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 most recent feature screenplay, When Willows Weep, explores the intersection of racial and environmental When Willows Weep This writing sample is excerpted scenes of the feature.

Nora Hylton is a Jamaican American writer from San Francisco, California. She holds a B.A. in English Literature from Yale University and is the recipient of the Charles P. Howland Fellowship for her writing. Her fiction explores themes of young adulthood, focusing on experiences of love, loss, and grief in urban Black and West Indian communities. The Path of Least Resistance The bodies at the party were hot and timid; barely concealed desire quivered between them like gelatin. I couldn’t make out faces in the dark, but I looked anyway. Some swayed in circles, their feet moving independently from their bodies as if the room was melding into a swirl of colors and lights. Others looked nervously at everyone else and took small sips from their own cup. It was reassuring that no one wanted to seem as if they were having too much, or too little fun. It was everyone, not just me, who was pretending, molding themselves like stiff clay into the person they wanted to appear to be. Letty saw James first, sitting on the couch against the opposite wall with his long legs crossed at the ankles. “There’s your boy.” Letty pointed, and I grabbed her hand down. My stomach felt as though it was collapsing in on itself, and I fought to keep my breathing regular. A lanky girl wearing a red halter top got up and switched the radio station. The beat became jumpy, embellished with metallic synths and a loud thumping bassline. Letty pushed me up from the couch, and as if controlled by a remote, I was walking over. “I’m Abigail,” I said once I was standing in front of him. I tucked a loose curl behind my ear and tried to smile without my bottom teeth, the way Letty and I had practiced. Up close, James was just as beautiful as from far away. His eyebrows were thick, and I felt an urge to run a finger against the grain of the hair and smooth it back down. “We took AP Literature together.” “Abigail. From AP Lit. Sorry, I don’t remember.” “That’s fine.” “Do you smoke?” He gestured to a pair of French doors which led out to a dark backyard. “Not usually.” I shrugged. My heart felt like it was beating triple time in my throat. “But, yeah. Let’s go.” The first week of senior year, Letty and I decided we would become the best versions of ourselves. Letty was closer than I was. She was already detached and cool. She had lived in Southern California with her mother until seventh grade and had a certain kind of nonchalance which couldn’t be faked. She could make light-hearted jokes about her C-minus papers and sent pictures of her naked chest to boys from Mill Valley, kissing them without shame in the back of their mother’s minivans. The first time I saw James, I was struck that I had never seen anyone like him before. He joined our class after our sophomore year summer—his father was a neurosurgeon who had been relocated to UCSF from a smaller hospital in New Hampshire. James was attractive—not like those billboards on Market Street where men were draped sensually over women in a way that made you want to buy the perfume they were wearing. He didn’t look like a model—the bump in his nose was too pronounced, and his cheeks were peppered with the beginnings of stubble and pockmarked by old acne scars. He was thin, but it wasn’t a curated thinness. It was a lankiness, the length of his limbs emphasized by the way he sat, one leg slung over the other, so casual you had to look away. He was the type of person who only existed in the far reaches of the northeast—I imagined he’d spent his summers at his grandparents’ eclectic country home where they picked blackberries and talked about electoral politics over dinner. I’d never wanted someone, or something, so much. He wore his pants too short, and his exposed ankle—just bigger than my wrist—made me aware of the burn in my thighs as they rubbed against my jeans. The best version of myself went to parties thrown by girls she didn’t know. She laughed hard at jokes and woke up early to straighten her hair. She kissed boys because she could and didn’t feel weird about it the next morning. Outside there was still a chill in the air—June was just barely awake, and the city didn’t get really