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FOXFIRE 7 Mama said I was born in the bathtub. Came right out the drain when she was getting ready to wash. The creek was low, that day, so all the water was muddy. And I came out, and a mosquito bit her on the back of the neck. Mama says she still had her clothes on, when it happened, and I came out. Says I already knew how to swim. I don’t know anymore, so I just wade in lakes, knee deep, and think about lead pipes. Nothing’s quite so heavy… right out the drain, like nothing, like I was the water myself. Made the hounds bark. The Worst Things I’ve Done The walls of suburbia are tan bricks stacked over cinderblocks glued down in strokes of slated hammers, gluing me down in the red dirt and black tar. The greatest writers of our time were pretty much dead by the ’90s. Thomas Mann would be an interesting read if I didn’t know him so well. But I do; the worst things I’ve done all look like dying on a beach, lesions full of salt and sand, cysts of the heart—tan grains and tan skin and abrasive black water pool at my ankles, the bone’s out like it could poke through and show me something pure and white, clean and dry, but the only white I see is wet across my chest—shot out by a man old enough to know I’m young enough to know the worst things I’ve done have come, and will come over me again and again like waves, heavy like the ground. PERSPECTIVE / WATERFRONT To have said what I needed to say and been worse off for it. To push, deep in, and pull out bloody—to saw off my leg just to fill my mouth with something other than words. Ripping raw meat would never be enough to show the wound of saying it back and not hearing it the first time. Not that it hurt, just that it was messy. Daniel Miller (they/he) is a new poet from Virginia. They are a student at the University of Mary Washington and have been published in the University's student magazine, The Aubade. His work examines the queer experience from the point of views of a gay male and nonbinary intersection. They are 20 years old, an aspiring hiker, and a Robert Mapplethorpe apologist.

PUFFED UP From wax, Leonardo formed a doughy mass, and when it softened, he shaped it into delicate animals filled with air. He blew into them until they flew into the air. When the air was exhausted, they crashed to the ground. He cleaned the intestines of a sheep so they could be held in the hollow of his hand. He attached them to a blacksmith’s bellows and blew them up until they filled with air and grew transparent, expanding into the room, until everyone watching had to crowd into a corner. For a peculiar lizard caught by a wine grower of Belvedere, and given to him as a curiosity, Leonardo made wings from skin pulled off from other lizards, which he filled with mercury. They quivered and trembled when the lizard moved. He then made for it eyes, a beard, and horns. He tamed it and kept it in a box and terrified his friends with it. IN TANDEM When we moved into our apartment, we painted over the ugly wallpaper in the master bathroom, first with primer, then with white, oil-based paint in an eggshell finish. Using artists’ oil pigments we mixed a Caribbean aquamarine and thinned it with oil glaze. With a ribbed cotton cloth, we ragged the luminous glaze in gentle swirls over the white walls, suggesting the depths of the ocean. My husband created a stencil in mylar of Hokusai’s famous tidal wave rearing its head like a stallion, tossing white flecks of spray like the locks of a horse’s mane. Master of Exakto knives and mathematic intervals, my husband sized the stencil so its repeating pattern fit the wall’s dimensions, and he cut it flawlessly. He invented, and I implemented, balancing on the bathroom counter to apply the stencil to the walls. The waves, in dazzling white and black and dark cobalt, contrasted with the aquamarine. To add to the illusion, we made miniature models of Caribbean fish in paper maché— black drum and red snapper, triggerfish and porgy, grunt and angelfish, seahorse with a curved tail— which we painted realistically and strung using dental floss from hooks in the ceiling, suspended below Hokusai’s waves in the bathroom’s watery element. We didn’t know then about Hokusai and his daughter, how he recognized her talents in childhood and fostered them. She worked alongside him in the studio. It is said that some of the works attributed to him were made by her. In a time and place where women were confined to the domestic sphere, did Katsushita Oi’s obscurity trouble her? Her modesty and her sex were impediments to her renown, so perhaps she was content to add to his. MEDITATION AT NORTH BEACH PARK, BURLINGTON Thickly wooded Juniper Island rises from the lake within swimming distance from shore. The sloping peaks of the Adirondacks, misty blue and far off in the distance, belong to heaven and not to earth. From the beach I watch a storm gather from the mountains, then sweep over the lake. Whitecaps form on the surface. It is like the sea, and it is not like the sea. Rain falls in large drops propelled by a breeze, and a canopy on aluminum poles topples on the beach, somersaulting erratically. Under a shelter, students and faculty gather at an impromptu party celebrating recent graduates. I eat strawberry-rhubarb pie and think of the mountains, eons old. When they were formed, fault lines pushed yellow dolostone above the dark shale, the older stone above the younger. Now I am older, I want to impart history. Shivering children in wet bathing suits wrap themselves in towels. Sometimes the young listen politely and sometimes impatiently, propelled towards lives that haven’t happened yet. I feel my hold on life growing tenuous, like those islands farther off— the Four Brothers—like steppingstones appearing to float in the blue without moving at all.

Imprinted It’s something about time the torturous divine this image of tiny lizards scurrying ancient stone walls with which I remained this morning upon waking something about time and the forgotten dead and cemeteries in Italy and Portugal and Spain it’s something about toppled sandcastles children at play ghostly schoolyards it’s something about wearied fishermen docking battered boats it’s about the ebb and the flow and thin crust pizza dough it’s about so much and so little and the haunted house down by the pier it’s about sad grandma underwear and sickened beige curtains and slivers of late afternoon light. Heartache Hearing the flub flub of my heart during an echocardiogram I’m reminded of Albert a boy in my 2nd grade class Japanese I believe who was teased by yours truly for picking up a penny in the schoolyard one day well let me tell you Albert gave it to me good that day he began screaming and crying and telling me about how each penny went toward making a dollar and about how each dollar meant food and shelter he really told me off good and proper that sunny day in the 2nd grade I think I even apologized I felt so bad. Edward Anki's poetry has appeared in Rejection Letters, Cacti Fur, The Feathertale Review, (parenthetical), Qwerty, The Chaffin Journal, and others. A chapbook of his poetry, Remote Life, was published by BareBackPress (2014). His first full-length poetry collection, Screw Factory, was released in 2022 by Anxiety Press. A former stand-up comic, bartender, and agonized telemarketer, Edward is currently engaged in part-time studies to become a psychotherapist.

