go again. SHARY I know you don't care about your appearance, but some of us - Sissy walks to the door. SISSY Fuck this! If you're gonna insult me, you can stick that deal right up your optics. Shary yells after her. SHARY Ok, you just sleep on it. Let's talk again tomorrow? I'll have a fresh bottle for you! INT. SHARY'S APARTMENT, THE NEXT DAY Shary uncorks a new bottle, sniffs the cork, and passes it to Sissy. SISSY So you were right... SHARY Of course I was! ...About what? SISSY About your nieces. As soon as I mentioned the money, they damn near started packing. Shary takes a seat, smiling smugly. SHARY Because they understand how to invest in their future! Sissy stares into her empty glass a moment, her brow furrowed. SISSY Future...what did John and Michael say? SHARY Fill your glass? Shary fills Sissy's glass all the way to the top. Sissy chuckles. SISSY You tryna get me drunk? You know that doesn't end well. Shary shrugs, and takes a swig directly from the bottle. SHARY Ha! Don't I know it. Have you heard from the doctor yet? SISSY Yes. And don't think I didn't notice you changing the subject. SHARY Now who's changing the subject? Sissy takes a large gulp from her glass, then sighs with resign. SISSY Yes, I've heard. It's inoperable. SHARY Fuck! SISSY This must be that good shit if it's got you cussing. Shary takes her glass to the window, and stares out of it, her eyes filling with tears. SHARY It's just...there's so much to do still. To be! This isn't fair. Sissy approaches her Shary and embraces her. They stay like that for a while, until.. SISSY That's why I'm so concerned with this deal. It's very possible I won't be around to stand up for this next generation of ours very long. Shary breaks away from the embrace roughly and sits back on the couch. SHARY Michael and John are fine with the deal. SISSY But... SHARY ...but they said they'd prefer to have limited to no contact with me even on the space station. They claim to not want my grandchildren to get attached to me and 'be inconsistent in their lives like I'm known to be'. Sissy joins her on the couch. SISSY Ouch. Shary stands suddenly, enraged. SHARY So why can't you just get with the program?! It seems you have nothing to lose at this point! Sissy stares for a while at her sister. SISSY Nothing to lose but my values, my lineage, and my soul. SHARY What about me!? What about everything I've worked for? Do you not care about helping your family? Are you that damned selfish?! SISSY I thought we established what happens when you call me names. Shary catches herself, and calms down. SHARY You're right, I'm sorry. Just finish your drink. You can stay here tonight if you want - I don't want you driving home in this state. Sissy speaks slowly, filled with rage and years of resentment. SISSY Don't do it. Whatever you want to pull, don't pull that, 'You're just thinking of my well-being' bullshit again. SHARY But I am! I just don't want you driving in a state - SISSY Like you do? Like GrandDaddy was three months ago when he ran into that tree!? Like you were when you got caught with your sons in the car, lost custody, and went to the military to avoid jail time? Get off your fucking moral high horse before you give us all goddamned nose bleeds. Shary calmly places her glass down, and walks over to her sister, leaving barely an inch between their noses. SHARY You fucking ungrateful bitch. Our entire family has done nothing but save you and make excuses for your hippy-dippy attitude, and all you do is disgrace us and disrespect your name. You don't deserve half of what you've been given, and I - Sissy lunges at Shary, and they start wrestling on the floor. After about a minute of a tussle, Sissy 'accidentally' bangs her head on the coffee table leg and knocks herself out. INT. SHARY'S APARTMENT, DAY Sissy comes to on the couch with an ice pack on her head. Shary notices she's conscious again, and brings her a glass of water. SISSY I guess shit got a little out of hand yesterday. SHARY You could say that. SISSY I suppose I owe you an apology. Can't believe two middle-aged women came down to fisticuffs. Sissy chuckles. Shary remains stoic. SHARY No apologies necessary. Sissy starts gathering her things. SISSY I am gonna go ahead and head out though. We may need to take a little space for a while. SHARY You can have all you need. Sissy gives her sister a funny look, then finishes gathering her things. She opens the door to the apartment and steps into the hallway...to see that the complex hallway fades into a moving walkway on Alpha twelve! Sissy turns around to re-enter the apartment, but the door has slid shut on her one-person pod, carrying her to another level. Sissy begins to scream and bang on the inside of the pod, but her scream fades into the distance as we hear: ROBOT VOICE Welcome to Alpha Twelve, the premiere space station for civilians. We hope you enjoy your stay. As the camera zooms out of the walkway, and out of the space station to show that it's miles away from earth. FADE TO BLACK ### 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. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

