Shy-Zahir Moses (they/them) is a Black person, poet, and educator from Dallas, Texas, whose poems appear in Callaloo , Dialogist , and A Gathering Together Journal . They are a Best New Poets 2025 nominee and fellow of The Watering Hole and The Rutgers Institute for the Study of Global Racial Justice. A recent graduate from The New Writers Project at the University of Texas at Austin, Shy’s work is an honest attempt to disentangle their very messy, complicated childhood and their definitions of home and family. Shy is a lover of all things soft and loud, a fan of horror movies, Solange, and Tuesday afternoons in the spring. They are everything, always, and something, occasionally. Follow them on Substack @uhnoid to read their "fake" essays and @thee_shy_aries on Instagram for whenever they feel like showing their face. Their website is pending.  joking, my sister told our mother we’d fight one day. said a body was sure to go  through the glass table of Annie Lee figurines and the broken pieces  would glitter the swamp green rug and collect  dust under the couch we only sat on after  one of us had hurt the other.  said it was bound to happen. said there was no way sisters could ever live so long without making the other  cry. joking, i said i’d beat her. said she was better at taking a punch and i was better  at throwing them. said we couldn’t  break the table or the figurines because i wanted one for my first apartment. Blue Monday. said my rage was stronger and more important. we laughed while our mother sat silent on the couch, staring at us, then back at her hands. ### 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.

Tie’s work appears or is upcoming in Lucky Jefferson , Querencia Press , Midway Journal , Shō Poetry

and he often falls asleep and snores to the Addams Family Values , Candyman , and Tank Girl , but not Friday

(she/her) is the author of Nocturne in Joy (2023), winner of the 2024 Julia Ward Howe Book Prize in poetry

With a feature film, three shorts and a UCLA MFA in film producing, Mildred is shopping two pilots: i-CLASS It’s Friday. This is Louisiana. LICIA They’re poisoned. EARLENE I took out the ones that were bad. We’ve made our own little shoal here every Friday since I got back.

Joi’ C. Weathers is an award-winning marketer turned writer and third-generation Chicago South Sider with over 14 years of experience leading creative campaigns for global brands like Microsoft and Meta. She’s been recognized with a Cannes Lion, multiple regional Emmys, Golden Trumpet Awards from the Publicity Club of Chicago (PCC), and ADC and AICP honors. She excels at blending cultural storytelling with business success, but her true passion lies in prose. Currently pursuing her MFA in Creative Writing at Temple University, Joi’ amplifies Black voices and celebrates the African Diaspora through her work. A 2025 Project Completion Grant recipient, she is currently finalizing her manuscript for her debut novel, which centers around themes of identity, community, autonomy, and the power of self-acceptance. In addition, she will join the 2025 ‘Black Philadelphia’ symposium as a panelist, hosted by The Library Company of Philadelphia, 1838 Black Metropolis, and UPenn, where she will discuss reclaiming the narrative of Black women. She is the host of the award-winning Obsidian Collection podcast while maintaining her brand Joi Has Questions , dedicated to sharing Black History. Through storytelling and advocacy, Joi’ continues to celebrate the Black Diaspora in all she does. Learn more about Joi’ on her website iamjoicweathers.com and follow her on social media: @Joihasquestions. Redd Ain’t Never Been Just A Color There was never a woman like Ms. Redd. A goddess who required no finery to prove her divinity, she simply was. In human form, she was a woman of high morals, said, “ Mister ”  and “ Ma’am ”  if you were an elder, and shushed her gals if they were talking too loose. One glare was all it took. “Stop talking all crazy like you don’t see these babies walking by us.” Sure enough, the conversation ceased until they were out of earshot and then they’d cut up again. The only time she faltered in her propriety was if she’d drank too much, for even Gods could not always be perfect. She rarely fought. “Fighting was for heathens,” I had once heard her say. And Redd, by no means, was a heathen.  Every day waking no earlier than Noon she surveyed the land and those whom she lorded over. She had a simple routine for meeting people, standing on the East side of the block across the street from the newspaper stand, lazily taking in her days. I’d sometimes catch glances of her when my mother wasn’t hissing at me to not look at her.  “Hope, turn your head. I don’t want you looking at that naked heifer with her tail hanging all out.”  That only made me want to look more at the impossibility of Ms. Redd containing her curves in a cutoff tee and tight Daisy Duke shorts. Ironically, she never wore the color she was named after. She harnessed its power from the depths of her being. It was amazing to see how she drew attention.  Never one to make the first move, if someone whistled at her, she’d look around as if to say, “Who, me?” Then, without uttering a word, she would return to intensely concentrating on whatever mundane task she was attending to. Even though she and her potential friend knew it was a game, this part of the chase had to be abided by. There was decorum to be upheld. It was to be clear that she was the wanted one, even though she had peeped her John from a mile away. She dangled her innocence before her victims, tricking them, literally, into believing they were in charge when they never truly were. The pursuant would become more enthusiastic, panting, “Come on now, baby. Why you  out here being so mean to me?” “Heyyyyyy suga,” she’d purr. “If you want to speak to me, call me Ms. Redd. I ain’t one of these lil’ hoes out here.” Whether she was talking to a man or woman, they would quickly correct themselves to keep in her good graces, “Well, excuse me, Ms. Redd… say how bout’ we go for a ride?” She would stare for a second, probably to do a temperature check and assess if they could turn into a dangerous situation. She never bothered to ask if they were a cop or not. What for? Some of her best clients were police officers, and at the end of the day, the clientele was the clientele. Once she garnered that they wouldn’t test her prowess with her switchblade, she’d meander up to their car real slow-like.  “Well now if you want to ride with Ms. Redd, then a ride you gon’ get.”  Then they’d be off. When she returned, magically there was not a hair out of place, nor a yank of her skirt that had to be rearranged, and her tomato lipstick was just as bright as it was before. She emerged just as perfect as she’d gone. She wasn’t a heathen, indeed. Ms. Redd represented a wildness I didn’t see within my mother. She represented follow-through. My mom always seemed to apologize for her rage, as if it was attached to failing to be her higher self, and it was exhausting. She came off like a damp rag over a fire, her own fire; she’d light it, then panic at what could happen, so she’d quickly suffocate it before it ever became an untamable blaze. With Ms. Redd, there was an acceptance that she could be as destructive as she was wonderful. Even when she apologized for cursing, it never came out as a plea, it was as simple as one plus one, she was wrong, she was sorry, but that was the end of it. I didn’t know how to express to my mother that I saw she was struggling, that whatever she was trying to keep from me was in plain view, and I wondered if I told her that I saw the unhappiness she tried so hard to shield if I’d be in trouble.  I had a feeling that daughters weren’t supposed to tell their mothers, “I know you’re a fraud.” The only reason I was aware was because I was hiding my sorrow, too. My mother would be my future self if I hid for too long. Ms. Redd wasn’t an everyday experience as she had multiple blocks to claim. So seeing her on Prairie Avenue was a special treat. In her line of work, there was no management to report to, no boss who took a cut like a tax collector. She was her very own Kingmaker. She was like a sharp inhalation when it was thirty below.  In my world women around me molded themselves into the life they’d been given, whether they were good little Christian wives, or if they were yelling down the block after some “No accounting ass nigga, who don’t take care of his kids.”  They all rang the same boring bell. Not Ms. Redd, though. Even on one random summer day when I saw her get arrested for slicing my neighbor’s face for not fairly splitting the cost of their favorite malt liquor, she held her head up high, like she ain’t have a care in the world. I didn’t see her again until Mr. Lee’s peonies were blooming the following summer. She carried on as if time had waited for her, and to an extent it had. No one had customer service like her, so the patrons she had lost due to her jail stint eagerly returned. She’d chide them saying, “So what this I hear about you cheating on Ms. Redd? I have a mind to charge you double, just caz’ you forgot about me. You then hurt my feelings. You know you my favorite.”   