There’s a fire somewhere over the ridgeline and the river hasn’t frozen like it usually does this time of year and the line at Fred and Willow’s Sundries and Forevers is backed up all the way to Molly, doll 33 of 250 ever made. They still inventory everything by hand, going in and out. Ethan’s buying a necklace, Item #75468. He’s already late to dinner. It will be obvious he’s forgotten the anniversary and just stopped at the antique store on the way there (he left his house on the east side of town at exactly their reservation time) to try and get a gift. Old things seem more thoughtful than new ones. If you pluck something old out of forgottenness, it shows you have cared enough to return, to revisit, to revitalize that thing and say: there is still value here. As if to say: There is something others missed that only I can see, and I have seen it, and I would like to try again. To bring the past back to the present. If Claire dumps Ethan tonight it will not be the first time. At the front of the line, something prompts the clerk to make a call on a landline phone the color of a dirty old wallet. “I know what she’s saying,” the clerk says. “But that doesn’t make it true.” There was the time with the dog grieving process where he had been unhelpful (her word) and the thing with the car and the time Claire said Ethan was responsible for Jackie the Lizard’s untimely death (who is responsible for knowing everything that will or will not kill a lizard?) and the time on the park bench in the morning and the issue over how to pack the car for the trip (that was actually about the fact that they still hadn’t moved in together, then or now) and the summer they both had busy jobs and surely some other time Ethan’s forgotten. “Well then what percentage? Because tell you what I know it isn’t thirty-five off like she says. And it’s nothing in the system,” the clerk says. Ethan jams the necklace into his jacket pocket. It is a metal locket painted red like lips, split in the middle with a stiff hinge so you have to pry the two halves apart like you’re taking foil-wrapped chocolate from a dog’s mouth. The paint is chipped and uneven. It’s been redone a few times. The inside is just regular silver. You can see a deformed version of yourself if you squint hard enough from far enough away. It should be filled with little silver teeth instead, Ethan thinks, and then he makes eye contact with the camera above the door and reflexively puts his hand up in front of his face and keeps walking, stops walking, reconsiders, drops his hand from his face and looks as normal as possible. His face reddens when he pushes through the door and hits the air outside. It is cold, and he realizes that putting his hand up is a little bit of an admission of guilt. He could have just walked out. He decides not to text Claire to let her know he will be late. He will show up with a smile as if he is on time. Maybe they’ll both be able to just pretend. When Ethan gets to Sugarsteak’s (the best dinner steak on the east side of the midtown rivulet!), he sits dark in the car and plans what to say. The neon is already on and everything is tinged red and white. Should he pretend to have gotten the reservation time wrong? Wouldn’t work, he made the reservation and told her what time. Apologize? Maybe he’ll lead with the gift. I waited in line for an hour, he’ll say. A thing that could have been true under different circumstances. Maybe say nothing. Order a big, mid-priced bottle of wine and fold that into the gift. Dinner, drink, necklace, silence. I just couldn’t come until everything was perfect, he’d say. Tell her about the ankle-deep rejected outfits on his bedroom floor. That he just couldn’t show up until he looked like he deserved to be eating with someone like her. He is wearing a denim jacket and puddle-stained sneakers. Maybe he’ll run home, change, come back. It makes him even later. But the story would work. Ethan wonders if Claire is worried about him. Maybe he’s dead in a ditch, she’s thinking. Driving too fast to come and find her. Love-addled into a telephone pole or a roadside calvary. But when he checks his phone, there is nothing but fire and wind notifications. If you’re worried someone’s dead, you would probably text, at least. The fire is on the ridgeline now, the sky smoked in half like a child’s hand-drawn landscape split lengthwise by a forest of triangles. When the host tells him that actually no, he’s not late, no one ever showed up for that particular reservation at all and the table’s already given away and they won’t have a single table free for at least twenty minutes though, of course, he’s welcome to wait at the bar, Ethan drives away without argument. The foothills fixed in the middle of his windshield forever in front of him. Spare clouds hang like nets in the sky above. On the radio, they are talking about the fire, which is still hovering on the ridge, as if it will decide on its own whether to sweep down toward the plain and the town, as if it makes the decision on its own and is just waiting for more information. As if the wind and the dry conditions and the Industrial Revolution and every preceding event that brought it to the ridgeline in the first place have not already decided whether it will throw itself over or not. Instead, smoldering, eating itself to keep burning at all. Someone must have camped in the wrong place, they are saying. Or tossed a lit cigarette carelessly. Or fireworks. Or some dumb party idea, or maybe lightning, though it is true that it is nearly never just lightning. There is almost always blame to give out, and now there is a commercial break for renter’s insurance. Ethan’s phone flashes in the cupholder and he takes his eyes off the road. It is just another warning about the fire. They are not evacuating, yet. Go about your normal business. He feels the wheel wiggle as he drifts between lanes, but he is alone on the road and so there are no consequences. He thinks of what he would say to Claire on the phone. Nothing important reveals itself to him. At the most important of moments, he knows, he will find the right thing to say. He dials Claire’s number and listens to it ring until he reaches her voicemail. “Hi, it’s Ethan. I’m calling because I wanted to just say that we did have dinner plans tonight and the waiter said, well, I was there and you weren’t and I just thought that was odd. You know, I put some thought, and I don’t know what all this is about but. My parents used to wash my mouth with soap when I would say anything wrong and I think we should think about that more. Like, I was trained to really think everything through so I don’t know why all of a sudden I need the right thing to say at all times with no notice. One time, I actually remember, it was a bunch of times, and sometimes they wouldn’t have a bar of soap because everyone used body wash and so it would be a Dixie cup and liquid soap like dish soap and I would have to rinse until I could just drink water from the cup. Which of course, if you tried to do that today? Boy! I say all that to say, of course, I would want to hear from you and that’s about it. Have a nice night.” When he gets home, everything is quiet. He guides the door shut and hangs the necklace on the doorknob, where it is so small and silver where the paint has rubbed away that it is forgotten for many days. The fire quits just on the ridgeline and everyone in town, later, will talk about how bad it could have been. But it wasn’t. That night, not even Ethan’s neighbors hear him come in. Sam Milligan (he / him) writes when he isn't playing pickup basketball or fishing his cat out the kitchen sink. He lives in Washington, D.C., where he is getting progressively worse at parallel parking. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rejection Letters, Malarkey Books, Many Nice Donkeys, MidLvl Mag, and elsewhere. He is @sawmilligan on Twitter.