warm until late August. James bent over me and put his rusty silver lighter to the end of the joint held delicately between my fingers. “To your mouth. Bring it to your mouth and suck in.” The lighter ignited with a click, illuminating both of our faces. I could see colors in the flames, bright blue near the base and a muted orange at the tip. The first drag wasn’t so bad. Based on what I saw on television, I thought my first time smoking would make me cough or maybe throw up. I sucked on again, the orange tip glowing in time with my breath. “It’s not bad for you. Weed.” James took the lit joint from my hand. My skin buzzed where his fingers touched mine. He took a slow drag, watching my face closely. “It’s just a plant. Tobacco, too—not as bad for you as everyone says.” I didn’t know what to say. I just nodded. “That makes sense.” When the joint was down to the butt, he showed me how to put it out. Lifting his foot, he mimed rubbing the lit end against the sole of his shoe. I copied his movements, the black ash clinging to the bottom of my Converse. Then, he leaned in and touched his mouth to mine. His lips felt harder than I expected, two muscly pieces of flesh moving rhythmically against my own. I closed my eyes and tried to let the moment sink deep inside me. This was kissing. I was being kissed. The first time I drank, I stayed over at Letty’s house. Her parents were out at a gala, and we had the house to ourselves. She didn’t live in an apartment like I did; it was a proper house. We drank vodka from her parents’ liquor cabinet mixed with lemonade we bought from the deli a few blocks away. When we finished pouring the alcohol, we filled the empty bottle with water. After an hour of drinking, the world around me was spinning. I was sure it was the movement of the earth I was feeling. If I lay on the carpet with my eyes closed, I swore I could feel the twenty-three-degree tilt. “You need to throw up.” Letty told me matter-of-factly, as if at sixteen years old the world was so obvious to her as to be boring. We’d leaned over the toilet together in the guest bathroom. I put two fingers into my own mouth, which felt soft and warm, and then further back. I could feel the ridges of my throat contracting and pulsing. It felt unnatural, as if I was a machine receiving a factory reset before being recycled into something new. “Hold still.” Letty’s fingers joined mine. We fought for dominance, fingers slick with spit and bile before Letty said, ‘stop,’ and I relented. She was fair and efficient; she prodded the back of my throat only a few times before my stomach contracted and the toilet was full of vomit. My mouth tasted sour and felt hot. I thought I might cry. My knees ached from being pressed against the tile floor, and when I sat back against the bathroom door, they were covered in thin red lines where the skin pinched. “You’ll be okay now.” Letty’s smile was intended to be reassuring, but I still felt the burning from my stomach up to my throat. I couldn’t meet her eyes. That night, I called home. It was late, and I hoped for a second my mother wouldn’t be up. The line rang and then crackled. “Abigail? What you doing callin’ this late? Is everything okay?” “Yes, Mummy. I just wanted to call to see that you were alright,” I lied. “I just miss you, that’s all. You and Daddy.” She paused. In my mind, I could see my mother sitting alone in our small kitchen, weighing her next words. I cradled the phone next to my face. “Do you need to come ’ome? You sound funny, Abigail.” “No, Mummy. It’s okay. I just wanted to call.” “Alright, then. Goodnight, baby.” “Goodnight.” After that, I started throwing up after every meal. I pictured my stomach as a vat of acid, which in some ways it was. Corrosive, defective, bubbling inside of me and threatening to make itself known. “You have great tits,” Letty told me one night. It had been unusually hot all day, but a cool breeze had come in from the Pacific as the sun went down, providing a reprieve and the occasional whiff of salty seawater. We were sitting with our feet up on her parents’ balcony, the skyline glowing in the distance. It felt like the whole city was stretching out to meet us, each building lit up for our benefit. She wiggled her red-painted toes in my direction. “They’re big but perky. That’s real luck.” Her compliment made me feel a rush of pride. I’d never thought about