Of course, her Johns would swear up and down that they had done no such thing, and how could anyone forget about her? How she was the best, what in the world did she think made them drive so far into this neighborhood other than her? She accepted their worship, their apologies, and their money, and continued with her life. That’s what was so magnetic about Ms. Redd, the fact that you could never bring her down when she already claimed what the mirror showed her. She was a whore like water was wet, yet she made sure everyone knew she was worthy of respect. She found a way to command it and did it in a way that other women could not. I never saw Ms. Redd chase after no man and never saw her fight over the love from either. I never saw her make herself small so a man could feel big. Never saw her make pot roast when she had a taste for ribs, never saw her fish for compliments for the very meal she had conceded her own taste buds for. From the crown of her fanned-out beehive to the crimson-colored toes that matched her nails, Ms. Redd was someone to aspire after. Yet, none of the women of my block did. Partly because some of her Johns were actually their men. Since these women were in no position to lash out at them for their misdeeds, they lashed at Redd, because their accountability had to go somewhere. What was the point of confronting a man you knew you weren’t going to leave to begin with? So they laid their shame at her feet. How could their husbands resist when she paraded around the neighborhood like that? What choice did they have to fight her evil ways? In the blink of an eye, these fully-grown able-bodied men became no more than misguided babes, not willing participants. Yet, none of the women ever dared to confront Redd. They might have cut their eyes at her, but it was always once her back was to them. No woman I knew was that crazy, for she would have cut them to smithereens, literally. When it came to my home, the most I ever heard from my mother was a sharp click of her teeth whenever she saw Ms. Redd, but I attributed her disgust more so because of how short her shorts always were. Nothing in the slightest gave me the inclination that my mother had a personal reason to not like her. Her distaste for Ms. Redd was purely out of feminine solidarity. For all the trouble my parents gave one another, infidelity never was an issue I saw them face, and to be honest it is the one situation I think would have fully consumed my mother to a wildfire. Yet, it never stopped my mother from taking part in the bash fest that sprang forth every time Ms. Redd walked by. Not even pruning her tulips could keep her from listening in. “Y’all heard that fight the other night Tisha was having with her man Ronell?” Ms. Lee  would start.   “How could we not, she was throwing all his clothes off the balcony,” Gloria would  chime in. “Well, you know it’s because of you-know-who.” “When ain’t that heifer breaking up someone’s family.” Then as if on cue they’d all look down at me and gasp as they realized they had said too much in front of me. “Hope go upstairs and refill this water pitcher.” “Mommy, but the hose is right–” “Girl I said go upstairs,” My mom cut me off.  Everyone knew I had to go upstairs to get out of “grown folks’ business,”  but it annoyed me to no end that they spoke so harshly of Ms. Redd. From where I stood, she was nice. She always smiled when she saw me and said, “Hey now” when I told her how many A’s I got on my report card. Her encouragement was no different than anyone else’s, even if it did come with a few fewer articles of clothing. Even though I was only twelve, there was something about Ms. Redd that I wanted to be like. It had nothing to do with attention. My encounter with Jason had killed any desire I had to want to be seen by anyone. It was Redd’s power. It was her ability not to care. I wanted that for myself. I wanted my shoulders to be straight like hers. I didn’t want to walk, I wanted to saunter. Those had been my thoughts as I hung my head over the porch one afternoon. It was too hot to play outside and my parents were elsewhere in our apartment. So, I took one of the rare moments to enjoy our balcony alone. I had watched Redd walk past, my eyes following her all the way to the Judah Brothers grocery store. I imagined she would buy her usual Colt 45 and a new pack of Newports. It was then I settled on the one thing that I could do as an homage to her. The next time I had a hair appointment at Yehia’s, I was going to ask the nail tech Ms. Candice to paint my nails red. I had saved up enough money for one bottle of OPI nail polish, and there was a beauty supply store right next to the salon. I felt settled with my decision, even excited at the prospect that it would shock my parents. I was acting more like Ms. Redd already. A few weeks later as I sat in my beautician’s chair, I put my plan in motion. I had already secured the nail polish as Ms. Francela had allowed me to go next door to buy some butterfly clips I wanted to put in my hair. I added the polish to my purchase and calmly walked back into the salon. I knew my parents had promised we were going to dinner that night, so I figured I would have time to persuade them, should they object to my polish choice. Come hell or high water I was going to look like Ms. Redd if it killed me. Time was on my side that day as the nail tech, Ms. Candice, was able to squeeze me in.  