Fuck, he's left the milk out, I can see it behind his head. And this meeting is due to last an hour, and I want to tell him, I cannot stop thinking about the milk, but he's just started talking about budgets, and we aren’t doing well this year, and we need some new ideas, and was that a condensation drop rolling down the carton? And I wonder how could this have happened? And should I say anything in the chat? Like “sorry to interrupt but I think you may have left your milk out?” But everyone is nodding, they are talking about popping a poll up to discuss things further, they are recommending a new Trello board, can they not see the milk? And I was meant to be taking notes for the meeting, but what the fuck how can I ignore this? And I think about how my grandma probably had a few pints of milk in her fridge, she never knew she’d never finish them, I don’t know what we did with them. But now people are waving and he’s saying “there you go, you’ve got 30 minutes back”, But he asks me to stay on the call so we can catch up, And he asks me how I thought it went, And I tell him about the milk, And he laughs “oh don't worry, there's nothing left in there anyway”. Leia is a poet from London. She has a BA from the University of East Anglia in English Literature and Creative Writing. Leia is the founder and a head editor of Full House Literary Magazine. Her debut collection, Tear and Share, was released with Broken Sleep Books in August 2021, and encourages an interactive tear-out aspect. She is a previous winner of a Streetcake experimental writing prize. Her other work can be found at and in Babel Tower Notice Board, Re-side, and Streetcake. Her latest collection is due to be released with Stanchion in 2024.

There once was a husband and wife who had lived in a big city out West. They were a happy couple who enjoyed teaching high school students. He was great with the at-risk kids and her classroom was known as the safest space on campus for thespians. Then one day they were no longer welcome at their school. The husband and wife were so confused they stood in front of the bathroom mirror for hours every night trying to see what had caused them to be rejected by their colleagues. One night the husband noticed his reflection included the antlers of a deer, and his wife noticed she appeared to have a second head. Was this why their contracts were not renewed? When they moved to a small town in the Southeast, their friends swore they did not know why they had moved away nor where they had gone. Some of their former colleagues soon grew antlers and second heads but were rewarded with new titles and nice raises. Their pictures were added to the school’s website. On the morning of their first day at the new school, the husband and wife stood in front of their bathroom mirror. The wife noticed the husband’s antlers had doubled. He was able to hold his head up because his spine had split at the base of his neck giving him two heads like his wife. The wife’s eyes were rectangular, protruding from the sides of her skull. Her skin was a velveteen pelt. She had a tail white on the underside and brown on top. They were uncomfortable in these bodies only for a short time. After a few months at their new school, the wife learned it was deer hunting season. Many of her students would share pictures and stories about the deer they shot and field dressed and even ate. The husband assured her they were safe, but the wife felt more uncomfortable each day. She noticed herself becoming too weak to teach. Her colleagues began ignoring her at the copy machine in the morning. No one made room for her at the faculty lunch table. She spent all her free periods with her students in order to prove she still existed. Her two heads and strange eyes were the most interesting part of their day. The husband would sometimes visit her classroom at lunch and let the students decorate the sixteen points on his head. After a year at their new school, the wife became invisible. The husband spent his days looking for her. He started at their school but the administration and the faculty had never heard of her even though she taught classes and attended department meetings for a year. The students had forgotten who she was. Even the parents of her students had denied knowing her. Some months after his wife’s disappearance, the neighbors looked in on the husband to see how he was doing. While they stood talking in the front yard, a school bus full of all the teachers and administrators from the school drove by. They threw his wife’s books and classroom decorations onto his lawn. He gathered the books and drove them back to the school where he threw them onto the football field to remind them that his wife had once existed. Within minutes tiny bushes grew out of his wife’s books creating a lush garden across the yard lines. Convinced this was a sign, the man dug up all the bushes and discovered his wife’s body in the ground. She had been skinned. The teachers and administrators swore they had no memory of killing his wife. CANDICE KELSEY [she/her] is a poet, educator, and activist in Georgia. She serves as a creative writing mentor with PEN America's Prison Writing Program; her work appears in West Trestle, Heimat Review, Poet Lore, and Worcester Review among other journals. Recently, Candice was a Best of the Net finalist and was nominated for a Best Microfiction 2023. She is the author of Still I am Pushing (FLP '20), A Poet (ABP '22), a forthcoming full-length collection (Pine Row Press), and two forthcoming chapbooks (Drunk Monkeys' Cherry Dress and Fauxmoir Lit).

It’s April and there’s sticky apple blood on my chin, a rock in my pocket, and I’m simultaneously 48 and 12 years old: ready to explore the world, knees scraped or not. Hold me back, I dare you. Watch me become a cave diver, discovering the universe as the sea becomes stars. It’s April and. Sun burns my skin, crusty from salt and sleep, and I shed my winter calluses. I’m a lizard, but not. My soul aches, but I’m alive. Katherine Schmidt is a co-founder of Spark to Flame, with work published or forthcoming in Anti-Heroin Chic, Bullshit Lit, Thimble Literary Magazine, 3Elements Literary Review, Unbroken, and New Note Poetry.

I feel so fortunate to teach at an HBCU (Historically Black College and University), not to mention the best one, ahem Howard University of course! Just kidding, sort of. Yes, I’m biased but I have the utmost respect for all HBCUs. They have a monumental task and rise to and beyond their precious mission on the daily. The first HBCU ever was Cheyney University of PA established in 1837. More followed before and after the Civil War. In most southern states Black Americans were prohibited from seeking an education and in the north, they were strongly discouraged. Most HBCUs were started by philanthropists and free Black people. They were established to educate descendants of formerly enslaved individuals and offer them training to likewise teach others. They provided a safe space for Black people to learn and thrive and still do. Since 1867, Howard University has awarded more than 100,000 degrees in the professions, arts, sciences and humanities. There is a special nurturing that takes place at HBCUs. We faculty care for and raise up these special individuals who generally come with a history of struggle, racism, discrimination, etc. in their DNA, whether they’ve experienced it or not. And most have. Many students come to us after having been the only person of color in their previous school or one of a few or the only one in their high school’s AP classes and quite often they have suffered trauma because of it. At an HBCU there may be other issues, but students don’t have to cope with the microaggressions of these past situations and can experience some semblance of walking through the world without being reminded daily of the color of their skin. They can release those long-held breaths and strengthen their inner resources in preparation to go back out to America’s racial battlefield in four years. Howard University, with its rich history of celebrated writer alumni such as Toni Morrison, Zora Neale Hurston, WEB Dubois and Amiri Baraka, offers a creative writing concentration within which students choose to focus on poetry, fiction or creative non-fiction. Such an intense focus helps young writers make unexpected and wonderful discoveries about their own work as they learn to compassionately critique their classmates’ work. We are honored to participate in this special BIPOC issue of Roi Fainéant Press. Thank you for having us!! Tricia Elam Walker, Asst. Prof of Creative Writing, Howard University We are incredibly excited to present our first BIPoC issue. This issue features writers who span the globe including outstanding indie voices to those who have achieved the success of book publication. We are spotlighting young Black excellence through a partnership with the creative writing program at Howard University. You will find nine pieces here written by current Howard students. Their poetry and stories will take you to unexpected and delightful places. Read them with joy. A huge thank you to Professor Tricia Elam Walker who led the effort on the Howard end, has provided us great insight into what makes HBCUs so special, and gifted us a stunning written piece of her personal history, so relevant for today’s difficult times. We also spotlight the work of two visual artists. Enjoy Sadee and Bobby’s works and take a gander at their websites to perhaps add to your personal art collection. I’m very proud of this effort and feel so much gratitude to all of the artists who sent us their work and the team at Roi Fainéant. Read, enjoy, and share. François

