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The Pushcart Prize: Best of the Small Presses series, published every year since 1976, is considered one of the most important publishing projects in American history (Publishers Weekly). Learn more about the prize here. We are thrilled to announce the following Torch nominees: POEMS “after my Bipolar Diagnosis I make several phone calls & everyone says that makes sense” by Kailah Figueroa “To the Girl Who Swears to Love in Line” by Fatihah Quadri Eniola “miracle” by Damilola Omotoyinbo “Am I Beautiful?” by Arianne Elena Payne FICTION “hollow-holo-abdi” by Whitney French "Habanero Peppers" by Venus Alemanji ### 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.

Born on a Friday in December, Fatihah Quadri Eniola is a young Nigerian poet whose work has been featured in The West Trade Review, The Shore Poetry, Agbowo, Brittle Paper, Isele Magazine and elsewhere. She is a nyctophobic gathering experience in Law in the premier University of Ibadan. Follow Fatihah on Instagram. To The Girl Who Swears To Love In Line We have the same skin. Your hair, the color of dormant marigolds. Warsan said our things do not belong to us. Even my names, I left them at the sound of a gun. We spend evening watching the birds deny the sky and this is how we know the sorrow of trees is the desertion of leaves. We spend Eid measuring our breast. You spend Eid telling me of men who asked you out before 18, but Warsan said our men do not belong to us and when I told you to teach me a poem, you brought out a blade instead of a pen. ### 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.

Cindy Elizabeth is a portrait and documentary photographer from Austin, TX with a client list that includes Vogue, Bloomberg, Google, and more. Cindy Elizabeth is a freelance portrait and documentary photographer based in Atlanta, GA. Her work explores concepts of culture, history, and symbolism in everyday life. Elizabeth’s work has been exhibited in Los Angeles at SEASONS LA Gallery, and in Austin at The Elisabet Ney Museum, The Art Galleries at Austin Community College, Martha’s Contemporary Gallery, The George Washington Carver Museum, ICOSA Gallery, and the University of Texas at Austin. Client List: Vogue, Bloomberg, Google, The New York Times, The Guardian, Washington Post, The Wall Street Journal, Texas Tribune, GQ Magazine, Equal Justice Initiative. Follow Cindy online at CindyElizabeth.com. Friends pose for a photo in Austin, TX. April 2017. A couple poses with their dog in Austin, TX. March 2021. Givens Park, February, 2023. Revive the Culture Marching Band perform at the Juneteenth Parade in East Austin, TX on Saturday, June 18th, 2022. Kind Clinic Presents: Freaknik '22. Austin, TX 2022. A slab rider poses with his children in Houston, TX. June 2023. SLAB riders hand out candy in the Juneteenth Parade in East Austin, TX on Saturday, June 18th, 2022. Ray Ray Topaz gets ready for a performance backstage at Swan Dive in Austin, TX on Tuesday, May 30th, 2023. Kamesha Brooks and horse Sophia at Roll N Da Dice Stables in Austin, TX. May 2021. "Juneteenth Cowboy" Dennis Milligan stops for a moment during the annual Juneteenth parade in Austin, TX. June 2021. The Interview This interview was conducted between Jae Nichelle and Cindy Elizabeth in November 2023. First of all, wow. Your work is simply stunning. I feel immediately transported to the room or on the street right along with your subjects. What draws you to documentary photography—capturing real people and real events? Thank you so much for this sweet compliment! What I love the most about documentary photography is the ability to tell stories. Storytelling is a very interesting and impactful form of art and one that I enjoy very much. One of the first ways I remember being actively engaged with art was through storytelling. My mother would read stories to me and share stories about her childhood as a sharecropper in Texas. There are so many stories I have forgotten over the years and I regret not being able to document them before my mother’s death. I believe this is what continues to move me to document the stories of people who I share parts of my identity with. There are a lot of interesting stories to be told that often get overlooked and that inspires me to do that work. These photos are so distinctly Texas and Southern. There are images from a Juneteenth parade, from Freaknik, and specifically of movers and shakers from Central Texas. What are your thoughts on the state of Southern representation in media and art right now? The South has always been a place of change-making and cultural production and influence. As Black southern folks, we are not always given our just do or credited with our creations once they’ve become co-opted by mainstream society. As Andre 3000 said, “The South got somethin’ to say” but are we listening? Can you talk a little bit about your process for selecting which photos feel right to you for a given project? The process can look different for each project but, generally, I like to look for the images that convey the most emotion or information about who a person is. The goal is connection so I select images with that in mind. In the end, what I’m hoping for the viewer is that they connect with the people in the images. In a profile for Sightlines Magazine in 2020, you mention black and white being your preferred color palette. These recent images are incredibly vibrant with color. Has this changed for you? What is your relationship with color these days? Early on, I really came to rely on black-and-white images as a way to isolate the elements that I wanted the viewer to focus on. When documenting people in public spaces, there would often be a lot going on in the background and I felt that just having the tones present in the image helped to block out distractions. I also just really love the look of black and white photography and employing it as a way to give a nod to some of my favorite photographers like Roy DeCarava and Gordon Parks. As time went on, I started employing color in my photographs because I felt like black and white was doing an injustice to some of the communities I was documenting. Color is such an important part of the fabric of the South. In Texas, we are very colorful. Color is part of the way that we choose to step out into the world and represent ourselves, our fashions, our hair, our nails, our cars, etc. It plays a vital role in how we move through the world and choose to represent ourselves. So it’s important that that is reflected in the work and in the representation of Black people in the South. You’ve been part of many amazing exhibitions and have shot for companies like Vogue, Bloomberg, and Google. Are there any specific hopes and dreams you have for your work in the future? What are they? I hope to continue exhibiting work, continue expanding my practice, and exploring new realms of art making, and my number one hope is to publish a photo book. You recently moved from Austin to Atlanta! Have you discovered any favorite spots in Atlanta so far? I haven’t had much time to really explore the city and surrounding areas. My first priority has been to find my new favorite restaurants, bookstores, and my go-to movie theater and comic book store. I’m still exploring and hoping to narrow down my list soon. I had the opportunity to see Janelle Monae perform at the Fox Theater and it was a breathtaking venue. I hope to have a reason to go back soon. What are you doing when you’re not working on photography? I love my Nintendo Switch and I love my cozy games. I also spend a lot of time reading and watching Star Trek with my wife. 8. What are three things you have to keep in your bag or on your person? Ooh, good question! Other than my wallet and phone: 1. Lotion 2. Lip Balm 3. Sunscreen How can people support you right now? People who want to support my work can follow me on Instagram at @cindyelizabethphoto or purchase prints on my website: cindyelizabeth.com. Name another Black woman artist people should follow. One of my many hometown favorites: Blakchy ### 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.