She pressed me for confirmation that it was okay to paint my nails that color, and my voice didn’t falter when I responded, “It’s okay my parents won’t mind.” Her slow and deliberate moments told me she didn’t believe me, but she did it anyway.  When she was done, I looked down at my hands with happiness. There was something on my body for me to love again. I was beside myself. *** “Have you lost your mind?” my parents said in unison once my hands emerged from my lap. Nuzzled in a booth in the restaurant, I faced a firing squad of judgment. “Now you know better than to have that lady put red nail polish on your hands. Who you  out here trying to look like some floozy?” “What even possessed Candice to do it is my question,” my daddy was beside himself.  Well, if I was being honest, I was trying to be like one floozy, in particular. My mom seemed genuinely shocked that she even had to bring this error to my attention. My daddy’s eyes were the size of saucers as if he had caught me kissing a boy behind the shed. Their faces seemed to say,  How do you not just know what this means? But I didn’t know their fears. All I knew was the freedom I felt. I wanted something that reminded me of Ms. Redd, of her mightiness. The way she dared to judge the world right back for having the audacity to outcast her in the first place. For some odd reason, I found myself holding back tears, to envision a swab of acetone-doused cotton balls in my hands, would be killing something else within myself. I had already died the day Jason had stripped me of my innocence. I refused to die again. The car ride home was a quiet one but my rage towards my parents' seeming hypocrisy radiated off me like the sun’s rays. I was too proud to plead with them to let me keep my nails as it went without saying that the polish was gone the minute we got upstairs. They stood over me as I wiped any trace of wildness from my body. I saw them nod as I finished on my very last nail, satisfied that I was once again their perfect and obedient daughter. What they didn’t have was the bottle. In their crusade, it hadn’t even crossed their minds that the nail polish was in my possession. So, from that night, and for more days than I could count afterward, I would paint my right pinky nail, as a reminder of who I could be. Even though I had to wipe off the polish before it set, I would still see remnants in my cuticle bed, and it gave me a trill. No, I never spoke to Ms. Redd on the regular, and more times than not it seemed that she didn’t even know I existed and that was the way it was supposed to be. She was sure of her divinity, whereas I had no clue mine could even exist. Yet, the embers I saw growing from the spot of color on my one nail waited patiently for me to blow on them so that one day I would be a fire that wasn’t too scared to burn. ### 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.

received her MFA in Writing from California College of the Arts and fellowships from Callaloo, the Poetry She has also been featured on Button Poetry’s YouTube platform and has performed at the likes of Spotify Her debut chapbook is forthcoming from Button Poetry in April 2024.

She is the author of the poetry collection, when the signals come home  (Switchback Books), and the chapbook Her work has appeared in Breadcrumbs, Frontier, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, the Southampton Review and She is the winner of the 2017 James Hearst Poetry Prize and the 2020 Gatewood Prize. 1: poet discusses

Her fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and dramatic works are widely published and produced, appearing in Midnight

Heller's writing has appeared in the Georgia Review , BOMB , Modern Poetry in Translation , the Guardian amongst other places, their debut poetry collection, Ar:range:ments is forthcoming with Fonograf Editions