Tyra Douyon is an Atlanta-based poet, lifestyle-culture writer, editor, and educator known for her authentic voice and passion for storytelling. She writes poetry highlighting the intersection of Afro-Caribbean and American identity, and mental health. She is currently the Assistant Poetry Editor for Gigantic Sequins and previously served as the Editorial Director of The Headlight Review and Social Media Editor for Josephine Quarterly . She's a Tin House fellow for fiction writing, and her poetry has appeared in Josephine Quarterly, Paper Dragon, Black Fox, Aunt Chloe, Storm Cellar, The Muse , and others. She received her MA in Professional Writing and BS in English Education from Kennesaw State University. You can find her filling her shopping cart with too many flowers, running 5Ks with her dog, Mya, or at work on her first poetry collection about being raised by her grandmother in a bilingual household, but not speaking the same language. Visit Tyra’s website to read more of her creative work. Visiting Hours  You always had a big appetite  for a woman holding  eight decades in her throat.  There is no meal  without rice,  but where are the greens?  There is no such thing  as too much butterscotch  candy in a mouth  with already rotten teeth.  I never knew Haitian spaghetti  was a recipe; I just thought  you were being stingy  with the sauce.  There was a time  when you fed yourself.  There was a time  when you could see my face  and not mistake me  for someone dead.  We spoke in twitching eyebrows,  stubborn smirks,  loose dimples—    Our day emptied into uhh hums,  silent call and response, a sermon recited with missing tongues.    We found each other in howls of laughter, lawless domino games,  clapping hands, aching feet—     Immigrant families know  about the land of lost language.  How to make do  with the dream of wanting more.  I don’t remember  the last time  you stood.  I don’t remember when  you weren’t starving.  In ten minutes,  you ate three bananas.  I left you the bag, tucked it against  the white blanket, the white gown.  She ran it back quick–   said you didn’t need it,  said you would choke. ### 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. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

Felicia A. Rivers lives in the Greene Townes west of Philadelphia, PA, USA where she escaped the corporate majority and joined the artistic minority. She earned her MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminars, has showcased plays in Philly and New York, and her work has appeared in various publications, including Menagerie Magazine, The Ampersand, and a tiny Philadelphian street sheet that had a short, but happy life. Also, she daydreams. A lot. Maestro Back in the day, they called him Maestro. They meant it as a crack, but he didn’t pay them no mind. His drawings, his paintings, his “artistic   promise,” as Mrs. Peabody called it, those things were something he was good  at. Most days at Reynolds Elementary rolled out in a chain of boring, grey blocks of time, but Mrs. Peabody’s Tuesday morning art class, with its bright light streaming through the tall windows, its collage of primary colors, its pungent, earthy scents of paint and clay, was the highlight of his week. There were so many possibilities in that room just waiting to be brought to life, and he knew how. Somehow, he just knew. He had a talent. So, they cracked on him. Because he was good at art. Because Mrs. Peabody complimented his work, and even gave him a sketchbook.  There goes Maestro with that damned sketchbook again . Well, let ‘em crack. Life was weird. But it made a little more sense when you were good at something.  ~~~ Drowning. He swings his arms wide, pushing the water beneath him, kicking with strong legs, but the warm, dark river waters of the Mekong Delta hold on. His lungs burn and he fights, reaching, searching with his fingertips for that telltale coolness that will signal a return to the surface—to air. Soon? Now? Somebody help me! But the sound of the USS Benewah’s motor recedes. The river swallows him. ~~~ RJ jerked awake, not to the sound of a naval ship engine, but early morning traffic on Girard Avenue. Sunlight slanted through his bedroom windows, casting the latticed shadow of the El track girders onto the crisp, white curtains. Tara’s curtains. Despite the coolness of the room, sweat coated his chest and dampened his sheets. He tossed aside the bedding, sat up, and reached for the pack of Marlboros on the bedside table. Three cigarettes left. He needed to quit. He could hear Tara’s voice nagging him to quit. The air vibrated with her Jamaican lilt. But Tara was gone—long gone. He lit a cigarette with the hot pink lighter the girl—girl? She was almost as old as he—woman had left behind the other night. The smoke rose from the end, a curling grey suddenly brightened in a slant of light. He inhaled, and the smoky air filled his lungs like water. He needed to quit. His daughter Roberta’s voice now. He needed to quit a lot of things. If not for yourself, then for your grandchildren, right Dad?  