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Born in Jackson, Tennessee, JUSTICE is a rising film director, screenwriter, and producer. After attending film school at Belmont University, JUSTICE began her career in film and television by crewing on various local productions. While gaining insight into the inner workings of the industry, she simultaneously tends to the hunger of telling her own stories.  JUSTICE believes the world lacks perspectives in Black stories rooted in societal abnormality, social commentary, and speculative fiction. Now, on a warpath to introduce planet Earth to the worlds of her imagination, JUSTICE is steadily showcasing her unique and evolving vision, one project at a time. Currently, JUSTICE is in the pre-production phase of her latest film project, The Infomercial — a biting satire that dismantles the "urban renewal" industrial complex. Through this project, she explores the predatory nature of corporate redevelopment and the radical resistance of those who refuse to be erased. Whether it’s through her nonprofit work of supporting Black filmmakers or her immersive film and media campaigns that blur the line between fiction and reality, JUSTICE’s work serves as a cinematic bulwark against cultural erasure. JUSTICE continues to live and work in Nashville, TN, where she is actively building a legacy that ensures Black stories remain—like the communities they depict—unapologetic and "Not For Sale." THE INFOMERCIAL FADE IN INT. DYLAN’S LIVING ROOM - DAY DYLAN (25, Black Male) sits in his living room, monotonously flipping through TV channels like a magazine. TELEVISION Oh Johnny, I love you more than you will ever know… He clicks. TELEVISION (CONT’D) (Male) Survey says!! (bing sound, then audience says:) Aw! He clicks. TELEVISION (CONT’D) (sirens and gunshot blare) They’re gaining on us! Floor it! He clicks. TELEVISION (CONT’D) Is your home in desperate need of renovations? Suddenly, a piece of drywall falls from the ceiling at his bare feet. His eyes wander up to the ceiling, then back to the television. He stays. TELEVISION (CONT’D) Or maybe times are just tough, and the cost of housing is just too much for you to handle? An EVICTION NOTICE sits on a small coffee table nearby. We now see the small TELEVISION that’s displaying an infomercial. As camera dollies into the TV, we leave Dylan and enter the world of “The Infomercial”... the aspect ratio slowly shifts from 16:9 to 4:3. PHILL LEE (50s, White Male) takes the lead from here: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY Phill smiles boldly front of a small, older house. PHILL LEE Whatever the case may be, we’re here to help you … Hi, I’m Phill Lee, and I’m here to tell you about my company, ProjEX, where we take homes like this... The house behind him is nostalgic : a couple flower planters hang by the porch chairs. The window is barred with an A/C unit, and a small bike lies in the slightly overgrown grass. Black people live here... PHILL LEE (CONT’D) And turn them into this... Suddenly, the house and all its surroundings collapse to the ground... it was a backdrop . Phill now stands in front of NEW, MODERN HOME with big, open windows and at least three stories. You know the type... CUT TO: INT. POLITICIAN’S OFFICE - DAY We’re back in 16:9 aspect ratio. A POLITICIAN is sitting at a desk. Phill stands close behind. PHILL LEE (V.O) ProjEX is a state-funded initiative to clean up the unkept neighborhoods of our blossoming city. The politician STAMPS “APPROVED” on a paper and passes it to Phill with a smile. Phill grins back. BACK TO: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - DAY (4:3 Aspect Ratio) Phill walks from in front of the new house and down the street. As he continues, the houses behind him look more like the first house in the backdrop. BLACK KIDS and NEIGHBORS are barbecuing, playing ball & cards -- enjoying life’s simplicity in the background. PHILL LEE Let’s face it... you work hard for your home, you deserve to enjoy living in it. CUT TO: INT. DYLAN’S LIVING ROOM - CONTINUOUS (16:9 Aspect Ratio) Dylan listens intently to Phill. PHILL LEE (V.O) (CONT’D) Plus, the city is growing! You don’t wanna be left behind! Through the window, we see Phill and a CAMERA CREW walk past. BACK TO: EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - CONTINUOUS (4:3 Aspect Ratio) Phill walks into frame and sits on the porch stairs of MIKE INGLEMAN (40s) house. Another UN-GENTRIFIED house. Mike is confused on who Phill is. PHILL LEE We understand... So, here’s what we’ll do: We’ll come in, evaluate the cost of renovation, and we pay for it, full price! Mike’s head snapped to Phill in shock. PHILL LEE (CONT’D) You heard me! Full Price! We bring so much good to the community that the government funds us to serve you! Mike nods, pretty impressed. PHILL LEE (CONT’D) (smiling to camera) Take it away Karen! INT. MIKE’S KITCHEN - DAY KAREN is the voice of the infomercial. We never see her. Mike stands in the kitchen, arguing on the phone. KAREN (V.O) You could call someone to fix it, but that’s expensive! And your landlord may not be prioritizing your needs. Defeated, Mike hangs up his house phone and hangs his head. EXT. MIKE’S ROOF - DAY Mike stands on a ladder, trying to repair his roof. The ladder is wobbling. KAREN (V.O) And although those social media videos are cute, you can’t really “do-it-yourself”, can you? PHILL enters. He looks at the ladder’s placement with a judgmental squint. He "tsks" and straightens the base to be perfectly level—pulling the legs out just enough for Mike to lose his balance. Mike screams as he FALLS off the ladder. Mike lies injured on the ground, slightly rolling amidst the pain. A beat later, A pair of pristine, chocolate-brown loafers waltz in right next to Mike’s head. Phill squats down and lays a piece of paper and a pen on the ground. It’s a CONTRACT. Slowly and still in the grass, Mike rolls over onto his stomach, grabs the pen, and signs the contract. Phill takes the paper and stands to his feet. KAREN (V.O) (CONT’D) So let us do it. The right way. The ProjEX way. With the pen still wedged between his fingers, Mike extends his hand to Phill like a fallen soldier seeking a rescue. Phill reaches back, a savior’s hand descending toward Mike’s palm. But at the last millisecond, Phill’s hand PIVOTS -- not for Mike’s hand, but for the pen. With a practiced flick, Phill nabs the pen, turns, and walks away in one smooth motion. Mike, already leaning his full weight into the anticipated hoist, finds only empty air. Mike face-plants back into the dirt with a muffled THUD. As he hits the ground, we hear his voice: MIKE INGLEMAN (V.O) I’m not gon lie... I was a little scared at first. EXT. NEIGHBORHOOD - MIKE’S TESTIMONIAL - DAY Mike talks to camera, looking off at what is assuming to be the camera crew. He gives the viewers at home a personal testimonial. He’s definitely that overexcited “Unc”. MIKE INGLEMAN I was like, “What’s the catch? What’s the catch?” But... I ain’t found one yet, so sounds like an offer I can’t refuse to me! As he excitedly smiles at camera, two PROJEX WORKERS on the porch THROW Mike’s belongings into the lawn, using no care at all. They’re dressed in full blue or red jumpsuits decorated with spray-painted white stars or stripes. They also have safety glasses and construction masks on. KAREN (PRE-LAP) You betcha it is! EXT. STREET - DAY RAY CEST (70s), Mike’s landlord, also gives his testimonial. He stands in front of what used to be Mike’s house, but is now a construction site. ProjEX Workers are building on-site. Karen continues: KAREN (V.O) Not a homeowner? Not a problem! Landlords love working with us. RAY CEST I love ProjEX! They just take the problem right off of my hands. He grins. KAREN (PRE-LAP) And neighbors love us too! EXT. STREET - DAY JEN TRAFIER gives her testimonial standing in front of her gentrified house. JEN TRAFIER I actually used ProjEX for my home. I loved it. It’s very easy and I’d recommend it for anyone. KAREN (PRE-LAP) But wait, there’s more! A bright blue (PowerPoint) slide takes over the screen with the company’s phone number and information. The infomercial video continues in the top left corner. KAREN (V.O) (CONT’D) If you call right