Venus Alemanji is a Cameroonian writer and software engineer currently based in Austin, Tx. She studied Computer Science and Creative Writing at Rice University. Multilingual in spoken word and code, she has always been fascinated by how computers, no matter how complex, ultimately speak in ones or zeros, binary, and humans, no matter how simple, often exist in contradictory, ambiguous states. She writes about queerness, lives whose very existence trouble binaries, the loop of love and grief, and renewal. Habanero Peppers is her first published story. You can connect with her on Instagram. Habanero Peppers As Antoine’s aunt informs him of his father’s death, his eyes water, tongue sags heavy, sweat pores spill from the thought of habanero peppers. If Antoine knew one thing about his father, it was his disdain for the peppers. He disliked heat in general. A hint of paprika created an awkward chew. Jalapenos, he barely touched. Habaneros and above? Whewww, war. When his mom cooked them, his father was nowhere to be found. This disappearance Antoine saw and applauded as an act of resistance. A resistance sweetened further because although the peppers spun his senses dizzy too, being a child, Antoine could not run away as freely as his father. After his aunt drops the call, Antoine sits on his bed naked, ashy, in need of heat. His aunt called shortly after he got out of the shower. Before him lies a floor-length mirror. He examines his face, his father’s really. Mama eh il resemble son pere, he was often told. The eyes and hands observing him were usually tender with wonder. A few times, though, he caught confusing hints of pity and sorrow in them. He’d later find out it was because he was an out-of-wedlock child, the result of an “unholy” union, as such a hollowed, dirtied thing to some Cameroonians. This wasn’t painful so much as astonishing. The hypocrisy of it all. How many of them were even married according to the laws of the Christian world, how many of them had children outside of those marriages, how many of these marriages were skeletons glorified by bored metal? Mama eh il resemble son pere, from the caterpillar brows, nosy eyes, generous lips, moonlit skin, to the swayed walk that suggested sin: him, his father. Even down to those confused toes, damn it. - Tears finally rain loose. Antoine leaps for that thing pain always makes us seek. Thinking about this childhood admiration for his father, he tries to joke, little me would kill writing my dad’s obituary. Listen, my dad was an anti-pepper activist, ok… His resistance taught me to draw boundaries early… Rest in- He stops abruptly. The variables of the joke—death, a little boy, albeit him, and his father—remind him he can’t run away from his pain. A galah flies onto the ledge of Antoine’s window stealing him away, gratefully, from the mirror. The bird used to belong to his neighbor till it escaped. Occasionally it reappears; the subject of many theories in that household. Antoine’s favorite is the explanation of the neighbor’s 12-year-old son—maybe he comes back to say hey I’m good, just checking in, hope there are no hard feelings. The bird has this beautiful rose-colored body, which after its departure, shifts Antoine’s mind to the floor where a skirt of the same color lies. He had planned to wear it today. Where the color is bold, the silhouette is simple, chic, a savvy advertiser might say. In this piece of thrifted cotton lies a portal to a person Antoine had been wanting to meet—the woman in him. Lord, his father would be turning in the morgue if he heard this. - When his father caught him at 15 with another boy’s tongue in his mouth, Antoine convulsed, begging the air to swallow him before his father’s wrath could. After flinging the boy down the stairs, he turned to his son, body shaking, voice steeled, are you the man or the woman? Wow, that question confused Antoine. His father repeated, are you the man or the woman, stepping closer. Man, he instinctively vomited what he thought the weapon before him wanted to hear. Oh my son, so that’s your source of pride? When my friends ask, I will say, ha at least my son doesn’t get fucked in the ass, he is the one fucking. That’s what you gift your father. You are no man. You are an abomination, not even worthy of my violence. This is how his father left him. Never did they exchange words again. - The fourth toe on each of Antoine’s feet climbs over the third, pushing it down, the way the absent father is said to suppress Black men like him. When memories like these suffocate him, he is grateful for the absence, though. For many years, the wish that his father would fly back and say hey how are you, just checking in, hope you’re good, like the rose-colored bird, according to the boy, stung him. As he grew, he came to conclude that his early feelings for the man was a mirage in an emotional desert. In truth, their shared hate of peppers was as close as they’d ever get. Even in the idealized version of his childhood, where he was no excuse for his father’s flight, the man still loved vanishing. This is why big Antoine can not write an obituary for his father. They shared enough time to share a face, not feelings. Silence, not prayer. Politeness, not love. It has been too long to hate his father either. He is stuck: there are no funeral manuals for ambivalence. - Though Antoine does not believe his parents dignify that stupid phrase “opposites attract,” his mother did love habanero peppers. When Antoine helped his mom in the kitchen, she would sway to her favorites—Ben Decca, Angelique Kidjo, Tracy Chapman, and memory, telling him stories about her mother’s famous pepper soup. It made the other children sweaatt, she emphasized, smiling. But I enjoyed it. I was always excited to go to the farm to pick the peppers with my mom. On cue, Antoine would crunch his face. She laughed, Tu es commes les autres enfants. It wasn’t so much the picking of peppers; I enjoyed it cause my mom would tell me many stories during our breaks and when we were finished she would always buy me something special. These peppers, joyous in the kitchen’s imagination, were weapons steps away on the dinner table. When Antoine’s father had crossed too many lines, his mother cooked them to draw hers. And like eucalyptus oil to mosquitoes or garlic to the vampires in her son’s cartoons, they repelled him from the house. - When, on his return home, Antoine sees his mother rubbing habanero peppers on his father’s lifeless clothes, he assumes, then, this bizarre act is one of revenge. He almost smiles because this woman, expected by her world to roll and somersault cause her husband is dead, has some right to seek her own pound of, if not flesh, cloth. Maybe he does too. She performs this new ritual seated on the floor of her bedroom with a dignified stoicism. Tired of watching her through the crevice of her bedroom window, he enters. She turns around startled, but importantly not startled the way a child caught in a bad act, acts. There is no worry in her eye, no lunge to cajole him into keeping some secret. I know you're worried, ‘Ntoine, she says. Your dad was evil. I didn’t love him. You’re a man now, I won’t lie to you. But I cared about him. These habanero peppers...Quand tu mange les habanero, tu recontre ce qui passe. Your eyes water, your tongue sizzles, mucus exits your nose. You release. You heal. Your father never ate these peppers because he didn’t want to release. Control was his only love. Anything that took it away, he ran away from. I don’t know where your father is now. Be it the Jewish man’s hell or our ancestors’ spirit land, he is suffering for his sins. In the absence of his body, we put these habanero peppers on his clothes so he may release. Release all the people whose destinies he ate. So that they too may release all the righteous hate they have for him. Release so that his spirit may someday heal. ### 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.