He knew he wasn’t going to quit.  The clock radio startled him, suddenly bursting forth with the local college jazz station. 7:00AM. Force of habit, leaving the alarm on. Muscle memory. Training. He had nowhere special to be, but he showered, dressed, and left the narrow brick rowhouse anyway. Habits die such lengthy deaths. Outside, the neighborhood greeted him with a dissonance of motor engines, slamming doors, and voices, all floating over the basso profundo  of the El as it shuttled back and forth over the neighborhood. He crossed Girard and saw Doris Chambers pulling her trashcan from around the back of the house and lumbered over to help her. “RJ, you leave my trash alone. You’re older than I am,” she said, laughing and playing tug of war with the can. He won. She let him. “Doris, you know you’re much too pretty to be manhandlin’ trash.” The woman smiled at him, and the Doris of fifty years ago flashed across her fading brown eyes. “Tell my husband that.” “Willie down at Frank’s?” “Where else?” “I’m headed there now. And I’m gonna tell him about himself. Lettin’ his woman take out the trash.” “You do that, RJ. And thank you,” she said over her shoulder as she pulled herself up the front steps. RJ continued down the street, returning the nods and greetings of the neighbors. He knew them and they knew him. We all know each other.  The past 60 years had brought significant changes to the streets of North Philadelphia, but in some ways, nothing had changed at all. Flo’s Millinery with its window display of candy-colored Sunday hats had been replaced by a vegan café, but Montrose’s still sold small electronics under stark fluorescent lights. The brick rowhouses on 22nd Street had been torn down and replaced with new brick rowhouses that sold for five times the price of their ancestors, but kids still played basketball on the cracked courts of the old Jr. High School. And the two corner grocery stores that had always faced off against each other at the end of the block (one either patronized Albert’s or Simpson’s, but never both) had been converted into competing coffee shops that elicited loyalty from no one. But Frank’s, passed down from Francis, Sr. to Francis, Jr. to Frances, remained ever the stalwart bar and game room of the neighborhood. The more things change, the more they change into the same. He passed by the vegan café (Green River Café, a name he found as unappetizing as its menu) and entered Frank’s. This time of morning, Frances served deliciously unhealthy breakfasts. And beer. RJ ignored the chastising voices of both deceased wife and living daughter as he sidled up to the bar next to Doris’ husband Willie.  “Helped your wife take out the trash just now,” he said, elbowing his friend. “Aww man, I told that woman I would take care of it when I got back.” Willie, at 76, was three years older than RJ, five years older than his wife, and brimming with both good health and humor. “How long you been married to Doris? 60 years?” “Now, I didn’t rob no cradle,” Willie said. “Fifty-two years I’ve been battling that woman.” “Seems to me you would have waved the white flag by now.” RJ waved a cocktail napkin in the air. “Surrender, Willie!” “And what fun would that be? What’s life worth if you can’t mess with the love of your life?” Willie snatched the napkin from RJ’s fingers and loudly blew his nose. “Speaking of messes, you hear about Brynne’s mural?” RJ pulled a menu he knew by heart from the rack on the bar and studied it for a moment. “The one Barry’s working on the side wall?” He returned the menu to its rack, signaled to Barney, the morning bartender, looked at his friend, frowning, then said, “Heard it’s coming along.” “You haven’t seen it yet?”  “They just started. I’ll check it out when it’s finished.” “That may be a while, now. Somebody vandalized it.” “Vandalized it?” “Well, changed, really. Altered. Somebody added something to it.” RJ cocked an eyebrow at his friend. “Added what?” “Added a bunch of men to it.” “A bunch of men?” “Shadow men.” “As usual, Willie. You’re not making a bit of sense. What the hell are shadow men?” “They added a bunch of dark, shadowy men. Along the bottom. Right where Brynne is gonna be standing. They look a little creepy. Sad. Not exactly the vibe Barry’s going for. I can’t believe you haven’t peeped it yet. You used to be into that art and stuff.” “That was a long time ago.” “Well, Barry’s design is great. Brynne all the way. Bigger than life. Even though she’s transitioned. She’s standing legs wide, arms wide. Takes up the whole wall from roof to sidewalk. Dreads flowing. Tats and all. Barry finished the sketch yesterday, and