I know what the caged bird feels, alas! - Paul Laurence Dunbar, “Sympathy” An Interpretation of Why Caged Birds Sing - After Paul Laurence Dunbar I always thought that white people Would more likely sympathize with birds; These little creatures Who can climb the heavens to see who hangs the stars And forms the planets, and bends the colors to make rainbows, Than me and my people, who are just like them, except in the colors of our skin, For I’ve seen how they have treated their pets and animals, And I’ve seen how they’ve treated me and my people. Age is a question of mind over matter. If you don't mind, it doesn't matter. - Satchel Paige, Negro League Pitcher Maybe I’ll Pitch Forever Ol’ Satchel Paige could endure a slew of Herculean labors: Like soaking for three hours In freezing tub water, Or rubbing stinging snake oil On those aging joints, rubber arm, and magic shoulder, All after tossing a gem of a shutout, as his defense kicked back and relaxed, And then riding after setting suns in cramped conditions To less than amicable locations. Yet, despite the pitching repertoire, As expensive and deep as an encyclopedia, And wearing the mask as the most self-assured, charming player In the history of baseball, None of those attributes could mask the torment That after decades of setting the groundwork, Carrying black baseball on your back for well over a decade, Someone else was chosen, and you weren’t the first one 𑁋 The Greatest Triumph of Georgetown’s John Thompson For the longest time, I thought Georgetown was an HBCU because of John Thompson: The mostly black rosters. The uniform designed with a Kente-clothed pattern. The bigoted signs and cold shoulders from so many white fans and reporters. The AND1 crossovers and quicksilver dribbles of Allen Iverson, One of college basketball’s most compulsive scorers. I figure most coaches with Big John’s resume Would say their biggest triumph was the college basketball championship, Or the six titles in college basketball’s greatest conference, Or perhaps, officially closing Manley Field House, But I think it would be the off-court crusades and battles, Like challenging the NCAA, and pulling his team off the floor In Northeast stadiums and centers because of their cheap, racist stuff; Those would be the victories he’s most proud of. He loved all of those young men of his, And despite the practice chew outs and the temperament of fire, He was their teacher, and the lesson was daily and reflected in his behavior: Don't let the sum total of your existence be eight to 10 pounds of air… Matthew is a three-time Best of the Net Nominee and the author of 'Shadow Folks and Soul Songs' (Kelsay Books) and his most recent collection, "Far from New York State" (NYQ Press). His poetry has appeared in Roanoke Review, Front Porch Review, The Maryland Literary Review, Up the Staircase Quarterly, and elsewhere. Matthew is the recipient of a Sundress Publications Residency. He is a former sports journalist and editor who wrote for the USA Today College and the Daily Star in Oneonta, NY. An MA graduate from UNC-Greensboro, he is the managing editor of The Portrait of New England and the poetry editor of The Twin Bill. Twitter: @Matt_Johnson_D Website: matthewjohnsonpoetry.com

Some self-labeled “patriots” and other conservatives rage against truthful and complete history and access to books that explore and acknowledge the existence of racism in our country, allegedly because they don’t want children to feel uncomfortable. It’s pretty clear though, that they are only worried about how white kids feel. I’ve heard zero concern for what Black children experience, especially those in predominantly white institutions. I was one of those kids a lifetime ago and unfortunately the terrain can be as treacherous for some now as it was back then. In 1964 Ellen and I were the first Black students to enter the hallowed hallways of Winsor, a private school for girls in Boston. We didn’t realize the weight of history we carried in our 10-year-old bodies. A half century later and three years before she passed away, I asked Virginia Wing what possessed her to revolutionize Winsor in her first few months as headmistress. She told me she was influenced by the relationship with her Black nanny as well as by her minister father who sometimes exchanged pulpits with an African American pastor. When she brought up the idea of admitting Black students to the school no one opposed her, so through a series of connections, Ellen’s parents and mine answered the call. They seized the opportunity for us to have a solid education, a rarity for many African American children in Massachusetts at that time. Ellen remembers we took the entrance exam in the school library, just the two of us. At one point she heard urgent chatter from behind where we sat and turned to see white girls pointing and saying, “Look at the Negroes taking the test.” It was then, Ellen notes with residual sadness that she “knew what it was like to be an animal in a zoo.” Although my memory of that day has faded, I trust Ellen’s because the edges of her hurt remain sharp. We passed the entrance test but Winsor was not ready for us and we were not ready for Winsor. Our world consisted of day-to-day survival tactics. White girls asked things they dared not ask the only other Black people in their lives --maids and chauffeurs. Questions like: “Why is the outside of your hands darker than the inside?” or “Can you wash the brown color off?” The adults weren’t much better. When invited to a classmate’s home, her mother asked me if I wanted to sing “We Shall Overcome” before dinner. I was only ten years old and stumbled a confused “no” that probably sounded more like a question or an apology. By 1969 there was a grand total of five black “Winsor girls” (Pam M and Marilyn joined our class and Pam B, a year older, joined the class ahead of ours.) That term - Winsor girl, an oxymoron of sorts, was fraught for us. Ellen says because she never could, she ultimately no longer wanted to be one. I, on the other hand, pretended my hair hung lank against the sides of my face and refused to acknowledge the mirror’s betrayal. I still don’t know how to swim due to that betrayal even though proficiency at it was a graduation requirement. I couldn’t bear the thought of the white girls discovering that my hair, when it touched water, turned into a giant brillo pad. For a time I questioned whether there was anything beautiful at all about my Blackness even though my parents tried their best to ground me and my siblings in the richness of our culture (we were surrounded by Black art, Black professionals, Black books and more). As a teen trying to fit in at school, though, the notion of Black beauty was not front and center. In the mid to late 1960s Winsor haute couture was plaid kilt skirts worn with bare legs and loafers. (Pants were unthinkable.) We Black girls took public transportation to school – two or three buses for an hour each way – and we weren’t allowed to leave home bare-legged in the winter. So Pam M and I removed our tights on the bus but our knock-off kilts, exposing ashy legs jammed into orthopedic loafers, were tragic imitations. Pam B, leap years wiser as well as older, set us straight when she began rocking an Afro and wearing African daishikis rather than sweating white girl outfits. Soon the rest of us sprouted proud afros too. My father didn’t hide his disdain (“Awful!” he’d grunt with a head shake) but I forged ahead, ready to grow into the Black pride I craved. In many ways school was not a safe place for us but we didn’t know it at the time. Though absorbed into our psyches, some of the difficult memories have dimmed but each of us can recall an incident that still stirs up a battering ram of emotion more than 50 years later. My nemesis was Huck Finn. For some reason, we often had to read paragraphs aloud in English class. I prayed I wouldn’t get a passage that contained the two most dreaded of words: Nigger