Ehigbor Okosun is the Austin, TX-based author of the fantasy novel Forged by Blood, a #1 Sunday Times bestselling debut inspired by Nigerian mythology. Ehigbor Okosun or just Ehi, is an Austin-based author who writes speculative fiction, mystery thrillers, and contemporary novels for adult and YA audiences. Raised across four continents, she hopes to do justice to the myths and traditions she grew up steeped in, and to honor her large, multiracial and multiethnic family. No matter the genre, she centers complex, multi-faceted women of the Afro-diaspora in her work, and believes in their inherent joy and worthiness. Her debut novel, a Nigerian mythology epic fantasy, Forged By Blood, debuted from HarperVoyager on August 8, 2023, and has received starred reviews from Publisher's Weekly and Booklist as well as favourable reviews from Library Journal. A graduate of UT Austin with degrees in Plan II Honors, Neurolinguistics, English, Chemistry, and Pre-medical studies, Ehigbor enjoys reading, bullet journalling, baking, Shakespearean theatre, and spending time with her loved ones. Follow her website and on Instagram. Chapter 1: Trust “Please heal him,” the woman says, begging Mummy with tear-filled eyes. “Please.” My mother grunts, but she takes the boy from the woman and sets him on our cot in the corner of the room. This woman will get us killed, I know it. But I waddle over, dragging the calabash behind me, its heavy wooden body leaning against my legs like a cow about to give birth. When I reach the edge of the cot, I open the neck and pour palm wine into the cracked bowl lying next to it. Mummy pulls the boy’s eyelids up and peers at pale irises ringed with red cracks. Then she unbuttons his tunic and examines the network of bulging red veins spread across his pale skin. “Dèmi?” she says. “Okonkwo poisoning. It’s been at least six hours. He won’t last another,” I say. She nods. “Good. How long will the recovery be?” “If he is healed now, then at most a day. But the healer will be exhausted for three.” She smiles, brushing a lock of my tightly coiled hair from my face, brown eyes shining with pride. Then she turns to the woman. “Even if he’s healed, your son might still pay a price in the future. Are you prepared?” The woman’s tearful face morphs so quickly into a mask of disgust that I fear I imagined her tears. She spits on the floor—our floor—before tossing a cloth bag on the ground. Several gold coins roll out, littering the mud like the kwasho bugs that crawl around in summertime. There is at least twenty lira, enough to feed us for two years, even with the extra trade taxes. “Pure gold,” she sneers. “More than you’ve ever seen in your miserable lives. That should be enough. Or do you need more?” I bristle. “Gold will not stop the spirits—” Mummy shoots me a glance and I swallow my words. She straightens her back. We only have the small kerosene lantern to light our hut, but her skin—brown like fresh kola nuts—glows golden in that light. Her braided hair is a crown adorning her heart-shaped face. For a moment, I see her again as she used to be, before she was cast out, a princess of Ifé. “Healing is a balance. Life for life. Your boy ingested a lot of poison. I can only ask the spirits for mercy. What they do is up to them,” she says, giving the woman a frosty look. “You mean—you mean he might still die,” the woman says, her creamy face growing paler. “Mummy is the best healer in all Oyo,” I say proudly. “She won’t let him die.” The woman shrinks from my gaze, busying herself with loose threads on the waistline of her silk dress, arrogance driven away by fear. Turning back to Mummy, I hold out the cracked bowl without a word. I know what she would say, why she didn’t bother responding: just because we don’t understand others doesn’t mean they deserve our ridicule or hatred. Never mind that we’re the only ones required to live by such a rule. Mummy tilts the boy’s head up and pours the palm wine into his mouth. He gurgles feebly but drinks it all. She lays him back down, and I fetch the palm oil and salt from the cupboard. There are only a few drops left in a jar of palm oil that was supposed to last six months. Too many healing rituals. Harmattan season is upon us, and its dry, sandy winds drive children into the forests like a traveling musician draws crowds. The Aziza come during Harmattan, guiding hunters through the thick underbrush, flying from tree to tree. One child they choose will have a wish granted, so even with the prevalence of okonkwo bushes near Aziza tree houses, children flock to them all the same. I would, too, if I didn’t know better. Even the magic of the Aziza cannot call back the dead. Mummy dips a finger in the oil and marks the boy’s face. For softness, to ease his journey in the Spirit Realm. Then she dabs some salt on his tongue. To remind him of the taste of human life. I stretch a hand over his chest, but she shakes her head. “You will wear out. I don’t need half as much rest,” I insist. “It’s too risky. My abilities are known, but yours—” “What’s happening over there?” the woman asks, voice rising to a shriek. “What are you saying?” I realize now that Mummy and I have slipped into our native tongue, Yoruba, a relic of the past kingdom outlawed in public. “She’s preparing for the ritual,” I say quickly in Ceorn, offering the woman an apologetic smile. “She wants to make sure everything goes well.” The woman narrows her eyes. “If anything happens to him, I’ll make sure you rot in meascan prison, where you belong.” I draw in a breath, feeling as though I’ve been slapped. You should be first to die, then, for letting your child fall ill in the first place. I want to scream in her face. The woman spits again. and it takes everything I have to hold myself still. Meascan. Adalu. It’s times like these, when these insults wash over me, that I drown in a well of anger. There are so many words for what we are, words sung over me like a lullaby of curses since my birth. The message is the same: We are not human. We are tainted. Tools to be used and discarded. It never changes, this ugly dance. This woman no doubt came here for the winter festival—perhaps to meet a friend she hadn’t seen in many moons, or even a lover. Wealthy Eingardians like her flock to Oyo like crows settling on a corpse. Celebrations here are cheaper; the people willing to bow when they see a light-skinned face; they are ready to worship, and Eingardians crave worship. When they run into trouble, they look to Mummy and me. They’re willing to pay so dearly for illegal magical help, from curing boils to saving an infected leg. But after, when it’s time for drinking and dancing, they remind us we will never sit at the same table—we are deadwood, cut down for the fire that warms their cold hearts and hateful faces, whittled into the benches they sit on. They beat us, insult us, and expect us to keep serving without complaint. So Mummy and I make bitter leaf pastes for blemishes and pain, draw fever from hot skin, and exhaustion from weary bones. And when the soldiers come, purple-and-gold tunics flecked with traces of dried blood and iron swords like mirrors reflecting our terror, our patrons will be long gone, their needs met. It will be just Mummy and me then, trading coin for the privilege of survival, until the next rush. Gathering the abandoned coins, I shove them at the woman. “Take it.” She backs away. “I’ve already paid. Don’t go back on your word,” she says, but her bottom lip quivers as she speaks, fearing we might do exactly that. Adapted from FORGED BY BLOOD by Ehigbor Okosun, published by Harper Voyager. Copyright © 2023 by Ehigbor Shultz. Reprinted courtesy of HarperCollinsPublishers Forged by Blood THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Jae Nichelle and Ehigbor Okosun on November 17, 2023. The world of Forged By Blood is inspired by Nigerian mythology. The main character, Dèmi, has her own magical abilities and also interacts with the spirits and the land around her. There are so many complexities to creating a fantastical world that simultaneously feels very grounded. How and where did you begin building the world of this story? Demi’s world started with a family that encouraged their young daughter—me--to dream. My family really protected my imagination as best as they could, and I am forever grateful for that. When I write, I often start with character first, and I like to say that the world itself is a character too, one that imposes its will on the other characters and is shaped by those characters in turn. The Kingdom of Ife began with a recurring