Minty and a few others stopped by this morning to see if they could help with anything—for Brynne, you know. That’s when they saw. Somebody added a bunch of shadow men all along the bottom.” “Really.” Barney approached, and RJ said, “Mornin’ Barney. Uh, give me steak and eggs and a couple of biscuits. Coffee and a Coors.” “So, the usual,” answered Barney, a tall dark-skinned man who had tended bar in the mornings for the last twenty-five years. “Already put the order in.” Willie shook his head and chuckled. “Make it Coors Light. He needs to watch his figure.” Then turning to RJ, he said, “Come on here, while that’s cooking.” Willie led the way out of the door and around the corner to the mural. Barry sat on a folding chair, staring at the wall. The sketch of the daughter of the neighborhood stood two-story tall and stretched the entire width of the bar’s side wall. It was a fitting tribute, this mural. Brynne’s untimely death had shocked the community. From the extended family that went back generations, to the bar denizens at Frank’s, to her patrons at Skin Odyssey Tattoo Parlor, to the artistic community at large, everyone loved Brynne. In the days since the tragedy, the neighborhood had been commiserating in whispered tones, or fighting back tears, or just wanting to do  something. Or all three. For Brynne. Of course, they couldn’t do anything with the investigation—Philly PD had that on lock. But someone mentioned a tribute of some kind and someone else suggested a mural and the idea spread until more than a few somebodies hit up Barry Blues, the local muralist, because it ought to be handled local, you know? Now, Barry sat on an orange and white lawn chair, staring at the wall, at the nascent mural emerging like something rising to the surface. Right now, it was just black strokes against stark white, but in his mind’s eye, Barry saw the rich brown of her skin, vermillion lips, the texture of her hair spread like a halo, as if lifted by a breeze, and the vibrant, clashing magnificence of her tattoos. A stack of photos of those tats—presented to him by her boss at the tattoo parlor with all the reverence of an ofrenda —were safely stored in his pack. He planned to consult them faithfully for color and line. It was important to get her tattoos right. But at the moment, Barry had something else to deal with.   Someone had painted a collection of rogue figures along the bottom of the sketch. Last night, his painstakingly prepped wall had held only the massive outline of Brynne. Now, several figures—people, men—stood, lounged, leaned, and sauntered at her feet. Fully formed. Painted in dark shades ranging from forest-green to black, they resembled a platoon of realistic, emotionally fraught toy soldiers.  “Hey Barry,” Willie said as he and RJ approached, “I was just telling RJ about your mural. You figure out what’s going on?” Barry stood to greet the older men. “Mr. Wilson. Mr. Miller. No.” He returned to his study of the wall for a moment, then shook his head. “I just don’t get it.” “Well, you can just paint over them, can’t ya?” Willie said. “It’s your wall.” “Well, Frankie’s wall,” offered RJ. “She gave it up for Brynne, so it’s Barry’s gig. Barry’s wall.” “The community’s wall, right Barry?” RJ smiled at the young artist. “Yes, sir. That’s the idea.” “Point is,” said Willie, “It’s your thing. So just paint it over and keep moving.” RJ studied his friend for a moment. “You want him to just paint it over?” “That’s what I’d do. Man has a vision. Look at it.” He raised and arm, gesturing to encompass the breadth and height of Brynne. “What then, Willie?” RJ pressed. “Whoever then comes and paints those dudes again? A Battle of the Paints?” “Battle of the Paints! I like that!” said Willie, and lowered his voice, impersonating an announcer. “Who will prevail in the Battle of the Paints?” The old man laughed, punching the air in a mock fight. “You like to fight too much. Don’t remember you ever being in one though.” “Awww, come on now, RJ. I’m just playing. Anyway, it’s up to Barry whether to paint ‘em over or not.” “Problem is,” Barry said, looking at the wall as if attempting to divine the meaning of an inexplicable puzzle, “they’re good.” “Pretty good,” RJ said, shrugging. “Yeah. There’s something, well, almost radiant and yet, at the same time, damaged and broken about them.” Willy turned to Barry. “Yeah. When Minty told me about it this morning, that’s just what he called them. Broken. Broken men.”  “And mysterious,” continued Barry. “There’s this quality of pain that’s so present, makes you wonder what brought them to this place. I don’t know what their story is, but I’m into it.” The muralist stood in silence for a moment, then shook his head. “Man, I really wish the artist had just come and talked to me. This here is for Brynne. It’s meant to represent her joy. I could’ve found them their own space for this. Because whatever they are, these men are not joy.” “Maybe,” RJ said, gazing at the figures of the men, “they are meant to echo the same kind of pain we feel about Brynne. The same sense of loss.” “What do you mean?” Barry’s eyes shifted from the mural to the elderly man. “Well.” RJ folded his arms over his chest. “The men are dark. Dark in color and sensibility. And shadowed—your shadow men, Willie—as if they’re here, but not completely in the here and now.” Barry walked toward the mural. “Yeah. That’s what I’m feeling. A separateness that is about more than time and place. And see? They’re in shadow, but you can still see every detail of their features. The expressions. There’s an emotional weight here. Man, that’s some talent right there. They look lost. But—this is interesting—there’s no weakness here. Their bodies are strong.” The painter turned back to the two older men. “Physically fit, but emotionally broken. What does that say?” “Tough guys? Fighters? Soldiers? They’re soldiers, right?” Willie turned to RJ, but his friend said nothing, watching Barry. “Yeah,” Barry answered, nodding. “I could see that. So, you think someone wanted to remember some lost soldiers? Added this as a memorial to fallen brothers?” He stood lost in thought for a moment, then shook his head. “That doesn’t fit in Brynne’s world at all. So why here?” Then to RJ he said, “But, like you said, that would fit in with the general theme of pain and loss, right?” RJ shrugged and said nothing. Willie looked at his friend. “RJ’s an artist too, Barry. You know that?” “Was,” RJ said, frowning at his friend. “Was. A long time ago.” “Didn’t know that, Mr. Miller.” Then: “Afghanistan? The Gulf, you think? The soldiers, I mean.”  “Does it matter?” RJ asked. “Hard to say,” added Willie, then turned to his friend. “RJ, you were in Vietnam.” “Yeah, in the Navy.” “Are these Army or Navy—or Marines?” asked Barry. “Hard to tell,” RJ answered and looked down the street as an ambulance rounded a corner, lights flashing, no sirens. It turned the next corner and was gone. The more things stay the same. “You lost some good friends over there, right?” Willie watched his friend’s familiar, still features.  “You saw combat?” asked Barry. RJ sighed and gestured to Barry’s lawn chair. The young man nodded his assent. He sat. “See, people think the Navy’s safer. When I was drafted, my Momma was happy that I wasn’t going into the Army. Some guys from the neighborhood did, humping packs through the Delta. On the coast. Too many didn’t come back.” He paused for a moment as if to catch his breath. Then he pulled out a cigarette and lit it. “Those things are gonna kill you, man,” Willie said, shaking his head. “Something will. That’s for damned sure.” “But you were safe serving in the Navy?” Barry was interested. “No,” RJ answered, his voice flat and distant. “Not at all.” He took another drag and politely blew the smoke away from his companions. “See, they could hear us coming. It was the ship engines. We had to run without lights at night to make it harder, but they could still hear us. It was a mean war. I guess they all are.” He looked at the wall, frowning, and the years seemed to weigh on him. “One night, we got back late from patrol. It was raining. All that lush green on the Delta, all that thick, green darkness, needed a hell of a lot of water and God gave it to ‘em. Man, when it rained on the rivers, it didn’t pour. It pounded. We were beat. Beat up by the rains.” He looked down for a moment as if at scattered thoughts on the pavement. “We were transferring from the patrol to the Benewah when the bullets started flying, we couldn’t tell where they were coming from. Darts from the darkness. Fire coming from out of nowhere. And everywhere. When it paused, I was first up the ladder. My Momma didn’t raise no fool. Then another followed. And another. Brothers flying up the ladder. Ten of us made it up. We were something.” A hint of a smile crossed the old man’s face, and then was gone. “Five didn’t. Went into the water. But see, we couldn’t turn on the lights to search for them. Turn on the lights, lose more, see? Couldn’t do it. Even for our brothers. Found the five downriver the next day.” Barry turned and looked at the five figures on the wall at Brynne’s feet. “What were their names?”  ~~~ He drew them. He drew them on the barrack ship and on the PCBs. He drew them lounging on the riverbanks. He drew them to pass the time. And after, when the drowning dreams began to wake him in the middle of those humid Vietnam nights, he drew them as he imagined them. If they had made it home. And when imagination failed him, he drew them as they were: figments of boys, lost forever in a foreign land. He drew them to honor them. He drew them to remember them. He drew them to come to terms with reality: that the life force of these brothers of his could be drained away so quickly, so violently, so senselessly, so far from home. ### 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. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