now, we’ll include a free include in-ground pool installation! The video shows a series of shots constructing the house, and placing new belongings and decorations, like Hobby Lobby canvases and pictures of a white family. KAREN (V.O) (CONT’D) That’s right. Call right now at 1-800-615-6455 to schedule your renovation today! That’s 1-800-615-6455. (16:9 Aspect Ratio) As a ProjEX Worker is walking by outside, the kids’ ball rolls over to his feet. He looks over to the kids, who are already running from his glance. A neighbor also pulls out and opens mail from her mailbox…it’s an eviction letter. She sighs and looks to a fellow neighbor at his mailbox, who shakes their head and holds up the same thing. EXT. MIKE’S DRIVEWAY - DAY (4:3 Aspect Ratio) Mike’s house is done -- big, open windows and three stories high just like the one earl. Mike and Phill address the camera together. MIKE INGLEMAN My home looks great. Thanks, ProjEX! Couldn’t have done it without you! He runs away from the camera to the front door of his new home. Phill keeps addressing us at home: PHILL LEE Stop sitting in your old living room and get you a new one. When Mike makes it to the porch, he turns the doorknob, but the door does not open. He jiggles the knob. Nothing. He jiggles it more. MIKE INGLEMAN (still jiggling in the background) Hey... Hey, y’all locked the door. Mike jiggles the knob again. PHILL LEE It’s a renovation so nice, you’ll practically be breaking down your new door. (to Mike) Am I right? (winks to camera) MIKE INGLEMAN (in the background) Aye, man. Y’all ain’t give me no key either. Suddenly, the door to Mike’s house swings open. He turns to find a white family standing in the door frame. MIKE INGLEMAN (CONT’D) (in the background) Mane, who the hell are y’all?! Phill does his best to talk over the quarrel behind him. Phill smiles at camera once more. PHILL LEE Call us today and start living right. We guarantee you’ll love it or you’ll give our money back! Karen? The tension at the door increases. The family is getting scared as Mike yells more. Phill still smiles to camera. The words Karen says roll up the screen. KAREN (V.O) (talking super fast) ProjEX is a registered trademark. For promotional offers, eligibility requirements, terms and conditions, age restrictions, and offer expiration dates, visit our website at www.projEX.com or see store for details. Restrictions may apply. Offer subject to change without notice. Availability varies by location. Not valid with any other offer. Call now for more information. MIKE INGLEMAN (in the background) Whatchu mean this yo’ house. This MY house. I pay the water, utility bill, insurance bill... all the bills for 106 Willington Drive! Proof?! I don’t need no damn proof for my own house. Listen, y’all got 5 seconds to get out my damn door… 1.. 2... 3... 4... Sirens sing in the background. Mike looks back. MIKE INGLEMAN (CONT’D) (running of the porch) Oh shit! PHILL LEE ProjEX, turning hoods into homes. (16:9 Aspect Ratio) The camera crew is still rolling until... CAMERAMAN Annnd cut! Phill taps the cameraman on his shoulder. PHILL LEE Got it? Alright, let’s go. INT. LIVING ROOM - DAY Dylan - still in the same spot - now sits with a lost and overwhelmed look, trying to process what he just watched. Someone knocks aggressively at the front door. Dylan gets up, not in a hurry. INT. FOYER - CONTINUOUS BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! DYLAN Hollon! Dylan quickly pulls a shirt over his head and he goes to open the door. When he does, it’s... PHILL LEE  Hi, I’m Phill Lee and I’m here to tell you about my company, ProjEX. Now, I see that your home here could use a little reno- Dylan slams the door in his face. PHILL LEE (CONT’D) (through the door) I’ll just stick the pamphlet in the door in case you change your mind. The pamphlet pokes through the door frame. Footsteps fade from the porch. Dylan turns to put his back against the door, revealing his “Hood is Home” Tee Shirt , which reads “F***Gentrification”. He walks out of frame releasing a deep breath. FADE OUT ### 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.