dream I kept having about Demi, one where I saw a young woman standing before a river staring at me. In the reflection of the water, I saw her image in these fractured pieces, but her fists were clenched so tight, so intensely, that I wondered whether she would let those pieces of herself be swallowed up by the river. Then, she spoke. In short, the story, the magic, the world itself, began with Demi’s voice. In your essay “Myth and Magic, Seen and Unseen,” you wrote “I am real, and the magic of the stories in my heart must be too.” In this essay, you mention telling stories since you were a child. At what point in your life did you begin to call yourself a storyteller? How did you decide that you would write and share these stories—if it even felt like a decision? I come from a long line of storytellers, many of whom were forced to leave one continent for another in search of homes. The people in my family held onto themselves and their ancestral knowledge through stories, tales filled with wonder and delight. But I didn’t think of myself as a storyteller for a long time because I didn’t think my ambitions mattered. I was raised to survive, and to care for those around me. My parents had done the same. My grandparents before them. The generation before that. We’d survived wars, colonization, famine, and poverty on multiple continents. So, my childhood was one were stories were a precious escape, and all the more magical for it. Everyone believed, because I started reading at two, and showed early interest in both the sciences and arts, that I’d be a great medical doctor who wrote as a hobby. Medicine, after all, was a career my parents could understand as traditionally successful—one that would honour the sacrifices that secured me the opportunity for me to even exist. To call myself a storyteller though, to get to a place where I had to decide to do this, I had to believe that I had stories worth telling, that I could consider writing as something other than a hobby. I made that decision at seventeen, when I came home for winter break during my first year at uni. Funnily enough, my dad is the one who opened Pandora’s Box. I was feeling generally frustrated about my uni experience and out of sorts. My dad encouraged me to just sit down and write. He knew it was something I did that helped me recalibrate and dream for a little bit. In those two weeks, I wrote a full length urban gothic fantasy novel centering a young girl who survives a magical event only she can remember. I did nothing but write for fourteen hours a day—I didn’t even eat, much to my mum’s chagrin. It was really from there that I decided I had to try. For the next several years, I kept dancing to the medical track, kept preparing for another career entirely. But the stories, the characters, the voices would not leave me. They clung to me like hungry ghosts desperate to survive. So, I did the craziest thing a twenty something could decide to do and decided to pursue a career in writing, no take backs. Do you have a favorite myth or tradition that you were raised with? What is it? I have several myths and traditions I hold dear, but I’ll share just two small myths from different ends of the family that I think of often. The first is of a tortoise who attends a godly feast and believes that he can cunningly steal a bowl of pottage from the kitchens. When Lion heads his way, Tortoise, shoves all the pottage into his cap and places it on his head. Then he faints, and everyone rushes over trying to figure out how to help him. They can’t figure out how to revive him until Antelope thinks to take off his cap. Naturally, he’s embarrassed when they find out why he fainted. The second is of a woman who leaves the sky to visit earth and sea. When she lands, she takes off her robe and wades into the waters. A passing fisherman takes her robes and hides them. When she returns and is horrified to be without her robe, and thus her ability to fly, he offers to marry her. They go on to have children, but she still longs for the sky, and the wind. The tale either ends in tragedy or comeuppance depending on which end my grandfather felt like choosing on a particular day. What would surprise your younger self about where you are right now? My younger self would be absolutely surprised that we didn’t take the plunge sooner! She would also be proud of me, but she’d also tell me to chin up. She’d say that it’s okay to take breaks, and she’d ask me why I don’t do it more. She’d remind me that the dreams we held for so long are coming true day by day so we should at least slow down enough to savour them. You have so many cool hobbies! Are you currently bullet journaling? What types of spreads do you use on a day to day? I fell out of bullet journalling for a bit while writing so much in the last few months—I have another epic fantasy project on deck and a mystery thriller that is setting people’s tongues on fire (or so I’ve heard). But I’m back at it again now. Bullet journalling is such a meditative experience for me, and I create my own spreads. I have a colour system I made once I started the practice in 2015, and I’ve continued it faithfully to this day. When I get tired of the spreads I’m using, I just make new ones or I draw and give myself permission to be undefined for a bit. If you see a bunch of anatomical hearts with flowers in my journal, this is why. You’re working on the sequel to Forged By Blood. So far, how has that process felt different from writing the first one? Writing the second book has been difficult in part because once you’ve put out the first, once you’ve shared a piece of yourself with the world, you’re hyper aware of what it means to do it again. I was recently discussing this sophomore effect with a friend, a fellow writer who remarked that it feels as though second books are treated as spectres, ghostly lingerers begging to be treated with the excitement and novelty of the first book. You see the same thing in music. Olivia Rodrigo puts out an emotive, powerful first album, Sour, that captures the excitement and disaffection of youth, and we all sit like vultures, taking bets as to whether, GUTS, her sophomore album, will be anywhere as good as the first. Olivia’s vocal prowess and witty lyricism aside, writing Book two was a LOT! But I’m happy to say that the thing that kept me going, that made it possible to finish, was focusing on the shape of my character’s voices and letting that guide the story. Now, no matter how it’s received, I know I did them justice. I told their story with the space I was given. And that’s what matters. You were raised across four continents and now reside in Austin. What are some hidden gems in Austin that you would recommend to visitors? I always recommend the 360 Bridge to people! It holds a really special place in my heart. Let’s just say that the 360 Bridge is a magical place where you climb up a cliff face and see quite a lot of the Colorado river and Austin. The Mansfield Dam is also beautiful and makes you feel as though you’re moored in the middle of an ocean. You can see by now that there’s a trend—I love overlooking vast bodies of water. The Wildflower Center is gorgeous. You can easily spend hours there just looking at flowers and taking in the scenery. Austin also has several greenbelts that are fun to hike in. What songs do you have on repeat these days? In The Heart of Stars by David Campbell August by NIKI Jericho by Iniko Clip by Bolbbalgan4 How can people support you right now? Buy the book! Add the next book to Goodreads. Recommend the book to others. Don’t let people peddle the narrative that our books are just for select people. Our books are for everyone to read. If I could fall in love with Enid Blyton’s stories when she never really wrote characters that resembled me, anyone could fall in love with my diverse fantasy. It’s as simple as that. Name another Black woman writer people should read. Kemi Ashing-Giwa is an Afro-Asian writer making waves in the science fiction universe. Also, you may not know her name yet, but Marve Michael Anson, is an up-and-coming Yoruba writer who will take you on fantastical journeys. Nicky Drayden is always a tried and true recommendation for amazing speculative fiction that will both soothe and terrify you. Desiree S. Evans and Saraciea J. Fennell have a horror anthology called The Black Girl Survives In This One coming out as well. I never get tired of shouting out women across the Afro-Diaspora. ### 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. Help Torch support Black women writers by donating today.