my body like that before, as something that belonged to me that other people might envy. Before, it didn’t seem to matter that much. But, looking in the mirror that evening, I found myself agreeing with Letty. It did matter that I had great tits, and my stomach muscles were taut, hidden under a layer of fat and skin. I could tell I was almost there, even if I didn’t know where there was. My mother always told me that I looked like my brother. She didn’t mean it as either an insult or a compliment. It was just true. We had the same flat nose, the same big eyes. They came from our grandmother. My mother said she brought them all the way over from Jamaica, just to remind her of home. The week before graduation, James asked me if I wanted to get coffee with him. It seemed so mature, asking someone out for coffee. I said yes. It was the part of the year at school when no one could get any serious work done. The teachers don’t even try anymore, and everyone just wants out. We had nearly done it; high school was almost over. Our weekends were full of pre-graduation parties and the jitters of knowing that in a few months, our lives would be completely different. Letty helped me get ready. She blew out my hair with a hairdryer and pinned it to keep the loose curls intact. I shivered each time her comb scraped my scalp, parting my hair into precise sections, which she held against the mouth of the hairdryer, fighting to make my curls straight. It was raining, and Letty gave me a scarf to wear around my head, which felt silky cool against my skin. I felt Audrey Hepburn glamorous. When I arrived at the coffee shop, James was already sitting by the window. I ordered a hot chocolate, and he paid. I ignored my mother’s voice, which echoed too loudly in my head, don't take nothing for free from these people dem, dem come back for it someday. Four years at St. Andrew’s had taught me a lot about rich kids. When they mentioned “family friends,” they were often talking about important people like CEOs of companies or well-known artists who made political art pieces out of recycled packing peanuts. Rich kids ate at expensive restaurants, described items on the menu as ‘pricey’ with near-authentic concern, and then paid for the meal with their parents’ metal credit card. Between sips of coffee, James told me about his family. The youngest of three, his older brother was a financial analyst who lived in North Beach, and his sister was about to graduate college. I told him I lived with just my mom, which was true. I didn’t elaborate and hoped he would fill in the gaps of what I didn’t say with romantic ideas of what my life was like. When we’d both finished our drinks, he invited me back to his apartment. The building had a doorman. James signed me in at the front desk, and we rode up in the elevator holding hands. The window in James’ room was open, and the rain had formed a puddle on the hardwood. He started to take his clothes off, starting with his jeans. This is the man I’ll marry. We’ll have three kids; we’ll name them things like Olivia and take them to sushi restaurants in Pacifica for their birthdays. He bent to take off his shoes, and his back became a pale arch in the fading afternoon light. I reached out to touch his skin, and it struck me how dark my hand looked against his body. It was my first time having sex. He whispered, it doesn’t matter, in my ear, and I agreed, it didn’t matter. It felt good, and it felt good to feel good. If I had to describe it, I’d say it felt like cracking the shells of sunflower seeds between your teeth—that same anticipation. James groaned quietly, his hard body pushing me into the mattress. When he pulled me on top of him, I thought about ecstasy. Was this it? Was I touching it right now? Afterwards, he asked me about growing up in San Francisco. People were interested in what it was like to grow up somewhere, instead of nowhere. I told him about the public swimming pool a block from our house where I learned to swim, and the ice cream trucks swarmed by young children spending their allowances on popsicles shaped like cartoon characters. I told him about my elementary school, stuck between two city blocks, and how from the playground we could see blue and red blurs of cars speeding past the chain-link fence. His hand lazily brushed my bare side, stroking up and down in small circles. The feeling of his