Dr. Yunina Barbour-Payne is a scholar/artist whose interdisciplinary scholarship involves Africana studies, Appalachian studies, folklore, and performance. Her teaching and research areas include Black performance theory, Black theatre and performance, Theatre with and for Youth, Black feminisms, Black Appalachian performance traditions, and Affrilachian (Black artists' experiences in Appalachia) aesthetics. Barbour-Payne is currently a Postdoctoral Fellow and Rising Scholar at the University of Virginia. She earned a Ph.D. in Performance as Public Practice from the University of Texas at Austin where she was a Donald D. Harrington Fellow.  As a scholar/artist, Barbour-Payne has experience as a performer, dramaturg, director, and playwright. Originally from Louisville, Kentucky, she locates the Ensemble Theatre in Houston, Texas as her artistic home, being the first theatre to support her work as an actor on stage, director, and writer of theatre for and with youth. As an actor, some of her favorite roles include Clyde in Ground Floor Theatre’s production of Lynn Nottage’s Clydes , Edna Thomas in Penfold Theatre’s world premiere of  War of the World s , and Sally Mae in the Ensemble Theatre’s production of  Too Heavy for Your Pocket .  In addition to her stage work, Barbour-Payne combines her love of history, art, and performance through her commitment to museum theatre.  In addition to her museum theatre work, she is a dramaturg with Gesel Mason’s Performance Project’s Yes AND ,  a performance project that recenters Black womanhood as the norm and operating force in the creative process. Her life long work merges her artistry and scholarship as the founder of the Affrilachian Memory Plays , an archived-based performance inquiry for celebrating Affrilachian identity in its various creative iterations.  Tobacco Fields CHARACTERS: GIRL #9 “NINE”: An eighteen-year-old Black Kentucky GIRL. Though she has a tomboy demeanor “NINE” has glimmering potential of being fine as Dandelion wine, and everyone knows. She is often disheveled in appearance, yet lively in spirit. GIRL #7 “SEV”: A twenty-one-year-old Black Kentucky young woman. She is gentle and nurturing in her demeanor. She has a great talent for storytelling. MAMA: A Black Kentucky woman in her late thirties. She is visibly with child. She has spent her entire life in the country. She is a talented cook, quilter, and homemaker. BOY #5: A twenty–three–year–old Black Kentucky young man. He has spent his entire life working the land and is exceptional in the fields. He has a roguish demeanor. He is a twin. Scene Various locations on a family tobacco farm in rural Kentucky Time Late August 1967 SCENE 1 SETTING: We are in a shabby, bare country home. The home takes up a very small amount of space. It has only one room, with a rocking chair, a bed, a table for the kitchen and the rest is field. A t RISE: It is nighttime, and GIRL #7 and GIRL #9 are curled in a bed together, giggling. MAMA has fallen asleep in the rocking chair. An older boy sleeps on the floor. It is well past bedtime. The room is small and swells with the excitement from the girls. GIRL #7 is reading GIRL #9 a story from a personal notebook. GIRL #7 (whispering) In the beginning was the Word GIRL #9 And the word was loud GIRL #7: (GIRL #7 shushes and giggles) With a long A…. GIRL #9: Two legs, two arms and a small head GIRL #7: Some high and low points GIRL #9: Low like valleys and high like mountains! BOY #5: (grumbles) GIRL #9: Shhh GIRL #7: (whispering) Long as the Ohio river (she moves to the hallway) GIRL #9: (following) Moving like curvy mountains on a page GIRL #7 With 2 F’s GIRL #9: And 5 A’s GIRL #7: (counting) 5 A’s? GIRL #9: (re-counts) 3 A’s GIRL #7: And the word stuttered GIRL #9: Af-f-f-- GIRL #7: And struggled GIRL #9: Af-f-f r-il -Affril - ach GIRL #7: And stumbled GIRL #9: A-f-r-r-i-l-a-c-h-i-a-? BOY #5: (grumbles, Dreaming) No GIRL #7: And finally stuck GIRL #9: Affrilachia GIRL #7: And the word was GIRL #9: Affrilachia! GIRL #7: And the Word was! GIRL #7 and GRIL #9: Affrila- (They both Scream) MAMA: (off) Girls! (Enter MAMA, in a worn night gown and slippers.) MAMA: (reprimanding) Girls! Now you know you are supposed to be in bed. GIRL#9: It was a snake mama! MAMA: Snake? GIRL #7: Yes ma’am, there on the floor and it’s humongous! MAMA: A humongous snake on the floor? If that isn’t the… (she sees the snake) Oh my… Clyde! (TRANSITION OF TIME) (Later that day in the tobacco fields at sunset. A Tractor is heard. The girls are coming in from the field) (GIRL #7 GIRL #9 enter visibly exhausted) GIRL #9: My eyes burn. GIRL #7: (fixing her hair) It’s alright, here use this, it’ll get better in a week. GIRL #9: A week! I hate the fields. I hate them. I hate them! GIRL #7: Remember the story? (pulling the notebook from her pants.) -Long as the Ohio river (grabbing GIRL #9 in a dance) GIRL #9: Moving like curvy mountains on a page GIRL #7: With 2 F’s GIRL #9: 3 A’s GIRL #7 and GIRL #9: Affrilachia! (They both laugh and stumble to the ground overwhelmed with good feelings.) GIRL #7: Here, come listen. (She reads to her in a big sister performance kind of way.) I call it ‘raised by women … (GIRL #9 looks unimpressed. GIRL #7 puts down her book.) Let’s play a game. I’ll start by saying “I was raised by,” and you finish it. Ready? I was raised by Some high yellow, red bone, red-haired Green eyed Cherokee knowing- (prompting GIRL #9) GIRL #9: cherry eating, tobacco cutting Will rush you off the phone in a heart-beat kind of women GIRL #7: (laughing) Mmmhmm! I was raised by … Some macaroni and cheese making Polk picking GIRL #9: Pimple popping GIRL #7: Bible reading GIRL #9: Church going GIRL #7: (laughs and sings) Choir singing GIRL #9: Ushers .. AND Sunday school teaching GIRL #7: Sister of the preacher seating -“isn’t it funny that they don’t believe in women in the pulpit- (GIRL #9 delights at the truths in her statements) Kind of sisters I was raised by women. (GIRL #7 and GIRL #9 delight together in their story) (beat) GIRL #9: You got your stories, but me I don’t have talents like that. GIRL #7: Sure, you do GIRL #9: Nuh uh- none that I know of. GIRL #7: Have you ever tried writing? GIRL #9: No, hate it. GIRL #7: What don’t you hate? GIRL #9: I dunno, dunno what to write GIRL #7: All you have to do is imagine. GIRL #9: Imagine what? GIRL #7: Anything. Close your eyes. Close them. Now what do you see? GIRL #9: black GIRL #7: not literally… GIRL #9: …..I see… I see….A woman… from the city. GIRL #7: A what? GIRL #9: A city woman. She’s tall, bigger than daddy, and has hair and her skin- like mine. GIRL #7: And what does this fine city woman do? GIRL #9: -Did I say she was big, way bigger than #5 and athletic, and smart. She never misses school and never even seen tobacco-only mountains. GIRL #7: Mountains? GIRL#9: City-woman was born on a mountain top. OH AND She saves people. GIRL #7: Is that right GIRL #9: Mmhmm and she’s a snake killer, she travels the world killing snakes -and she’s comin’ GIRL #7: Comin’ where? GIRL #9: Comin’ here. GIRL #7: Here? GIRL #9: Yep, she’s on her way right now. She’s coming to save me from these fields. GIRL #7: Oh just you! What about me? You gonna leave me here? GIRL #9: (she opens one eye) I’ll ask her to bring you too. GIRL #7: Oh good, just make sure my hair is done first. (Beat) I think you might just have a talent. You’ll be alright. GIRL #9: You sure? MAMA: (off) Sev come in here GIRL #7: I’ll be right back. (She places her notebook down on the ground) (The stage is left empty with GIRL #9. She picks up GIRL #7’s notebook and pen from the ground and begins to write.) GIRL #9: Dear City-woman, (pause) I was raised…… I was raised….. I was raised working in tobacco. I was raised working on 80 acres of farmland in a family of 11. And we work. All 1- 11 of us. We raise chickens, pigs, cattle to sell, milking cows- in tobacco, corn and wheat fields. (She thinks) When it tobacco cutting season- girls not treated like girls in the country. Is it like that where you’re from? A body is just a body— #5: (#5 enters from behind her) What you writing girl? GIRL #9: Nothing. #5: Don’t look like nothing. ( he takes the notebook ) What you doing with Sev’s notebook?- You stole it! I’m going to tell her you stole it. GIRL #9: I didn’t, she let me see it! #5: Did she really? No, she didn’t- I can tell you lying. I’m going to tell her. GIRL #9: I didn’t! #5: What reason I got to believe you? GIRL #9: -please! #5: You don’t want me to tell her? GIRL #9: (GIRL #9 shakes her head no.) #5: What you going to do? What you going to do to make me believe you? GIRL #9: (pause)(She looks around for an answer) --- #5: (laughing) You gonna give me a kiss ain’t you – you gonna give me a kiss right here- (He holds his finger on his cheek.) —then I’ll believe you. (GIRL #9 reluctantly kisses him quickly) (#5 gives the book back to her by pressing the book to her breast. The book slides to the ground as his hand stays pressed. GIRL #9 snatches the book from the ground.) Well then, I guess I believe you. (GIRL #9 nods.) (He exits.) (GIRL #9 watches him leave, anxiously picks up the notebook and opens the notebook back to her page) GIRL #9: Sometimes… (she thinks about telling) Sometimes…(looking at the tobacco around her) Sometimes… #4-9 go working on our neighbor’s farm- picking the ground leaves for tobacco. See with tobacco, the lower leaves ripen and have to be harvested first. I usually do alright. I can stay low to the ground— GIRL #7: What you writing? (GIRL #9 screams) Girl you screaming like you just saw a snake! GIRL #9: I didn’t take it, you left it and I just started looking through it, and writing like you said, but I didn’t take it - swear. GIRL #7: You’re all right, here, you can have it. To distract yourself from the work. GIRL #9: Sev, You sure? GIRL #7: Sure. MAMA: (Hollering, as if she is about to go into labor) Sev— come