Hannah Olabosibe Eko is a Nigerian-American eldest daughter who never became a lawyer, doctor, or engineer. Like a true rebel, she attended five years of military school and graduated from the US Merchant Marine Academy, during which she completed a thesis on Black ethnomusicology. After serving in the US Coast Guard, she graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing in Fiction from the University of Pittsburgh. Her fiction and nonfiction have been published in Buzzfeed, Bust, b*tch, make/shift, The Los Angeles Press, Pigeon Pages NYC, Fractured Lit, the Dear Black Girl anthology, and Aster(ix) magazines. She is a 2021 California Arts Council Emerging Fellow, a 2019 recipient of the Advancing Black Arts Grant, a Peter R. Taylor Kenyon Fellow, Tin House Scholar, and VONA (Voices Of Our Nations) alum. She is the founder of The Lit Club, an event series and creative community at the intersection of creativity and cannabis, and co-founder alongside Tanya Shirazi-Galvez of Palindrome, a Los Angeles area reading series. Her writing obsessions include girlhood, the African diaspora, Divine Feminine cosmologies, and the surreal. She is currently at work on a coming-of-age novel and seeking representation for her work. Visit her website and follow her on Instagram and Twitter. Strawberry Lake It is a truth diasporically acknowledged, that a single woman of African origin will spontaneously combust if she is not married by the age of thirty. She will be dotting the i’s on her grant proposal in a Koreatown coworking hub. She will be sucking in her Chardonnay belly as she contorts for a selfie in an overcrowded bar. She will be staring into the vacant amber eyes of her designer labradoodle on the Golden Gate Bridge. And then blue flame and blood orange red glare. She will crisp so quickly that no witness can honestly claim smelling burning flesh. She will leave behind a fine mound of grey ash, romantic regret, and two gold fillings. A mother will call her late twenties daughter breathless with updates about the newest girl inferno. This mother stirs a pot generous with oil, red peppers, and thyme, and even though her own husband abandoned her for a dream deferred in Switzerland, she will hold the phone close to her sweaty right ear and she will say see what happens to the lonely ones? She will say this as if her daughter has not already been thinking of her urn. (Magenta pink with iridescent mermaid scales choking the rim. Maybe some polka dots.) Alas, a ho can never be a husband. However much a woman pines for bride prices, kola nut, and matching pajamas at Christmas. Spiteful in their ignorance of even kindergarten concepts of empathy, the hos most women know flutter from one snake plant-adorned studio apartment to the next, resting only to slide the Trojan to the very tip and breathe spearmint lies into the air. You half believe these lies. Unfortunately for you, you are a sucker for promises. And these hos are the descendants of expert polygamists, gifted big men who kept a running arena of feuding co-wives mired in a lifetime vortex of wanting, needing, and hating him simultaneously. They are steeped in the game. You are steeped in being played. You are only one woman but the ho you know makes you feel like five. You repeat robotic affirmations in your toothpaste-flecked mirror (I am worthy of love). You light white candles and buy a $39.99 Narcissistic Recovery course that you never start. You make vague promises to yourself. You will never be one of Those Women From Long Ago, all that African sadness, all that trauma and heartbreak. Your mother has told you tales about the witchcraft conspiracies, the poisoned stews, the boiling female competition. Not you. You read bell hooks and go to therapy. You take yourself on solo vacations to Iceland and Peru. You are so modern that your Mirena IUD is slowly embedding itself into the soft walls of your uterus. Your mother shrugs. Says, that’s just the way it was. Is, you want to correct, is, but a sadistic hope situated at the lower-left corner of your lungs cannot meet the present tense just yet. When your best friend tells you with a straight face that it’s finally happening, you are both the same age of twenty-nine-point-five and the two of you are sitting on massage chairs as pulsing plastic bulbs punch you in the kidneys. You are at a salon called Lucky Nails and she is picking out a gel polish shade for her upcoming trip to Cancun. Her face is bright and newly Botoxed and you are happy for her. You know that your friend’s boyfriend will ask for her hand in marriage on the second night of their Cancun trip. You know this because you helped him book the all-inclusive resort with your Groupon a week ago as he held your naked body against his morning wood and told you he didn’t really want to ask her, but he was thirty-six, and she was a good girl and his mother tolerated her just enough. Basically, he said what all the hos say: Marriage is just a piece of paper. That the two of you could still hang out because you’re good people. You are one woman but he makes you feel like five. You regard your friend’s desperate brown eyes which believe happily-evers become real if a girl whittles her body fat to 26% and swallows. You cannot fault her. You are her. She asks you, what color should I pick? There are bonfires dancing in the black of her pupils, the vibrancy so decadent you glance away before you fall in love. The massage chair kneads your lower back so hard your spine lurches into a backwards-C. You wonder between a color called Rocky Rose and another named Barbie Maul and when the fire will come for you. Will you be pinching dark avocados at the farmer’s market? Rolling a joint on the passenger side of your little sister’s Honda Accord? Squeezing out his come on a cold toilet seat when he’s back a week later from Mexico with a black man tan? You insert charm into your voice, tell her to pick Strawberry Lake, a pink so soft it ruins your heart. This morning your head was in his lap before he packed the princess cut ring into his rollaway bag. You told him to ask for her hand while he was wearing his green polo and he smiled. What a sure-to-be-viral Instagram post for her AKA sisters: her elegant fingers awash in a pale pink strawberry lake, shaped like mini coffins, clutching the barely-there sunburn of his upper arm. ### 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.

Rahma O. Jimoh (she/her) is from Ogun state, Nigeria. She was a winner of the Poetry Translation, Lagos-London competition ‘22 and a runner-up in the Abubakar Gimba short story prize ‘21. A fellow in the Undertow Writing workshop, she has been published or has works forthcoming in Salt Hill Journal, Ake Review, Parentheses Art, Agbowo, Tinderbox Poetry, Lucent Dreaming, Feral, Isele Magazine, Tab Journal & others. She was a mentor in the 2023 SpringNg writing fellowship, she edits poetry at Olumo Review and is a prose reader at Chestnut Review. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter. Hysteria for aunt S who wears her clothes inside out. she laughs longer than necessary because laughter knows the length and breadth of her void, the square root of her pain—a hysterical cloud burst, wild as madness. her cheekbones are high, curved from burying her twins. it takes over her. goes through her womb. over her mind, engulfs everything she lived for. her laughter is a facade. deceiving. burying everything that cannot be planted. the drugs won't work to shift her mind back. the prayers have not delivered her mind to its rightful space. what can prayers do to a mind ridden with grief? what miracle can prayers orchestrate to a mind that has run out of believing? only the sight of a baby is an amen to her healing—returns her for a fleeting second. her mouth breaks into hysteria again. she sees her twins in every baby. but not long enough. not long enough to shift her mind back to its rightful box. a baby wails, it breaks my aunt. it breaks her mind. breaks her legs into a splint. she shovels the earth as if to dig out her sanity; to dig out her grief; to dig out what was long gone; to dig out the leftovers of their memories— ### 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. Help Torch by donating today.