fingertips made my skin prickle. “You’re going to Middlebury, right? My sister’s a senior there.” “Yep, in a few months.” I glowed with happiness, nodding. “I’ll say ‘Hi’ if I meet her.” “You don’t have any siblings, right?” “I did. I do.” I began. The words tumbled out of me, my mouth moving without my permission. “Just one brother. But he’s in jail.” James paused. He turned towards me, as if waiting for me to acknowledge a poorly timed joke. Then, he blinked rapidly and turned away. “What did he do?” His tone was hushed, like I was telling a ghost story. “Killed someone.” I shrugged like it didn’t matter to me. Like I didn’t know how else to say it. “Oh,” he said. The ‘Oh’ hung in the air, hollow and floating. Not like the sound, but the letter. O. He looked over at me, the left half of his face illuminated in a warm, yellow glow of his table lamp. From his expression, I knew I made a mistake. I could see that the sympathy ended at his eyes, which appeared unfocused in the harsh light. I tucked my toes under myself and buried my face in the sheets, cooling down from the shame. James lifted his chin up towards the ceiling once more, staring at the headboard above us. “Fuck. That’s intense.” “I don’t talk to him much.” I was backtracking, giggling anxiously. The room had grown colder, and I scooted closer to his warm, naked body. “It’s not a big deal.” I watched the wrinkles around his eyes until he closed them. He nodded, as if he understood. I never thought about Linton. I didn’t know what made me say it. The memories I had of him were clouded by childhood, and by a sense that the brother I’d grown up with wasn’t real. It was a lie; a person he created to trick me into loving him. I’d gone on visiting days with my mother, but seeing him sitting in the jumpsuit, his face worked into a permanent guilty grimace, was too much. My mother still visited him every week, but I hadn’t been in years. “Oh fuck,” James said. He’d pulled the sheet back to get out of the bed and was staring at the mattress between my legs. I looked down to where James was looking. The sheets on his bed below me were stained red. It was a small puddle, no bigger than a Post-it note. But it was there. He looked at me then with terror, so much so that for a second, I thought he must’ve seen something else, a ghost or his parents coming home. His eyes were wide and his breathing so heavy that I thought he might faint. My heart was beating very fast, and I closed my legs to hide the stain. He asked me if I was okay, if he had hurt me. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” I started laughing then, a laugh closer to a bark. I didn’t know exactly where it was coming from, but it was somewhere deep in me. I didn’t even know what was funny. I felt crazy. I wondered if he thought I was crazy, too. He told me where the bathroom was, and I got up to clean off. My body felt full and heavy with each step. A rivulet of blood dripped down my thigh. I locked myself in the bathroom off his room and leaned over the toilet. The toilet seat felt cool against my pounding head. My fingers tasted chalky, and it only took a moment before I was spitting the contents of my stomach into the toilet bowl. With the flush, it was all gone. I felt lighter for a second, and then heavy again. “Are you throwing up in there?” James called from his room. “No,” I called back. “I’m almost finished.” I wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve and left the bathroom. James was in the hallway, pretending not to listen to me. He looked young in the darkness, like a child. We both were, I guess. Children. “Thanks for having me. I had a great time.” He walked me to the front door, and I cried on the train ride home. My mother met me at the door of the apartment. She didn’t mention that I was an hour past curfew. If she could see that I’d been crying, she didn’t say anything. She just held me and rocked back and forth. I thought in that moment she might say something—something wise and knowledgeable about the way the world worked. My mother tended to turn these rare moments of intimacy into pronouncements about the world and our place in it. Usually, they had to do with Jesus or white people or America. But she didn’t say anything. She just held me and rocked, stroking the top of my head with her open palm. ### 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.