Jim - but lo and behold, there they were taunting and menacing. I remember how jagged and insistent my heartbeat became, how I planned for my tongue to skate across and render them inaudible, how desperately I didn’t want to cry. When I said the words, despite the softness of my voice, it was as if I were Nigger Jim and the whole class knew it. The teacher never even attempted to assuage my despair. If I operated by the same premise as some white folk, that book should be removed because it made me uncomfortable, to say the least. I recall some rumblings years later about changing the offensive word but certainly no uproar as to how Black kids might feel reading it. I’m not for banning books but that one shouldn’t be read in any classroom where Black children are in the minority. Maybe that’s what needs to be determined where the banning of books is being touted. In most instances the white child is not alone in the classroom and I would imagine there is a teacher primed to explore the feelings that arise. Not every Winsor adult was tone deaf. There were a few teachers who looked past our skin and saw our humanity. Ms. Wortham (English) was the first person besides my mother to tell me I was a writer. Ms. Alger (Math) tutored me in Algebra on her own time. Mr. Rogers (Art) celebrated our creativity. And we adored Ms. Lupinacci’s (Espanol) kindness and fashion sense. Back in our mostly black neighborhood, sometimes other African American kids teased us about going to a white school so I often felt like I didn’t belong anywhere. On rare days when we got out of school early enough, Pam M and I hung out in the train station where the public school kids congregated and tried in vain to blend in with them. While all of our parents were community activists in their own right, Pam B’s father was actually on the front lines organizing politically and economically and he discussed his work with his young, impressionable daughter. In this way, Pam B became a dynamic force who rounded up our disparate energies and put them to important use. At some point she decided that we needed to organize and formulate our “demands”: Black history! Black role models! Black teachers! All three were non-existent at Winsor and never contemplated. As a result a young Black man named Roosevelt was summoned from Simmons College (our neighbor in proximity) to assist in the ways he could. I don’t know who made this call or whether he had a formal title but one of his solutions to our plight was to play Malcolm X speeches on a record player in our meeting room. Malcolm’s words pricked the surface of our discontent but we were far from cured. Meanwhile the administration tried to put similar patches on the various gaping holes in the curriculum and conceded to our Black History month proposal. With the go-ahead, we planned an assembly where we would dress in African attire, read poetry by Black writers, dance to African drumming and sing James Brown’s “I’m Black and I’m Proud” because…we were, weren’t we? I remember trying on those ideas and liking them but also being somewhat afraid of them. We rehearsed several times prior to the big day. When it finally arrived, something remarkable happened. In the midst of everything, and certainly unrehearsed, Pam B, our pied piper, leapt up and broke from the script, screaming out to the ocean of white faces something like, “None of y’all know what it’s like to be Black, to be slaves, to have your mammies and pappies lynched!” She was on fire but I recall thinking to myself, I don’t know what that’s like either. And where did she get that Southern accent? I worried about what would happen next. Would the school explode? Would we explode? Neither happened. Instead Pam B became an unacknowledged hero in my mind that day because she was bold and unafraid, well-versed in Black historical facts and closer to being a grownup than any other teenager I knew. Her speech was almost like Martin Luther King, I told my mother later on. Something shifted for all of us after that assembly which manifested itself in different ways. The time-honored rule for Winsor commencement was that the entire school dressed in all white. The stated purpose was for every student to “blend in” and “not stand out”. (Even brass buttons had to be covered with tape.) When contemplated as a senior, the concept made no sense in light of our un-blend-in-able skin. Although in preceding years we conformed to the rule, I could and would not do it for my graduation. Our graduating class, after all, was the first class in which the students were not all white from inception. So we talked it out with our classmates and many of the white girls agreed to forgo wearing white as well, some in solidarity and others because they too understood that our class was inherently different. On that special day I rocked a gold floral print wrap dress that I made myself and thought looked spectacular. Even though, following our diversion that year, subsequent classes reverted back to tradition, I’m still proud that ours was the one and only class in the school’s long history to not wear all white. Our class photograph, documenting that year’s remarkable sartorial statement, hangs unapologetically between the other redundant class photos before and since. Twenty-five years after we graduated from Winsor, none of us Black girls wanted to attend our reunion – way too many disturbing memories. Ellen, however, came up with the brilliant idea of convening a session wherein we would share our experiences called, “Red, White and Black” (Winsor’s colors are red and white; we brought the Black.) The auditorium was standing room only, filled with Black girls who followed our lead, white girls who had been in our class, parents, teachers and many others. The rapt audience heard our stories, cried with us, shared some of their own tales (Jewish girls spoke of their mistreatment of which we were unaware) and we began the much-needed process of healing. Some of our former classmates embraced us afterwards and apologized if they “ever said something stupid”. Although I begged my parents year after year to take me out of Winsor, they always refused. After the panel my mother revealed that she and my father hadn’t thought through the possibility of my social exclusion and if they had, might have made a different decision. My father reiterated his decades long belief: “There is no perfect school for a Black child.” Since that illuminating panel, Winsor has dug down deep, faced its demons and made necessary, beyond the surface, changes. The school actively sought students, faculty and staff of color. One of its best decisions was to hire Pam M as the first Black admissions director who served the school for 18 years. Who better than she to know what the school needed? She recruited in non-traditional arenas such as public schools in minority neighborhoods, made certain there were representative marketing materials and attended school fairs with students of color by her side, expanded financial aid, created “Sisters”, a Black student mentoring group as well as a Black parents support group. These days Winsor boasts 44% students of color with many private schools clamoring to know how they do it. The halls are no longer hallowed in the way they were. I have returned several times over the years to speak about my experiences as a student but also to praise the obvious advancements. I attended a magical “Sisters” event where I was mesmerized and buoyed by the confidence displayed and the support given. Though saddened that we did not have such opportunities, I and the other first Black Winsor girls willingly bear the scars so that no girls of color have to do so ever again. Our difficult experiences portend that a “Winsor girl” no longer means a preternaturally privileged white girl. Today she may be African, African American, Latin X, Muslim, Asian, non-binary, gay or trans. Thanks to us, Winsor is now a school for every kind of girl to learn about who she is and from whence she came as well as the required academics. Schools cannot be afraid to face the challenges of teaching the “ugly” parts of history and must be concerned with the repercussions for all the children they serve. Girls at Winsor are free to learn the truth about each other’s origins because of a vastly diverse curriculum that tackles complicated topics taught by skilled educators prepared and eager to handle the myriad of feelings that may surface. We should desire nothing less for all students everywhere. Tricia Elam Walker (she, they) is the author of Nana Akua Goes to School, winner of the 2021 Ezra Jack Keats Writer Award, and winner of the 2021 Children's Africana Book Award. She can be found at triciaelamwalker.com. She is Assistant Professor, Creative Writing for the Department of English at Howard University in Washington, DC.