Her work has been featured in The Audacity, Ninth Letter, and elsewhere.

Center, Sundress Academy of the Arts, The Watering Hole, and the Stories Matter Foundation, and has been featured

appeared in journals including PREE, The Woolf, Northern New England Review, In Parentheses, Last Stanza Poetry She is the founder of the Poetry Letter Club, a handwritten poetry project devoted to slow correspondence

Jae Broderick is an award-winning lyricist, librettist, composer, and the author of DeConstructing Criticism and Or You Could Just Not. When she isn’t working, Jae can be found practicing her backhand or on a plane to somewhere amazing because, um, “writers need to experience things.” Documenti is excerpted from her forthcoming novel, A Few Good Years. Documenti Puglia. 2025. Zia said it was because of the grapes. That the flies infecting every corner of the città were drawn south by the fertilizer i contadini used to sweeten the soil. Acres and acres of vines laden with fruit were slowly ripening under the Mediterranean sun, too bitter to eat but perfect for wine. The farmers covered the vines to avoid the many enemies that lay waiting to spoil the crop. Rain, wind, rot and pests. But the flies were patient. Persistent. They seemed ambivalent about the grapes and chose instead to cosplay mosquitoes. Hovering, circling, dodging, disappearing just long enough to be forgotten, then reappearing as a barely perceptible touch on bare skin that vanishes long before flailing hands fanned the air where they had been. They did not bite. They only bothered. There was no peace. At the Ministero della Giustizia, where we waited outside the guard’s window, there were no flies. There, in that blessed stillness, Zia was trying to convince the guards to allow me, an American, to visit my Italian cousin in prigione. The guard began shaking her head almost as soon as Zia started. “Mia nipote vive a New York e non…” Shake shake shake…the guard looked towards her colleague. “Per favore, è solo per un’ora…” Shake shake shake…then rapid Italian no amount of duolingo could help me understand. Zia was working hard to get me into prison. Please let her in this prison. Please let her see her family. Per favore. Something about Zia’s pleading made my stomach turn. The irony was too much. When my plane took off from JFK, I’d felt relief in leaving America and her chaos behind. The country was trapped in a death spiral and we all knew it. Some watched mournfully. Others cheered. It was as though the civil war had never ended. Perhaps it had not. I’d envisioned spending the next month bouncing between the Adriatic and the Mediterranean, making side trips to Spain and Switzerland, basking in the glory of Rome and vino vino vino. But instead of escaping a prison, I found myself outside one. Per favore. The guards wanted documenti. I offered my passport but it wasn’t enough. They needed something to prove that Zia and I were family. Such a document did not exist. Zia was an outside baby. My father’s father had an affair with Zia’s teenage mother and promptly discarded her when she fell pregnant. Zia moved to England with her mother, then to Italy on her own. It wasn’t until 40 years later that Zia learned she had a brother. They enjoyed a mostly joyous decade-long reunion until he died suddenly. Between them there had been remembrance and resemblance, but no documenti. I shrugged to let Zia know that it was ok to give up. Her eyes apologized. I smiled my thanks and went outside. The prigione lies mere steps from the seaside. What cruel irony is this? To smell the sea but never feel it. I sit on a bench, close my eyes, and listen to trickling water. Not of the sea but the fountain before me. It is a monument built to commemorate soldiers lost in World War II. Their names etched in stone and remembered for posterity. I felt a sudden anger rising. Where are our monuments? What is posterity without documenti? Where is our proof of life? Opening my passport, I stared at the face it held. Lineage remembered in my mother's nose, my grandmother’s cheekbones, my father's eyes. My great-grandmother was born in St. Mary, Jamaica, just two generations out of slavery. Birth announcements came by word of mouth in conversations between neighbors going to and from the river. My grandmother was born in Oracabessa under a British flag. She remembers waving to European tourists as they passed through on their way to parts of the island she would never see. Her birth certificate says she was born in January, but her mother told her she was born in July, and since she is far more Leo than Capricorn, they chose a day and celebrate her in the summer. Among her generation, few know their real birthdays. My mother was born in Jack’s River eight years before the island gained its independence. In those days, births were registered in government offices a day’s journey away. If a friend of a friend were traveling to the city, they may be so kind as to register your child’s birth for you. And if in the chaotic swirl of buses, trains, dust, and a hot sun, they forgot the name you’d requested, you said thank you and accepted the name that was given. All but one of my grandmother’s six children migrated. They took what documenti they had and spread across the globe like so many before them. Europe, England, Canada, America, but not Africa. Although they came from distinct cultures, they were dismayed to find the world had merged their histories into a tribe called Hue, and that their experiences would differ in accent but not in meaning. There were rules. Assimilate Know your place Love yourself in theory Derive specialness from your isolation Celebrate their goodness Forgive them their silences Marry them Smile at their jokes Glide over subtext Demur Hate your hair Defer Revel in being the only Demote your language Embrace theirs Never forget you’re not protected Last night, as the bells rang out in the square, I had observed with delight the ancient rituals. Nonna and her sisters huddled together nodding and speaking at once, children playing football under a full moon, and old men surveying the scene in a synchronized passeggiata. Zia moved through all of it like a swan. Hips softly swaying, Hermes scarf slung across her shoulders, high heels barely touching the cobblestoned streets, eyes gazing at nothing in particular, her gait an armor designed to protect from the silence that hung in the air after her unanswered buona seras. No one sees how furiously the swan kicks beneath the surface just to keep going. That glide comes with a cost. We who know, know. I was born in a hospital. I am only five generations out of slavery, and my documenti will not save me. Zia emerged from the Ministero della Giustizia, her eyes haunted by what I had not seen. “How is Cousin?” I asked. “She’s depressed. She wants to come home.” Zia said. I’ve been in Italy for a week and I still don’t know what Cousin did. Zia has a way of talking in circles, then changing the subject to food. Works every time. I link my arms with Zia’s and we walk together. Family. A light breeze blows as we head towards the parking lot followed by a halo of flies. ### 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.