Sydney Mayes is a poet from Denver, Colorado. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in The Atlantic, Poets.org , The Iowa Review Blog, Gulf Coast Journal, Obsidian, Denver Quarterly, Booth, and Prairie Schooner . Mayes won the 2021 Iowa Chapbook Prize for her chapbook You Look Just Like Your Mama . She was selected by Roger Reeves as a finalist for the 2024 Furious Flower Poetry Prize. Executive Editor of Nashville Review , Mayes is an MFA Candidate in Poetry at Vanderbilt University. Follow Sydney on Instagram . Exhaustion Whispers Tough Love to The July Child  The accumulation of geese photos, sonnets and tears matters to no one  but you. The jazz musician that broke your hymen, the tomato garden,  Rita Dove’s Collected  cannot care for you. Your mother loses  your poems beneath listing contracts, your grandmother’s lazy eye falls  to her breast when you read, but you still go on, writing lyric chicken scratch  over your chemistry notes, cleaning out Tattered Cover’s poetry section, trying  to keep hornworms from the only tomato large enough to eclipse moon. And where will this get you? Sat in front of the poet,  her left ankle buffing the cherrywood table, asking you if you had  a happy childhood. The teal legs of her glasses socking within themselves  hawk wing and concrete obscured nest. She has read your poems so she knows  the answer, but how kind of her to still listen to your response. How kind  of her to acknowledge the fissure of your  hands cracking the spines of poetry books. ### 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. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.

Linda Susan Jackson is the acclaimed author of Truth Be Told and What Yellow Sounds Like , a finalist for the National Poetry Series and the Paterson Prize. Linda Susan Jackson is the author of Truth Be Told (Four Way Books) and What Yellow Sounds Like  (Tia Chucha Press),   a finalist for the National Poetry Series and the Paterson Prize. She has   received fellowships from the Cave Canem Foundation, the New York Foundation for the Arts, Calabash International Literary Festival, Soul Mountain Writers Retreat, and The Frost Place. Her work has appeared in Brilliant Corners: A Journal of Jazz and Literature , the Broadside Series of the Center for Book Arts, Crab Orchard Review , Harvard Review , the Los Angeles Review , Obsidian: Literature and Arts in the African Diaspora  and Ploughshares,  among others, and has been featured in Brooklyn Poets, The Academy of American Poets Poem-a-Day and Poets on Poetry series as well as in the audio archive of From the Fishouse .    She is a retired associate professor of English from Medgar Evers College/CUNY.  Families Some start off  with — no ritual no rules no soil no myths no triangle no seasonal clothing no boundary no quality paper no vaseline no slide show no composition notebook no interior   no bergamot no song no kernels no dictionary no birthstone no I’m so glad to see you no periphery no symphony no mirror no quill no quilt      no bible of ancestors no ring of rhythmic speech no point at all, so they make it up. Hoop Dreams Decades Before Cheryl Miller & Epiphanny Prince  Each Score Over 100 Points in PSAL Games - for Msaidia In my pleated skirt & camp-style  blouse both institution-green & bobby socks stuffed into Keds, I’m summoned to the foul line. Shoot underhanded for fifteen   the gym teacher instructs  No post up, no bank shot No gravity-defying dunk No chest thump, no show boat No behind-the-back pass No sky hook, no all net No step-back threes. Just once, I want to lace up my brother’s high top Chuck Taylors , dribble 94 feet to the basket & finger roll that round leather carcass, all 22 ounces of its 8 pebbly panels into the rim with sweet assurance, pull back with a high arc or drive finesse through the lane only the game doesn’t speak about girls who dribble low to the ground, who  look left & pass right who work the edge, who get off the ground quickly to play pick-up  games with boys or a girl like me, gathered with other girls on the half court of our school gym, our backs to the rim, being warned against banking shots off the back board, against the shake & bake, against the pick & roll against the give & go urge to penetrate the defense & cut to the basket for the finish. Joy in Three  - for e.a. Before I read, she hugs me.  Her auburn-tinted hair sweeps the corners of her black boat- necked wool sweater.   Her perfume hints  at relief then reverie,  myth then memory of love  & its inevitable aftermath.   I ask her its name,  Joy by Jean Patou she  says, one of those elegant  smells my mother wore. . A child born with a caul over its head is said to have second sight, an ability to see things before they exist, but what of the child who smells the unseen, whose prescience is olfactory, who smells rain in a sun-drenched sky? I once dreamt my DNA traced to Modjadji V, South Africa’s Rain Queen.  