Spring break meant a trip south of Atlanta to Georgia’s fat bottom. Ama’s grandparents lived in a house there with two bedrooms, a single bathroom, and a bucket outside for the desperately waiting. Some of the neighborhood boys took quiet advantage between rounds of touch football or throw-em-up-bust-em-up. The smell gave it away. Mixed piss jumbled the senses the same way that the smell of vinegar was almost a sound. Three times a week, Ama’s grandmother carried the bucket to the toilet, flushed its contents, and returned it to the porch. Only just past the shy side of puberty and a city baby, Ama never saw people pee outdoors in Atlanta. Maybe because exchange rates were strange along the Florida border, bottom Georgia, stranger even than the weather during hurricane season, Jefferson, one of those neighborhood boys, agreed to take her grandparents’ old ice box to the abandoned lot at the end of the road. No money required. The boy was thin as batted lashes but not quite as black. He hauled two hundred pounds of rusted metal, pausing between mailboxes to wipe sweat with his T-shirt. He pushed with arms and shoulders, dropped to one knee, laughed once, got back up, and pushed again. The humidity hovered somewhere between comfort and aggression. The metallic grate stopped, and Jefferson’s pants and huffs made a song of exhaustion. Several spring breaks later, Ama kissed Jefferson sudden in the side yard gap between their houses. She’d spent her sixteenth year in Atlanta pint up under her momma’s Black-girl rules—stick close, work hard, stay away from boys. South of that, the only rules revolved around housekeeping, mopping floors, fixing the throw pillows just so, and cleaning out the bug zapper. After chores, Ama was free to do whatever, and whatever meant sneaking away into the blue green of not-yet-night and doubling up with Jefferson on his bike. Then down to the creek where they would lay out in the mossy grass and watch daylight forsake them. “I love you, Jefferson Douglass,” Ama told him in the dark. He laughed and said, “You don’t love me, girl. You only been here a week.” “A week every year since I was a baby.” “So what?” he asked. “You can’t pull love out of seven days.” Ama hugged her arms, blinking at the darkness, trying to see the water. She had wanted him to tell her he loved her back. Love for love. “Take me home,” she said. As he was told, he pedaled her back up the hill to her grandparent’s house. Pop-pop waited under the porch light and blue zapper with a Coors light and a cane, still as a buzzard on a picket fence. “Want me to shoot him?” Pop-pop asked when Jefferson was gone. Ama wiped her face. “You too old for prison.” He adjusted his grip on his cane. “Nobody said anything about prison. I just asked if you wanted me to shoot him. Wouldn’t be the first time. Your momma was always running around here getting her heart broken by some bobble head boy. I kept a paintball gun close just in case. You been the spitting image of your momma since the day you were born. I knew I’d have to bring that gun out of retirement at some point. So I ask again, do you want me to shoot him?” “No, not this time.” The difference between bottom Georgia and Atlanta had to be the silence. No sirens. No traffic. Nighttime swallowed sound and forced Ama to lay with the freedom quiet of a musty quilt. Her mother had slept behind these very same walls, lived with these same rules. Rules that never quite seemed like rules. Repeating chores and keeping busy outdoors. Jefferson came for Ama the day before she had to head back north to sound and city, early evening, just dark enough for the lightning bugs. New generation of neighborhood boys tossed pig skin in the street. Ama opened the door, aimed, and fired. She left yellow stains all over Jefferson’s white T-shirt. He screamed like he thought she had ended him. The boys in the street laughed, and Jefferson left without offering up love, jokes, or goodbye. As Jefferson raged down the sidewalk, Ama unloaded a final warning shot, a bright goodbye as she meant it. She got the hose from the side yard and shot steady streams at her own splatter before her grandmother could catch sight of it and make the sunny mess her own. Before her grandfather could see it and be proud. Before the paint dried up in the evening heat, a keep away warning for whoever might come for her next. Ra'Niqua Lee writes to share her particular visions of love and the South. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cream City Review, Split Lip Magazine, Indiana Review, Passages North, and elsewhere. Every word is in honor of her little sister, Nesha, who battled schizoaffective disorder until the very end. For her always.