heh- I need you. (GIRL #7 exits. GIRL #9 works then distracts herself. At first she thinks aloud. GIRL #9 is in the thick of the field. Exhausted from work, she finds a spot, pulls out her notebook from her pants and begins to write.) GIRL #9: You gotta get the ground leaves before they turn brown otherwise that’s money that you loose -that’s what daddy say. So I get low to the ground, and I done invented this technique where I can use my fingers and my teeth. And I hum a song while I’m doing it, so it feels like a game. So I hum and pick, and hum and pick and hum and pick. And I was doing alright til- #5 GIRL shouldn’t be dreaming in the tobacco fields. (He snatches the book.) GIRL #9: I’m not sleeping. #5: Don’t look like that way. I’m going to tell daddy you was sleeping in the fields. GIRL #9: No, I wasn’t #5: (taunting) You was just lying down. (She shushes him.) (He mocks her shushing) You don’t want me to tell him? GIRL #9: (she shakes her head no pleading for the book back.) (GIRL #9 and #5 FREEZE) GIRL #9: GIRL ain’t safe anywhere in the country, ‘specially not in no tobacco field,’ #5 come up on me. And afterward, I was still. I lay out in the tobacco field next to the ground leaves pricking my back and in my hair. I laid there while my mind left my body. I laid there with my hands outreached hoping someone would be there to help me. (Whispering) It doesn’t sound as painful as it is. Hoping someone would place their hand in mine and pull me close. I closed my eyes, thinking on city-woman. She’s coming to rescue me from the tobacco fields. I see my city-woman- all black on, leather gloves, that briefcase and sunglasses. My city woman never goes to the field ‘cept this time when she’s come here to save me. I reach my hand out to my city-woman who is coming to surprise me with flowers in hand. I can hear her talking love to me. Her voice is deep like water wells. I lay there, tears hard on my face and I can feel city-woman’s presence blowing them dry. And she’s humming my song and drying my tears/I even feel heat next to my hand and I know it’s city-woman’s glove. I’ve never felt leather before but I feel it now as the heat from her hand slides in mine. I open my eyes to see city-woman. Instead- #5: You gonna give me a kiss to make sure I don’t tell. Ain’t you? (She goes for his cheek.) Naw Right here – (He kisses her long, too long on the lips. Then drops her book.) Well then, I guess I won’t be telling this time. (#5 exits.) (GIRL #9’s screams) GIRL #7: (runs to her) What is it!? GIRL #9: I seen a Black copper head! it slid in place of city woman’s hand. GIRL #7: What? GIRL #9: When I realized it wasn’t city-woman I jumped, and me and the snake both fly into the air. GIRL #7: You dreaming Nine.. when I said find a distraction I didn’t mean go to sleep. Daddy’s gonna get you. GIRL #9: It’s true! and While I’m flying, I turn my head and see daddy and #5 standing side by side at the end of the field. Both me and the snake hit the ground. And I hear daddy laughing at me. In between laughs he’s scolding me for laying down on the job. He laughed and I laid there. Said he didn’t know who was higher.. me or the snake. #5 was laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach. And I was there, lying in a field of tobacco. GIRL #7: You gotta be smarter next time. (GIRL #7 exits) GIRL #9: Like I said - Nothing good happen in the field. ‘Cept sweat and tears.(beat)I ain’t staying here. I ‘m leaving soon as my city woman come. And when she do -I ain’t coming back…. (She sits, opens the book and continues to write. GIRL #7 is hidden in her own corner of the field revising.) GIRL #7 In the beginning was the word GIRL #9 I was raised by … GIRL #7 Long A GIRL #9 Some multitasking Independent thinking Cooking and Cleaning Feeding the whole family and then some because “You don’t take things for granted’ Kind of women GIRL #7 (said like a curse word) Two F’s GIRL #9 Some snake fighting Field surviving Tobacco pulling Achieve every dream because “You’ll be alright” Kind of women GIRL#7 Three A’s GIRL #9 Some – GIRL #7 AND GIRL #9 Heart county, Country living GIRL#7 And the word stuttered GIRL #9 City Moving GIRL #7 And struggled GIRL #9 Memory of an elephant I’m going write a Story GIRL#7 And stumble GIRL #9 Call you a snake And tell all the family business kind of women GIRL#7 And finally stuck. GIRL #9 I was raised by women. GIRL #7 Affrilachia. (MAMA looks into the fields from the kitchen of her home, with a new baby girl in hand. MAMA, GIRL #7 and GIRL #9 are standing on three sides still and silent.) (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.

blues legacy (Broadside Lotus Press, 2019), Jacquese was the recipient of the 2019 Naomi Long Madgett Poetry