She makes rain, but I know (as does she), her power is in her nose. She inhales, tilts her head skyward,  predicts, sometimes months ahead,  when the first drops of precious liquid will strike the ground. . Great musicians hear chord changes before one note hits the air.  I smell low notes made by a powered base of vanilla, the blues of gardenias, the middle  notes of jasmine, ylang-ylang, a spray of violets, of irises, the high subtle notes from the fruit of bergamot. Before I read, I shore myself up against the scent dragging me  back to the first one I knew, my mother’s, a joy I wouldn’t love until much, much later. My Mother is Dorothy Dandridge, at least that’s what I say to people  when they stare.  Whenever she  & I go out together, men gape & gaze,  walk into fire hydrants, fall off curbs;  women pull their men closer  though she claims not to notice.   . Like Dorothy, she’s light-skinned &  dark-haired, dark-eyed & slim-waisted.   When my parents were dating, my  father said people gawked & whispered.   Maybe they thought she was Dorothy,  so they looked for Otto Preminger.   . Restaurants would seat her,  not my father.  He was told  to wait outside or go around back  to the service entrance for take out.   . When my mother talks about their wedding,  she claims Gordon Parks took the pictures,   but my father tells us it was Moneta  Sleet, Jr. who took their photos in 1949.   . Their marriage collapsed under the weight   of it, a residue of almost, nearly, once was… (I see you, perfectly  -- for Matcha behind the stemmed glass, and you ask are you writing about me?  Yes, about the scared little girl you hide under blonde-streaked hair, the little girl who yearned for a full-time Dad, not the part-timer you called by his last name – Warren: a labyrinth preserved for the breeding of game.  Are you, are we, yet we talk like strangers on a train.  You, about your first husband and your impatience with the new Weight Watchers program.  Me, about how I started and stopped The Salt Eaters  three times and the familiar language rhythms in Joe Turner’s Come and Gone even though sixty-seven years have your amber-colored eyes sinking dully in your shrinking face.  Just as well, you don’t know me either.  Only the mention of Etta James restores some light.  Still, labored breathing clouds the room with an impression, not the true you while memory rises to scale questions of age, aging, of the ages, wrapping up the present in our past: well-lived and well past   within the earth it took to bring us here, and the dusty cocoon we will spin is our promise ) . THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Linda Susan Jackson and Jae Nichelle on June 6, 2024. The end of the poem “Families” reminds me of the infamous line “I made it up,” in Lucille Clifton’s poem “won’t you celebrate with me.”  What rules or rituals do you feel you’ve made up or seen made up in your family? It’s interesting that you are reminded of Lucille Clifton’s poem, “won’t you celebrate with me,” which is one of my favorites, because I don’t remember being conscious of her poem while I was writing, but ancestors are always guiding us.  However, I do remember thinking about two things:  the character Shadrack from Toni Morrison’s second novel, Sula, and what he lacks when he returns from the horrors of WWI, and I was thinking about the traumatic rupture Africans experience, first when they hit the shores of the Americas and again when they are freed (but not free as Tracy K. Smith reminds us in her recent book To Free the Captives).  They have to create themselves each time since “{they} had no model.” In thinking more specifically about your question, my rituals are inherited family rituals, and they mostly seem to revolve around or involve food.  When my family was geographically close, we would gather every weekend, on holidays and elder birthdays at either my great-grandmother’s or my grandmother’s.  There were the bus rides and picnics my great-grandmother would organize every summer.  Over time, elders passed on, family members moved and gatherings became more difficult.  Also, there were what I call day-of-the-week rituals.  Tuesday was for ironing; Wednesday was Italian dinner day; Friday was always fish; Saturday was for cleaning, washing clothes, food shopping, changing bed and bath linen, and we always had beans and franks for dinner; and Sunday was church and “Sunday” dinner that included a roast of some sort, maybe a leg of lamb, macaroni and cheese, assorted vegetables and always, always yeast-raised rolls.  The only rituals I still maintain are Tuesday ironing and the Saturday cleaning rituals: but no beans and franks.  Of course, when I began writing, I established one ritual – I must have music. These poems are full of rich allusions to basketball players, Modjadji V, Dorothy Dandridge, and literary works.  