I scream… Reggie’s grogginess quickly turned into fear as he sped down the stairs into his store. The air was still and quiet, creating a tension that he couldn’t quite understand. The lights were still off, but he swore he heard glass shattering downstairs. He’d grabbed his hand pistol from his nightstand in his panic, creeping downstairs in a thin tee shirt and shorts. He didn’t think to bring a robe with him to fight off the cooler evening weather. Not that it would have helped the chills running up his body. He arrived at the door at the bottom of the staircase, on the side of the store, gun in hand like he’d seen cops do on Criminal Minds. It felt ridiculous, but it was the closest he could get to protection. He looked at his reflection in the window. His breath fogged up the glass but he could make out his frightened face. The dark circles around his eyes compared to his brown skin made him look like a zombie. His curly hair was flattened against his head from yet another restless night of tossing and turning. His lips were cracked with dehydration. His slightly muscled frame made him look a lot tougher than he was feeling, his body shaking. He tried to steady his hands, but nothing would stop his trembling. His security system warned him of the suspicious activity and he immediately was on high alert, assuming the commotion to be a robbery. He never had to deal with one of those before. What if he had to shoot them? What if they shot him? Damn it Reggie you should’ve called the police. How the hell are you gonna handle this if it’s a robbery? I can handle this. How? I got a gun. But no training. His heart felt tight like he might have a heart attack, then robbery would be the least of his worries. He turned the corner into the entrance, flipping on the fluorescent lighting of his store. Fear gathered in the pit of his stomach and his breathing almost stopped at the sight of her. Seven bullet holes–six in the body, one in the head. Glass bits scattered across the front of the store all around her corpse, tangled in the frizz of her hair like gruesome barrettes. Her thick red mane was matted with blood in a dark contrast to her pale, white skin. Her face was embedded with glass shards. She was barely recognizable as a person when Reggie found her. He remained still, staring in horror. His slipper was soaked with the mysterious woman’s blood spilling from the holes decorating her body. He looked away and focused his vision on the pistol in his shaking hands. Instead, his eye fell on the blood beneath him and realized what would happen. Black man with a pistol. White woman on the ground. Instant death penalty. Call the cops, what are you doing?! Just call the police! His eyes find the phone on the counter, waiting. Just walk to the phone! Come on! He doesn’t move. He can’t move. They’ll kill me. They’ll see her body and kill me. They always kill the Black man. But you got to do something! Upon closer inspection, he realized she was not that old. From what he could make out, her hands weren’t full of liver spots. Her hair was not yet gray with age and worry. Her face was difficult to make out with all of the glass and blood, but it appeared to be untouched by wrinkles. Just with hundreds of shards of thick glass. If Reggie were to guess, she looked about eighteen, old enough to be considered an adult under the eyes of the law, but not enough for anyone on a jury to think of her as more than a child. A white girl? The cops will eat this up! Reggie’s lungs went dry just imagining the jury. Guilty. Guilty! She and the pool of blood became fuzzy and Reggie fell to the ground, not caring about his clothes as they became wet with blood. His head swirled just as he emptied his aching stomach. He had never seen anything so red, so sticky. So much. A new surge of panic awakened in him and his mind moved autonomously. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Just breathe. Breathe! BREATHE! His eyes darted around the shop, calculating. I can’t let them see this. I’ll die! I don’t want to die. I DON’T WANNA DIE. What do I do? Think! THINK. He crawled away from the front window through the mess of glass, despite the sickening cramps in his abdomen. His eyes fell on the huge, walk-in freezer in the back of his store. The body. The freezer. The body. The freezer…. He ran toward the counter, stashing the pistol in the display case, underneath the mint chocolate chip. He had to hurry. He rushed to her body, grabbing her by the arms. Luckily, rigor mortis hadn’t set in. The body must be fresh. He pulled her body toward the back of the store, painting the floor with red streaks. The walk to the freezer felt so long and her body felt heavier, he was worried that he would pull her arms out of their sockets. It took way longer, longer than it should’ve but he finally reached the doors of the freezer. Opening it he looked, trying to find the best hiding space until he had time to bury the body. Chocolate, cookie & cream, caramel swirl… He struggled as he grabbed her just below her arms. Her body was so heavy, it took what felt like an eternity for him to push the limp body behind the Neapolitan and butter pecan flavors. There! Nobody eats those anyway… He ran to the broom closet grabbing all the supplies he needed: bucket, bleach, broom, mop, and cloth. He threw the bucket in the sink, turning the faucet on full blast as he dumped a whole bottle of bleach into it. He turned to see the bloody streaks and footprints and his slippers left behind and kicked them off frantically, launching them into the closet. He peered behind him from the closet as sirens began to blare in the distance. The police. Someone surely heard the commotion that caused this woman's death. Even the deserted streets had ears. The late night passerby probably saw the lights on, a Black man sneaking around, and thought they put the pieces together. Of course. No matter how long you’ve known them you’re still just another Black man to them. He grabbed the bucket and ran to the front of the store, almost dropping his supplies. Immediately, he began to sweep the shards off the floor, even getting down on his hands and knees to pick some of the glass out of the blood. After he was certain he picked it all up, he began mopping as fast as he could. He heard the sirens become louder. Closer. They’re coming. He mopped faster, as though it were an Olympic sport. I’m not gonna make it. They’ll be here any minute. Closer. The floor still had pools of crimson and what he did clean still had pinkish stains to it. He dropped to the floor and began to scrub with the cloth soaked in bleach. The sirens are getting closer. I won’t have time to clean it all up! He began to hyperventilate. Think Reggie. Think! He ran to the light, switched it off, and ducked against the floor. The metallic scent of blood, the strong scent of bleach, and the stale smell of vomit mixed together made his stomach turn again. The sirens were just outside. He tentatively raised his head and peeked through the broken window to spot the red and blue flashing light passing by his window as if he didn’t exist. He breathed a sigh of relief. Not me. Not this time. It was almost laughable if it wasn’t so serious. Reggie grabbed the blood-stained cloth, dunked it in the bucket, and remained on his hands and knees scrubbing away at the unsightly blemish in his once clean store. *** “One order of vanilla and– what was it you wanted again Marla?” The old man yelled across the shop to his wife. They were new in town. Reggie could tell. He’d never seen them before. In fact, anyone that came into his store was new to the town. He wasn’t exactly known to have the world’s best ice cream. Reggie remembered when he had first opened his store and would cater ice cream socials or a school carnival. The friendly smiles of gap toothed children and their laughing parents only turned into sour faces, their enthusiasm waned into disappointment. They continued to lick their dessert but were not as happy as when they had first come to his stand. “How can you mess up ice cream?” he had heard one woman whisper. Another time a little boy, no more than five years of age, refused to eat anymore even when his parents pretended to have an airplane flying into his mouth. What kind of kid doesn’t enjoy ice cream? What kind of ice cream is that bad that even a kid won’t eat it? “It tastes wrong!” the kid exclaimed. Reggie had heard of complaints stating that the vanilla had no flavor at all and tasted like the cardboard carton it came in. His strawberry tasted closer to what vanilla should be and lacked actual strawberries. For cookies & cream, he had used a cheap, generic cookie brand rather than the Oreos that would have delighted taste buds. Who wouldn’t want some homemade ice cream? Everyone likes the down-home taste. Well, he wasn’t wrong about that, just wrong about the recipe. There had been just enough big events in this town that prevented him from hitting total bankruptcy for the first year but things hadn’t really picked up since his last order. People were leaving and no people meant no events. Instead, they were moving to the city a few hundred miles