C.Jean Blain is an international educator, a writer, a performer and, above all, she is a storyteller. She holds a Master's in Public Administration with a concentration in Comparative Political Systems. Her work is mostly shaped by the stories and legacies that she has witnessed and those she has inherited. She uses her experience, passion, and creativity to build bridges between what is occurring in our global society and its relevance to our communities and personal reality. She has received residencies and fellowships from Hedgebrook, VONA Voices, DreamYard, and The Watering Hole. Her work can be found in A Gathering of Tribes Magazine, Mer Vox, Burrows Press, Gumbo Magazine, and elsewhere. Follow her on Instagram. My Mothers' Echo I am. I was. I be. I am, I was, I be. I am I was I be. My mother speaks of ghosts as if they have never left her. She talks of my grandmother in present tense and sits before blood orange sunsets to tell me of the memories we shared before I was born. My mother is 96 years old, and I do not correct her anymore. Time will not wait until we have made peace with the past to move on, so I have decided I will be whomever she remembers as long as she remembers me. I was born between miscarriages. I am the only daughter of an only daughter; the last surviving of a last survivor. We both know I am here because all the women in our bloodline willed it. They hoped I would be redemption for all that we had lost. I have always known the debt my life paid just as I will always know the debt my life carries. I am still here because the weight and thickness of love is too heavy to put down even on the days it crushes me. I am. I was. I be. I am, I was, I be. I am I was I be. Every woman conceives her own freedom and gives birth to her evolution. They say daughters are echoes until they have their own children; only vibrations of all that came before them until they give birth to a response. Until they add another voice to the world, they do not truly own their own. I do not know motherhood like the women who came before me. Once, I found out I was pregnant on the day I miscarried. The moment I learned I held our future it soon became our past but I still am forever. This body be Atlantic, ancient and new, ocean and cemetery, memory and possibility and while I do not know motherhood like the women who became before me, I be their echo. ### Torch Literary Arts is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. TORCH has featured work by Colleen J. McElroy, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help Torch continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Ariana Brown is a queer Black Mexican American poet based in Houston, TX. She is the author of We Are Owed. and Sana Sana. She is a national poetry slam champion. Ariana Brown is a queer Black Mexican American poet from the Southside of San Antonio, Texas, now based in Houston, Texas. She is the author of the poetry collections We Are Owed. (Grieveland, 2021) and Sana Sana (Game Over Books, 2020). Ariana's work investigates queer Black personhood in Mexican American spaces, Black relationality and girlhood, loneliness, and care. Her debut poetry EP, LET US BE ENOUGH, is available on Bandcamp. She holds a B.A. in African Diaspora Studies and Mexican American Studies from UT Austin, an M.F.A. in Poetry from the University of Pittsburgh, and an M.S. in Library and Information Science from the University of North Texas. Ariana is a 2014 national collegiate poetry slam champion and owes much of her practice to Black performance communities led by Black women poets from the South. She has been writing, performing, and teaching poetry for over ten years. Visit Ariana's website and follow her on Twitter and Instagram. the women (in this house) insult you before you can speak. humble you before the world does. do your hair, & your cousin’s hair, & complain the whole time. the women say things like, “don’t buy something if you don’t love it,” “never let a man put his hands on you,” “stop feeling sorry for yourself.” they never tell you the stories about their mistakes, only bark commandments for you to obey. the women eat every part of the animal, drink milk past its expiration. in this house, nothing goes to waste. you once asked your mom to tell you about the men who died with your father. she agreed, & then said nothing about it. you found her shaking in a corner of her room. you learned to cry in the shower. the women trust men with their gut or they don’t trust them at all. your uncle sits at thanksgiving & lets his dog slurp beer from the can. he did not raise his daughters. you know what the girls like to read. he gave them up for adoption. the women like to be thought of as strong. granny threw all of your cousin’s things on the floor before her mother’s funeral. you came home from the third grade to find your mom scraping popcorn off the ceiling, peeling panels from the walls, trying to find the root of sorrow. we talk about what’s on tv, how to season chicken, where to buy good quality shoes. we scrub the kitchen sink, make everything smell like lemon and bleach. we get grey hairs at eighteen. Why did I become a poet? After Hilda Hilst I couldn’t imagine my life without it. I wanted to learn words, backwards and forward. I wanted to wrap them around each other and see them in the air before me, to stretch them until they burst so I could locate the truth. I became a poet because under fluorescent lights between classes on the humid bus at the family party in the too tight jeans at the grocery store in the summer rain at my grandpa’s funeral under the pecan tree after the plane crash I needed language more than air. I needed a way to name the mess of me. A poet is staring back at me even when I don’t want to see her. I leave myself for months at a time and return each time astonished there is something to come back to. A poet is not supposed to forget words but I do sometimes. I leave “dear” and “beloved” on a stack of oranges at the grocery store. Exhale “my love” into rush hour traffic. The name of the last person I loved with intent I beg whoever is listening to take from me. I want to lose more than words, more words, more than words can convey. The new big feelings tell me words don’t matter—here’s a memory instead. Deal with it. Do words help? I don’t know anymore. All I have left is my vocabulary and a good memory. Can I be loved this way? THE INTERVIEW This interview was conducted between Jae Nichelle and Ariana Brown on October 12, 2023. It seems fitting to start this interview with the poem “Why did I become a poet?” This poem wrestles with ideas of what a poet is “supposed” to do. And by the end, the poem reveals uncertainty about how much words actually help. In your view, what responsibilities do poets have beyond words? Thank you for noticing that. I used to be really drawn to declarative poems, in which the author is extremely sure of what they’re saying. As I get older, though, I find myself more drawn to poets who are willing to admit they don’t have the answers, that the universe is getting the better of us all the time, and we must be humble as we sort through the mess of it. If not, the universe will certainly humble you. I think poets have a responsibility for what our words do. Too many of us take our words for granted. We have a responsibility to research, to ensure that what we are sending out into the world does not cause harm, that our opinions are informed; it does not matter if we can write a beautiful poem if the argument we are making in the poem falls short. Too many of us are talking too much and not reading, listening, being present enough. My mentor Ebony Stewart says “I’m the same person offstage that I am onstage” and I think about that a lot. Too many poets think that writing a poem is sufficient activism. I could talk forever about that, but I’ll stop there. In “the women (in this house),” there’s the line “the women like to be thought of as strong.” That phrasing made me pause while reading since it brings up strength as a sort of performance instead of the characteristic it’s typically portrayed as. What does “being strong” mean to you these days? Yes. I am a very literal person, which explains my aversion to hyperbole. I want people to be precise in what they are saying. I’m also impatient, so there’s that. I used to think being a martyr was romantic, but now I think of strength only in physical terms. I don’t know what it is to be emotionally strong. I am not sure if that exists. I know how to be present, how to be careful, how to be loving, how to be a good teacher. But most of the people I know who are proud of calling themselves strong need the