They are utilizing the relationship between dance and poetry to explore themes of Black sapphic intimacies Her work has been published with Game Over Books, Button Poetry, Voicemail Poems, Beestung Magazine,

Town Under the Mountains: Stories, will be published by the University Press of Kentucky in the New Poetry

Elaine Omwango is a lawyer who has spent the last decade reading and writing speculative fiction. Her previous and forthcoming publications in Flame Tree Publishing, the African Writer, and Mystery Publishers explore Afro-modernity and Afro-futurism through the lens of familial, societal, and economic relationships. Born and raised in Nairobi, she is a lover of iced coffee, sunny days, and dancing. When not battling mystical creatures and journeying across mythical lands, she enjoys cooking, paints very badly, and occasionally dusts off her violin only to put it back in its case unplayed. Having managed to escape the courtroom, Elaine now works as a strategy and policy professional on projects that sit at the intersection of economics, politics, and social impact. She lives in Kenya with her family and hopes to write her next novel soon if she can stop reading other people’s novels instead. These Shadows Live Nawalu had set out to receive one hundred rejections at the start of the year and was going strong with ninety-eight. In truth, the metric had been nothing more than a thinly-veiled excuse to put her paintings ‘out there’ as her best friend Dalamia insisted. Though she hadn’t painted since her car accident five years ago, one hundred had seemed an impossible number, and yet the evidence in her inbox proved otherwise. Maybe if it hadn’t been so long she might have been able to rely on the strength of her reputation, but Nairobi’s art scene was as mercurial as the city’s weather. Veterans either carried their craft well into old age or ceded ground to younger, hungrier novices. Nawalu’s phone rang from the kitchen and she picked it up dazedly, staring unseeingly at the pile of dirty dishes from yesterday’s sleepover. A twinge in her right thumb signalled that the rainy season was fast approaching. Her body did strange things like that these days. “Did you send it through yet?” Dalamia asked in lieu of a greeting. They’d been best friends since primary school and stayed in touch through monthly calls when Dalamia moved halfway across the world to Singapore for work. Last night’s girls’ night had been a sort of welcome back party after Dalamia had ditched her job and decided to move back to Kenya. “Hello to you too,” Nawalu said, filling a glass with water and taking a long sip to ease a slight headache. Three empty bottles of prosecco stared at her mercilessly from the windowsill. “Nawalu,” Dalamia said in what could only be described as a whine. Nawalu had stopped talking about art since the accident, but she’d been a little tipsy last night and may have rambled about her current piece. It was a water colour rendition of Samburu pastoralists journeying across the Chalbi Desert at dawn in search of water. Her day job as an ecologist had translated into immense travel over the years, but the Chalbi had interspersed her dreams (and several waking moments) for weeks after she’d returned to Nairobi. So she’d chosen to do what she always did when she couldn’t get an image out of her mind. Nawalu glanced at the canvas which sat a few feet from her living room window. “I’m laying the finishing touches.” “Nawalu.” That was very much a rebuke. “The deadline is today.” “I know. I just need—” Her computer dinged. “Oh, my god.” “Oh, my god,” Dalamia said with glee. “Is it an acceptance?” Nawalu’s stomach sank as soon as she read the first line of the email. Thank you for submitting your work to the Nairobi Art Monthly. Unfortunately, we are unable to accept your piece at this time. However, we encourage you to… “I’m sorry,” Dalamia said softly. Nawalu sank into her desk chair and watched her rejection folder climb to ninety-nine. “I think I need a break.” “From painting?” Nawalu sighed. “From everything.” The challenge had been fun in the beginning, but between constant work travel and even more constant rejections, she was feeling drained and uninspired. “Can I call you later?” she asked. “I’m going to take a walk.” “Sure,” Dalamia said. “I’ll come by after work and we can hang out.” Nawalu said, “Thanks,” even though she didn’t feel like hanging out. It had been ten years since she’d been able to spend time with her best friend and she really did want to make up for it. “For what it’s worth, I think you should still submit the Chalbi Oasis,” Dalamia said. “It’s an amazing piece.” “Thanks,” Nawalu said again and hung up not long after. On autopilot, she stepped into her shoes, locked her front door, and started