Are you ever surprised by what and who makes their way into your work? Almost everything about writing surprises me since I don’t typically start out saying I’m going to write about this or that.  My writing usually begins with a question or a curiosity I have about one of my obsessions, maybe something I’ve observed or experienced that demands a closer look, needs translation or deserves to be remembered, recalled, recovered, resurrected and documented.   When people or events appear in my poems, they come to me in various ways, maybe from something I’ve seen, read or heard, a lyric from a song, in a dream or even while I’m in the shower.  They show up unannounced, in their own time and introduce themselves to me as a way, I think, to help me translate life’s complexities in as straight forward a way as I can.  Many years ago, I’d read about Modjadji V, and I was captivated by her, but I had no idea she’d ever appear in a poem.  From that I learned everything is potentially useful. “(I see you perfectly” is a poem fully contained in parenthesis.  Can you tell me what drew you to this form? There are two things about this: one is I was a math major when I first started college, and even after all this time, some of the rules of that discipline are still with me. (I don’t always know what I know).  I remembered that when you have a complex algebraic or trigonometric expression, you simplify the values in the innermost brackets first, which are typically parentheses, then you deal with the values in the curly and/or square brackets; and two, when I use parentheses in my writing, I’m suggesting what is within those round shapes is self-contained and significant on its own.    Congratulations on the recent release of your second collection Truth Be Told.   How was your experience writing this collection different from your first one, What Yellow Sounds Like?   Both books feature a character with whom readers explore experiences of Black girlhood and womanhood.  Are there differences in your relationships with the narrators of your books? Thank you.  There’s no substantial difference in my relationship with the narrators. All of my writing life, I’ve been obsessed by the historic and current practice with the adultification of young Black girls and the nanny or mammy-fication of Black women; both have been and, in some instances, continue to be represented or depicted, stereotypically, as saviors or scapegoats.  So I try to offer some insight into their private selves, their thoughts, wishes, and desires – their interior lives – through my writing, filling in some of the gaps.  I guess it’s my poetic use of “critical fabulation” which is a concept I first learned about reading the work of Saidiya Hartman. Are there any movies or TV shows that you return to time and time again? I’m not a big fan of television, except during the basketball and football seasons, and I watch documentaries, mostly those about the lives of creative people.  But there are a few movies I’ve watched many times and continue to learn from :  Daughters of the Dust; Nothing But a Man; Seven Samurai; Sugar Cane Alley; Raise the Red Lantern; To Sleep With Anger; Rashomon; Eve’s Bayou; Learning Tree; Seven Beauties; and Claudine .  There are others, but these came to me straight away. In a Brooklyn Poets interview, you mention that you will never find what you left in Brooklyn in Delaware, where you now live.  What have you found in Delaware?  Any spots you recommend? At this point in my life, I want a slower pace, one floor living, hassle-free parking,  lower taxes, no rush hour traffic (pedestrians and vehicular), less noise…did I say lower taxes?  But there’s always a trade off; I haven’t found a local artistic community yet.  I know there’s one here, I just haven’t found it. If you could swap lives with any fictional character for a day, who would it be and why? Sula Peace, the protagonist in Toni Morrison’s second novel, Sula,  because she is self-made, unapologetic and irreverent.   How can people support you right now? The best way to support me is to support, either with your financial contributions or by volunteering your time, organizations like Cave Canem Foundation, Canto Mundo, Kundiman, Furious Flower, Asian American Writers Workshop, Hurston/Wright Foundation, Institute of American Indian Arts, Torch Literary Arts, Tía Chucha’s Centro Cultural & Bookstore, to name a few, and independent publishers who nurture, support and promote writers from diverse and underrepresented communities. Name another Black woman writer people should follow. These are some of the women I’m reading and rereading and recommend: Gwendolyn Brooks Lucille Clifton Rita Dove Elizabeth Alexander Tracy K. Smith Nicole Sealey Nikky Finney Wanda Coleman Vievee Francis Harmony Holiday Remica Bingham-Risher Claudia Rankine Evie Shockley Mahogany L. Browne ### 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. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate to help Torch amplify Black women writers.