world to stop making them feel the need to do so. On Instagram, you regularly share writing prompts to inspire others. What is your process for coming up with these prompts; and do you write to them yourself? This is funny—it’s quite natural for me. I spend a lot of time reading. I am obsessive in that way. When I encounter a poem or passage that moves me, I work backwards in my mind to determine what set of prompts and exercises could have produced the text in front of me. I consider both topic and form. And if I can come up with a clear set of instructions on how to write the piece in front of me, I know I can teach it. The prompts I share on Instagram are really open-ended, much different than the detailed ones I teach in my online writing classes. But I have loved teaching writing for almost as long as I have loved writing. As much as I recognize the limitations of poetry, I do think it’s a magical, spiritual thing we do, and I’m always thankful to invite people to experience that feeling. I really admire your focus on helping writers create “sustainable and fulfilling writing practices.” Have there been specific moments where you realized that your practice was not sustainable or not fulfilling? How did you get out of them? Thank you, and yes. I went through a traumatic break-up and series of familial losses during the shelter-in-place stage of the pandemic and I could not write anything that felt worth the pain it took to create. I had always written about my life, but I was so unwell, it wasn’t cathartic to write about myself then. It was further mutilation. I had to accept that poetry could not be my coping mechanism, and that was devastating. I am an introvert and neurodivergent, and most of my hobbies and interests involve thinking. What I have learned since that period in my life is that I need to do more things that involve feeling present in my body. I can’t tell you how much going on walks and going bike riding with my friends has helped. And breaks. I took lots of long breaks from writing. And I started teaching again. When you can’t produce, you have to teach. That’s what I learned. Or I guess, what I remembered. I’m not supposed to produce all the time. I was supposed to learn to accept that I will go through cycles and seasons with my writing, and sometimes it will be my turn to write, and sometimes it will be my turn to listen, and sometimes it will be my turn to teach. I’ve been teaching my friends’ poems and watching my students get excited about them, which makes me feel excited and more connected to the people I love. And that’s all I was ever trying to do with my poems anyway: feel connected to people, and especially the people I love. You moved back to Texas, where you grew up, relatively recently. What did you miss about Texas while you were gone? H-E-B. As the kids say, the girls that get it, get it. You’re on a road trip and someone hands you the aux cord. What music are you playing? Am I trying to impress the other people in the car or jam out by myself? LOL. I overthink everything. Oof, it depends who’s in the car with me. Usher or John Legend (the first album only) are my go-to’s, but if I really wanna get the crowd hype, it’s something from Kanye’s first three albums. (I’m laughing as I type this, but it’s true!) What has been bringing you joy lately? My students. I started teaching creative writing at a performing arts high school here in Houston recently and I absolutely love it. I haven’t worked with youth writers in almost a decade, but I missed it so much. Teaching youth poets was foundational to my writing practice. It taught me that relationships and good care matter more than beautiful words. My high school students are brilliant and the funniest people I’ve ever met. They surprise me all the time. They remind me to be less afraid. How can people support you? Buy my poetry books and request that your local library buy them, too. We Are Owed., the most important thing I ever wrote, will be going out of print at the end of next year. Help me circulate the book and ensure it reaches people. Teach my poems: I created free downloadable lesson plans for my poems that are available on my website, arianabrown.com. Take a writing class with me. I teach them seasonally and advertise them on my social media and website. And if you know a literary agent, please connect them with me. I love writing, but if I can’t figure out a way to make my writing life sustainable, I don’t know how much longer I will try to publish my work. Name another Black woman writer people should follow. I’ll name five: Sasha Banks, Jacqui Germain, Claudia Wilson, Janae Johnson, and drea brown. ### Torch Literary Arts is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. TORCH has featured work by Colleen J. McElroy, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Outside of selecting writings for Torch's weekly "Friday Feature," Louisiana native Jae Nichelle is an author and accolade-worthy poet whose writings spark conversations about community, queer identity, and embodying Southern roots. Submitting to Torch can be daunting, but Jae has some advice for you from both a writer's and editor's perspective. Get to know about her books, what she's reading, and tips for Torch Features with our Q&A. Can you describe your poetry books God Themselves and The Porch (As Sanctuary)? Of course! God Themselves is my debut full-length poetry collection that was published in March. It’s full of queer, Black, southern girl vibes and a lot of self exploration and deconstructing the narratives I grew up accepting as the truth. Publishing it felt so surreal (and terrifying), but I love it so much. And I am obsessed with the cover art by the artist Izz Akkosia. The Porch (As Sanctuary) is my chapbook published by YesYes Books in 2019 after I was a finalist for their chapbook prize. Looking back on it, it feels a little more like a personal and family history than God Themselves, and is firmly rooted in Louisiana specifically—and the relevant porches I’ve found myself on. What are you personally reading right now/ What is your favorite book? I pretty much have three or more books on my bedside table that I’ve just finished, am working through, or am planning to start at any given time. At the moment, those books include: Threesome in the Last Toyota Celica & other circus tricks by m. mick powell. (Finished it. Obsessed with it.) We Deserve Monuments by Jas Hammonds. (Finished it. Definitely cried.) Undrowned by Alexis Pauline Gumbs. (Very excited to start this one.) As for favorites, that list is very long. But my favorite book of all time is Their Eyes Were Watching God. What hobby or fun things have you been doing lately? Every so often I get an idea for an embroidery project, and I always have so much fun completing those. So many things I do involve various screens, so it’s a nice break. What advice would you give writers submitting to Torch? Other than what are you waiting for? I would say definitely go through our features and get a sense of the types of work we’ve published already. Send us something you’re in love with. Something you put love into. Personally, I like to see work from Black women writers that draws me in from the very first sentence or line. I want to be captivated from the beginning to the end. And when a piece of writing pushes boundaries in terms of genre or form or subject? Ooh. It’s a yes from me. I also suggest reading our submission guidelines before you submit. There’s nothing too wild in there, but make sure you know the guidelines for your genre so you can format the submission accordingly. And lastly, don’t be afraid to submit again once you hear back from us. Revise that piece and try again or send something new! We want to see it. What is one of your favorite literary platforms or organizations? Other than Torch, obviously… I really appreciate the work of Hurston/Wright Foundation and I really enjoyed the Summer workshop I was part of this past July. What styles of writing do you prefer? I like to think I have a pretty wide taste. I’ve personally mostly published poetry, so many people don’t know that I also write and am immersed in the worlds of fiction, nonfiction, and screenwriting. I just love stories. As I mentioned before, I do like writing that feels surprising and innovative in some way. I also like rhythm. Across any genre, I love when a piece of writing moves me to snap my fingers. About Torch Torch Literary Arts is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. TORCH has featured work by Colleen J. McElroy, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Help TORCH continue to publish and promote Black women writers by donating today.