down the street with no particular destination in mind. It was the last time she would see the Chalbi Oasis as it was. * The Nairobi National Museum was a proud three-story building that had been renovated five years ago to make room for newly discovered fossils, repatriated artefacts, and a wing dedicated to showcasing up-and-coming artists. Nawalu hadn’t meant to end up there, but the path from her house was so well trodden that she was unsurprised by the outcome. The guard smiled in acknowledgement and waved her through. The empty courtyard echoed with the fountain’s splashing of water. A light breeze ruffled Nawalu’s shirt, carrying the scent of rain. A sign in the lobby proclaimed: Turkana’s Paranthropus boisei on temporary display until 29 February. See it in the East Wing while you still can! Having been on the expedition that uncovered the fossil remains, Nawalu scanned the rest of the posters for something new. A temporary graffiti exhibit in the North Wing. New additions to the Wanga Crown Jewels. An immersive soapstone carving experience. She was about to give up and wander the garden when she saw a faded poster about the Cradle of Mankind gallery The Langat triplets return to the scene for the first time in a decade with a dramatic retelling of the evolution of mankind! Doors open at 5 pm. Free entry, donations welcome! A quick glance at her watch revealed that Nawalu was only five minutes late, and with how far removed acting was from her medium of choice, this was exactly what she needed. She briefly panicked about interrupting the show, but the gallery was so full that the doors had been left open and she managed to squeeze herself between the sound system at the back. An old woman in a woollen jumper and thick glasses smiled at her. “Do you mind if I lean on you a little bit?” she whispered loud enough to attract several reproachful glances. “My back isn’t what it used to be.” Eager to dispel the attention they were attracting, Nawalu shrugged. The woman’s shoulder was warm and she smelled pleasantly of cloves and mint. Her hair was shot through with silver strands, and though her skin was wrinkled, age had failed to dull its luminosity. The play was entertaining, but Nawalu found herself unable to focus, especially after she received a calendar alert to submit the Chalbi Oasis before midnight. The play ended, the old woman thanked her, and the gallery emptied. Nawalu sank into one of the chairs and let out a heavy breath as the crew busied themselves with packing up. It was only eight o’clock, but she wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and forget… everything. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. She reached for it and frowned when her fingers closed around something warm and smooth that most definitely didn’t feel like a phone. She pulled a leather-bound book out of her coat pocket and examined it in the gallery’s fluorescent lighting. Her phone vibrated again. Dalamia letting her know something had come up at work and they should grab lunch tomorrow instead. Nawalu hurriedly responded in the affirmative, then returned to examining the book. It definitely wasn’t hers, a fact that was even more evident from the neat handwriting contained within. On communing with the ancestors. Surrender is the essential ingredient. One must become a receptacle, open to the wisdom granted from those who walked a similar path thousands of years ago, a thousand times over. The value of this cumulative insight is immeasurable, and suitable payment has historically been extracted in a form and manner distressing to the modern individual. Nawalu flipped back to the first page, but there was no title, author, or contact information listed. Simply the words: From the desk of the Chosen. Another chapter was titled: On the danger of divinity. Ancient societies revered divinity above all else, oftentimes striving for it at the expense of that which humanity naturally clings to: love, joy, and belonging. However, this struggle represented not the desire to be a god (though that was sometimes the case), but the pursuit of excellence. One must be careful not to ascribe the same quality, or indeed exact the same demands, of one’s ancestors. They were, after all, the visible consequences of this eternal struggle. And another chapter: On the danger of demands (and the wisdom of inquiries) “We’re closing up now, ma’am.” Nawalu started, then laughed a little when she realised it was just the security guard. “Right, sorry. Thank you.” She dropped some cash into the donation box and drove home where she set the notebook on the kitchen counter as she changed into pyjamas and got herself a glass of water. When she returned, the book had fallen open to an ink-splotched page. On the necessity of embracing incertitude. * Nawalu didn’t so much wake up the next morning as drift out of a state of half-consciousness. After a long night, most of which she’d spent reading the leather-bound journal and agonising over the Chalbi Oasis, she needed coffee and a slow morning. Upon reaching for milk in the fridge, she was bombarded with a neon red magnet proclaiming that she should ‘just do it!’ A gift from Dalamia’s travels. Unbidden, Nawalu’s mind flashed back to the entry she’d spent an hour rereading yesterday. On the necessity of embracing incertitude. 1. Close your eyes and slow your breathing. Divorce yourself from the hustle and bustle of the modern world. 2. Allow your mind to wander. Think of everything. Or think of nothing at all. 3. Feel the spark within you. Reach for it, coax it forward like a newborn lamb. 4. Embrace the expanse laid bare by singular focus. Your ancestry hovers just beneath the surface, the cumulative experience of all those who came before you. 5. Descend, and think no more of your troubles. The more she’d read the entries, the more they’d seemed like a cross between meditation and self-reflection. Perhaps the owner of the journal had found peace in these practices and sought to document them. Nawalu let her eyes drift closed and allowed her mind to wander. It went first to the Chalbi Oasis, predictably, but then it soared to the actual desert and the people she’d met there. The stark contrast between their nondescript clothing and colourful jewellery. Blues, greens, reds, purples, and all manner of colours except those natural to deserts. Her chest tightened and some unnameable emotion welled in her. So strong was it that her stomach dropped and she staggered back. The coffee maker beeped. Suddenly hot, Nawalu yanked open the fridge and scooped all her condiments onto the kitchen counter. Mustard was such a beautiful yellow. How did they make it look so vibrant? It was nothing like the dull red of tomato sauce, several shades away from blood but still capable of virulent stains. Then there was the verdant green of guacamole, the creamy white of mayonnaise, and the cobalt tint of blueberries so close to ripening. There was no such thing as too much. She needed all of it. She needed more. “Oh my goodness.” The words snapped Nawalu out of her daydream, and she vaguely had the sense of something dropping from her hands. Dalamia stood in her sitting room, bags of food in hand and shock on her face. Nawalu glanced behind her and gasped at the mess of condiments that covered her island kitchen. “I uh—” She reached for a rag and nearly tripped over empty bottles of tomato sauce and mustard. “I was making coffee and got a little…” “You mean that coffee sitting on the counter?” Dalamia asked. Nawalu glanced at the untouched cup of coffee. “Yes, I— what are you doing here?” “We had a lunch date, remember?” Dalamia set the bags of food on the coffee table and came to examine the kitchen island. “You weren’t answering your phone, and I thought you were in bed depressed, so I brought your favourite.” Ghanaian cuisine. A smile spread across Nawalu’s face. “I’m starving.” “I’ll bet.” Dalamia glanced around apprehensively. “So, is this a new technique?”Nawalu cleared her throat. “Yeah, all the Gen Z artists are doing it.” She swallowed down her unease at the fact that she couldn’t remember the four hours between waking up and now. “Let me get some plates. I’ll clean this up later.” * Nawalu heaved a sigh of relief when Dalamia left. They’d formed a fast friendship in university ten years ago and Dalamia was one of the sweetest people Nawalu knew but she’d been unable to focus during lunch. Even the food, which had excited her at first, had turned sour when Dalamia inquired about her next project and whether she intended to submit a digital print of her kitchen counter. Of course she didn’t. It was just… a mess. A beautiful mess. Nawalu hesitated at the voice. Go on, take a picture. Just one won’t hurt. That had definitely come from outside her head. But a picture certainly wouldn’t hurt. She snapped a quick picture on her phone and got to work scrubbing down the kitchen. After that, she took a long shower and called a cab to the museum. This side of rush hour, there were barely any cars on the road and Nawalu found herself staring at the picture she’d taken. The colours were even more vibrant on her phone. Best work in months, no offence. Her eyes snapped to the driver, but he was focused on navigating the University Way roundabout. Not to mention the voice had been distinctly feminine and incredibly scratchy. Nawalu patted her left breast where the notebook was warm beneath her coat. We did a number on that one. Nawalu glanced around nervously. “Can you turn on the radio?” “Huh?” The driver took the second