Her writing has been published in magazines and journals, including The Deadlands , Poetry Pause , The for Teen Authors, the inaugural African Teen Writers Awards, the HIASFEST Star Prize, and the Wakaso Poetry

Brine  (Amistad-HarperCollins, 2023), which received 5 stars from Roxane Gay, was named among the “Best Poetry Polaris  (a Belladonna chaplet), editor of The Future of Black: Afrofuturism, Black Comics, and Superhero Poetry ; and winner of the Lascaux Prize in Collected Poetry for her first collection Blue Hallelujahs.   She lives in New York but travels widely for poetry. The Reality Show of My Dreams Features Black women lounging on goose down pillows.

Her work has appeared in Poetry , Michigan Quarterly Review , South Carolina Review , berlin lit , The Lincoln Review , Passages North , Commonwealth’s ADDA , the minnesota review , Sho Poetry Journal ,

Jasmine Harris is a multi-genre writer and educational specialist featured in the Hidden Sussex Anthology

Rakaya Fetuga tells stories through prose, poetry, and performance. From the age of 17, Rakaya landed upon London’s poetry scene, and since then, her words have taken her TV & Film Festival (2024) and Royal Holloway University of London (2015 & 2016), as well as winning poetry competitions such as the Roundhouse Poetry Slam (2018), Rakaya’s words spark joy, challenge, and inspire

POETRY BY DEAD MEN A black screen. Muffled noise and music in the background. NADIA (O.S.) Sienna plays dress up in a green dress -- Naomi and Nadia tell Sienna they're pregnant -- Sienna reads poetry

Her poetry explores immigration, language, womanhood, and Black familial structures, blending lyric intensity Her work has appeared in Bloodroot Lit. , Clamantis , and Frontier Poetry , where she was named a finalist