Jasmine R. Butler is a black queer southern writer, political educator, organizer, and afrofuturist abolitionist, amongst other things. They’re a lover of black art and black resistance and is growing as a movement educator and historian. Their political writing has been featured in multiple nonprofit blogs and on HoodCommunist, and their fiction has appeared on Inherited Podcast, Ebony Tomatoes Collective, and Torch Literary Arts. Jasmine is also an Outreach Editor at Apogee Journal where they publish incarcerated writers. Follow them on their website and on Instagram. Stained Glass Fawn was always obsessed with windows. She couldn’t remember a time when she didn’t marvel at them everywhere she went. The first time she ever saw a stained glass window she was no more than six, still low to the ground on squat legs, making the floor-to-ceiling masterpiece inside her grandma’s church feel all the more massive. Her jaw hung open as she craned her neck up and back to take in the glory before her. Her grandma, having noticed the girl’s mesmerized stare, commented that the window before them was a relic of the church’s original structure built back in 1899. Mouth still agape, she stepped forward and pressed her small chestnut hands to the ruby panel, followed by her forehead and nose, sure that this piece of art couldn’t be a window. A gasp escaped from her parted lips as she confirmed her grandma's tale - through the jewel-toned glass lay the church's backyard decorated with grand magnolias, well-trimmed berry bushes, and a lush herb garden. The familiar wonder of peering through a portal washed over Fawn. Her favorite thing about windows was that they revealed other worlds if you just looked hard enough. As she leaned forward and back, refracting her view of the scene via different angles, her imagination ran wild with possibilities. She imagined the church was actually in a deep sea submarine, and that the opaque windows cast watery reflections onto the floor. Then the scene changed and she instead peered out into the desert, the previously lush trees now bare and brittle, worlds away from this side of the window. She giggled, amazed at how vividly her mind could transform the outside into an otherworldly scene as though the red and green and purple hues of the stained glass formed some sort of magical portal. Her mind shot off with possibilities of where she’d like to transport to next. Suddenly, her vision changed and through the red glass, Fawn saw that the mighty magnolias were ablaze. She gasped at the unwarranted assault on her private imagination and tried to blink away the intrusive image. When she opened her eyes, the flames had only grown rather than disappear back into her mind. She tried to jump back from the window but her fingertips remained glued to the glass and were rapidly warming to an uncomfortable temperature, sending slight waves of pain down her small arms. She tried then to scream, hoping to gain her Grandma’s attention and alert her to the blaze roaring behind the church, but no sound escaped her throat. Her eyes widened in horror as her efforts disappeared before they could be made sonic, real. The gigantic windows were clouding over with smoke, making it impossible to see out but confirming her creeping fear that the church was surrounded by flames. Fawn recoiled in panic, trying to disjoin her fingertips from the rapidly heating glass, but found it impossible to free herself. She finally looked up, expecting to see her grandma’s face frowning in distaste at what Fawn’s imagination had conjured up around the house of worship. Instead, Fawn found a burning pyre where her grandmother once stood. A cloudy tear and a mangled sob escaped her as she found herself immobilized, surrounded by flames, alone, and not sure how any of this happened. She tried to think back to what her grandma had been saying about the past fires at the church, but her memory was hazy. She knew from listening to her mom and grandma before that her father and grandfather had perished in flames here, 40 years apart in 2 separate fire bombings on the sacred gathering space as a threat to those who dared find community there. Neither of their bodies were ever found, and they were assumed to have completely succumbed to the flames. But the only detail Fawn’s mind could recall amid her current panic was that the stained glass fixture she was adhered to had withstood both disasters. The soles of her father and grandfather’s identical steel toe work boots were found at the foot of the glorious window, in nearly identical positions 40 years apart. Now, she feared the same fate awaited her. As the flames grew around her and the smoke made it impossible to see, Fawn closed her eyes in surrender and prayer. She squeezed close to the window, pressing her cheek to the glass alongside her molten fingertips. She prayed harder than she ever had, to her grandma’s God and to all the others she’d learned about in school. She sent solemn pleas for her life to be spared up to any benevolent presence that would listen. Then, slowly, her fingertips began penetrating the glass. They passed through as if the jeweled window wasn’t over an inch thick and solid. Next her cheek, wrists, and arms slid through the pane. Within moments Fawn had completely passed through the burning portal to the outdoors and fell to her knees on the other side. When she finally peeled her eyes open, she immediately noticed that the grass below her was green and not the sooty black she expected. Taking a deep breath, noticeably free of smoke, she slowly willed her eyes upward. Nothing. No flames, no smoke or darkness. It was all just her imagination, of course. She’d daydreamed harder than ever before and convinced herself what she had been seeing was real. She looked down at her fingertips and her little heart skipped a beat when saw them raw and red, the outermost layer of skin completely melted away along with her fingerprints. Her stomach dropped at the realization that the fire had been real - or at least, her burns were real. Moments passed as she gathered herself, attempting to piece together reality but failing to reconcile the pieces. After a while, she turned around to face the window. There it was, right where she left it, unscathed from the flames that seemed to consume the air on either side just moments ago. Only now the window stood alone, towering over a grassy hill in solitude, casting a lone shadow under the blaring sun. The church was gone. The window still towered, rising as if it grew straight from the dirt up to 15 feet in the air, but it stood alone. Her grandmother was gone. The lot that held the church was gone, but the hill looked otherwise normal - wildflowers and weeds had grown in the acreage that should’ve held the church’s aged bricks. -- Fawn is still obsessed with windows. For the last 10 years, she’s peered through every window she’s found, in search of a portal back to her time. She figures one day, after she finds her Dad and Grandpa, together they’ll find their way back to the prettiest window of them all. May Grandma’s church’s undying stained glass survive a little bit longer on the other side so that they may one day return 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. TORCH has featured work by Toi Derricotte, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate today to support Black women writers.

Zaynab Iliyasu Bobi, Frontier I, is a Nigerian-Hausa poet, digital artist, and photographer from Bobi. She is an undergraduate student of Medical Laboratory Science at Usmanu Danfodiyo University Sokoto, winner of the inaugural Akachi Chukwuemeka Prize for Literature '23 and Gimba Suleiman Hassan Gimba ESQ Poetry Prize '22, a Pushcart Nominee and Best of The Net Nominee. Her works can be found in Strange Horizons, Fiyah Literary Magazine, Agbowo, Arc Poetry Magazine, Ake Review, Native Skin, The Drift, Lucent Dreaming, 20.35 Africa, Trampset, and elsewhere. Follow her on Twitter. A SPEECH ON HOW TO KNOT A HAUSA TONGUE Standing on the fodium, frefaring to give a speech on how to fasten a tongue, I make my C hold its reflection on every P-word that four out of my mouth to stof me from fronounzing words like fretty, feofle, fray, fain wrongly and at the tif where my tongue is a measure of how much English it can hold without breaking, slightly tight to form a bridge between my voice and the mic, I ended the speech saying, flease, learn to ferfect your fronounzations. Thank you. ### Torch Literary Arts is a 501(c)3 nonprofit established to publish and promote creative writing by Black women. We publish contemporary writing by experienced and emerging writers alike. TORCH has featured work by Toi Derricotte, Tayari Jones, Sharon Bridgforth, Crystal Wilkinson, Patricia Smith, Natasha Trethewey, Elizabeth Alexander, and others. Programs include the Wildfire Reading Series, writing workshops, and retreats. Donate today to support Black women writers.