exit and continued along Uhuru Highway. What do you think it will take to get her to send it in? Imagine seeing our work in art galleries all over the country. “The window.” Nawalu fiddled urgently with the knob. “I can’t get it open.” The remaining five minutes were the longest of her life, and Nawalu suspected the driver gave her a less than stellar rating after dropping her off. She strolled past the gates, heedless of the guard’s greeting and straight to the admissions office. She would hand over the journal to Lost and Found at once and go back to her normal life. A cool breeze swept leaves across the courtyard. “Hi Nawalu,” Imali said from behind the front desk as she wrote up a ticket. “Where are you off to today?” Nawalu grasped the notebook inside her coat pocket. “I have something to…” Her voice broke. Don’t do it, child. Imali didn’t look up from the ticket where she’d already written Nawalu’s full name. “Sorry, what was that?” We came to you for a reason. Nawalu’s fingers tightened around the notebook. “I—” Nawalu cleared her throat. “I really enjoyed yesterday’s show and thought I’d see it again. While they’re still in town.” “I’ve seen it three times myself. They’re phenomenal.” Imali smiled and handed Nawalu her ticket. “They don’t start until six, though.” It was only half past four. Nawalu wandered the museum aimlessly until she found herself in the Political History exhibit. She recognised many of the portraits from her younger years when she’d visited the gallery on innumerable field trips. Mekatilili wa Menza with her polished spear and vibrant headdress. Field Marshal Kirima with her cow-hide coat and steely determination. Had such women ever felt fear? Doubt? Weight settled in Nawalu’s chest. Had they wanted to quit and kept going anyway? How? “Psst, over here.” It was one of the voices she’d heard in the taxi. Nawalu’s gaze snapped to a portrait in the corner. It must have been a new one because she didn’t recognise the woman depicted even after reading the name Cherop Koech beneath. A regal woman with long locs and thick eyebrows, she had lived and died in the 1800s and had revolutionised livestock farming amongst the Nandi. Once more, Nawalu examined her face but couldn’t remember having learnt about her. “Do you have it?” Nawalu glanced around, but the gallery was empty. All students had long since returned to school, and it was too early for office workers to have gotten off work. “Hello! I’m talking to you,” the voice said insistently. Nawalu caught a flash of movement from the portrait and nearly collapsed from shock. “Yes, you. Eyes over here.” The woman’s lips had moved! “I’m actually going mad.” Nawalu laughed. “Damn, I thought I had a few more paintings in me.” “Silly girl, you’re not going mad,” Cherop said and Nawalu couldn’t help staring at her mouth as it moved. The portrait was actually talking. “Do you have it?” “Have what?” “Is she the one?” Another one of the voices from the taxi. Nawalu whipped around just in time to catch another flash of movement from a portrait across the room. This time she recognised the woman depicted as Cierume, the legendary 19th-century warrior known for her use of a dancing stick in battle. “Quiet while I find out,” Cherop said. “It’s finally time,” the diviner and activist Ciokaraine M'Barungu said. “Silence,” Prophetess Syokimau boomed. A hush fell over the gallery. Nawalu didn’t realise she was shaking until Cherop asked her to step closer to the portrait. “I believe you have something that belonged to me.” Nawalu withdrew the notebook from her coat before she knew what she was doing. A chorus of relief washed over the portraits. “No, it’s yours now,” Cherop said when Nawalu tried to give it back. Anyway, it wasn’t like the woman could reach out from the portrait and take it. Or could she? Nawalu shivered. “The power in that journal has been passed from woman to woman for over six hundred years. Now, it is yours to pass on.” Nawalu glanced disbelievingly at the notebook in her hands. “How?” was all she could think to ask. Cherop smiled. “No clue. But I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Nawalu couldn’t help a frustrated sigh. Even when the universe conspired to prove her madness, there was no easy way out. “How many women do you think have gone through life feeling sorry for themselves?” Cherop demanded. “Are you aiming to be a statistic?” Nawalu thought back to the Chalbi Oasis, which she’d grudgingly submitted and was waiting to be rejected. What if the reviewers could sense her self-doubt through the image? Was that why the mess — abstract, she corrected — on her kitchen counter had felt so refreshing? “I want to be more,” she said softly. Cherop smiled. “Good.” ### 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.