east. Tourism was at an all-time low. All of the attractions had picked up and left town, seeking more populated areas. The lack of scenery or landmarks was no help either. Reggie was barely competing with the other chains around the world, but word about his poor product quickly spread and he was running out of time to make his rent, something he hadn’t had to worry about until he began this business. Maybe she was right… *** He drifted into thinking about her. His ex-wife, how he missed her, couldn’t deal with the financial instability. “Quit?” she had yelled, eyes wide with shock and anger when he told her he was leaving his boring but stable job “Yes, I’m tired of walking in that office depressed and feeling like I’m going nowhere” “The reason we aren’t going anywhere is that you pull shit like this! Do you even have a backup plan?” He had remained silent at that statement. “Exactly!” Her back facing him, hands thrown in the air. “You didn’t think about how this would affect me– us!” Silence. “So what do you plan on doing now huh?” She had dared him to answer. “I…I saved up enough money -” “It better be millions because until then we can only live off what I got.” “For an ice cream shop,” he finished, certain in his actions. It was a strange choice in life, he’ll admit. But it’s one he felt happy with. He had a long talk within himself. And this was the choice he wanted to make with or without her. “An ice cream shop? You took our life savings….for an ice cream shop…” Her voice had fallen off into a whisper that was calm. Too calm. The kind that was beyond anger and beyond words. She had become quiet. A silence that had followed her out the door, leaving him alone in his empty house for the past year and a half. He couldn’t bear the thought of his wife leaving, but he couldn’t take the sinking feeling of depression every time he went to the office even more. She was just trying to look for a way out. Now it was Reggie’s turn to look for a way out of his mess. I just wanted to sell ice cream. How could this happen? Why me? *** He stood staring at the display case of ice cream tubs. He had moved the gun from there and thrown it into the freezer with the body. He stayed up all night cleaning the rest of the floor, not that he would’ve been able to sleep anyway. The floor was clean of vomit and red streaks, but no matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn’t get rid of the pink splotches by the window. Reggie cleaned until his fingers burned with bleach and he was about to pass out, but the blood seeped into the grout between the tiles making the chore harder on him. In the end, he opted to place the big welcome mat to the right of the door instead of its usual center. It looked weird, but nobody would come inside to notice. Perks of being unpopular I suppose… When he had finally gone home to his small apartment, sneaking upstairs after the incident, praying he didn’t run into his neighbor. He moved quietly into the entrance of his shoebox size sanctuary. It was the only thing he could afford, the store taking most of his money. It wasn’t the worst living conditions, unlike when he lived in the city as a child. Rats and roaches running around everywhere. At least here he only had to deal with roaches. That he could handle. Although now roaches are the least of my problems. The sun was just a few minutes from rising. The hardware store was still not open yet, so he had to wait as the minutes slowly ticked by. He desperately needed to change out of his pajamas. They stank with the mixture of fluids from the night. So grabbing his soiled slippers and threw them into the half-full trash bag hanging from his front door. He stripped off his clothes and did the same. Taking a deep breath he went into his bathroom and took a steaming hot shower, desperately trying to erase all traces of the woman from his body. And his mind. Someone definitely realized she was missing. The thought popped into his mind. There’s no way they can’t. Everybody knows everybody here. That made Reggie pause. Wait… do I know her? I don’t think so… What if I do? No, no there’s no way I could. He spent the better part of his morning like that, trying to quiet his thoughts with music, coffee, anything. But they just kept coming. Reggie sat in his small armchair staring at a blank television screen, unable to move I can’t go back out there You have to! How else are we going to get rid of the body? They’re suspicious. They’re all suspicious! Who’s suspicious? Who even knows what you did? I can’t. I just can’t. Well, you can’t just stay here! You’ve got to finish the job. Just let the police take me away… Reggie shook his head at the thought. No. He worked too hard to let it all go like that, especially if he didn’t even commit the crime. He stood up and quickly walked to his nightstand, filing through miscellaneous items until he found it; his lighter, a small red gun-like thing. I wonder if the gun was this small… Stop. Thoughts so gruesome would only slow his mind down. I need to hurry up. He grabbed the clothes from the bag and placed them on the stove. It was tricky sometimes, so he turned on the gas and lit it with his little torch. Reggie piled the clothes onto the stove and waited for the fabric to catch fire. He looked at the kitchen ceiling as the smoke began to gather in the air. Sunshine broke through his closed blinds as the flames glowed on his face, the brightness stinging his eyes. He refused to blink, wanting to witness every thread vanish in the heat of the fire. The kitchen was filled with thick, black smoke, and the fire alarm went off. But he refused to leave until he witnessed the complete burning. The flame rose too high. Shit! Reggie dashed to the window, throwing the blinds open and pushing the window open as wide as it could go. The smoke flowed outside making the air gray. Reggie ran to the cabinet, throwing aside all the useless pots and pans until he found his soup pot. Turning to the sink, he filled it with water and threw it into the fire. The makeshift bonfire exploded and singed his nose hairs and eyebrows. He had tried to pat the flames out but it was useless. His arms were getting tired and his vision was beginning to wane when the fire department burst in. “You need to go!” shouted one of them. “Now!” A second one grabbed his arm and dragged him outside into the corridor. Then down the stairs into the street with his neighbor. The woman next door, Kennedy he believed was her name, wearing a satin robe draped over her as she impatiently checked her phone. She was glaring at Reggie while he tried to act nonchalant while waiting for the firemen. This wasn’t the first time Reggie pissed off his neighbor and it more than likely won’t be the last. This was his second fire this month. Once he was trying to make Jiffy Pop, but the game came on and he got distracted for two minutes before the corn nearly burned the place down. “Keep an eye on your food next time you idiot!” the building manager had yelled. It took about fifteen minutes before the bulky firefighters came out giving them permission to go back inside. Reggie rushed upstairs, jumping steps two at a time to immediately check the stove for any evidence. There were a few firefighters in the kitchen gathered around the stove. NO! He moved next to them just as they looked up. One had Reggie’s pajama top in his hand with a quizzical look etched on his face. “What happened here?” He asked. It sounded accusatory to Reggie. He didn’t like it. He knows. He knows nothing. “I uh….I was cooking and my sleeve caught on fire.” The lie came too easily. The two looked at each other. “I got scared and took off my shirt. Threw it off and it landed on the stove. I tried to stop the fire,” He pointed to his now-burnt pot of water. “But it didn’t work out.” “Didn’t you know not to pour water on a gas fire?” “I just panicked.” The fireman took a deep sigh, “Stop, drop, and roll next time.” Reggie nodded sheepishly as they cleared out. The kitchen walls were covered with black soot. He’ll have to clean this up later. The smell of the apartment made him gag, it smelled like burnt cloth ..or burnt blood. He shuddered at the thought and tried to go about his routine. He moved without feeling, robotic-like. Brushing his teeth, not tasting the sting of the mint on his gums. He went to make breakfast. He stood in the middle of the kitchen staring at the scene. Black and gray streaks formed on the white cupboards like it was changing colors right before his eyes. I should’ve gone to the police. No. No! His head felt full and began to hurt with the heaviness of this argument. He dragged his feet to the front door. There’s work to be done. Step one: drive to the bank. He sped down the road, surely risking at least two tickets. The sun had fully risen and started to shine in his eyes, burning his face. He parked in the front to have a quick getaway as if he were robbing the place. He spotted the silver ATM in front of the door. Don’t be suspicious. Shut up. He put in his card, put his pin in, and looked at his account. He’s running low, not enough to make next month’s rent, barely enough to make half of it. And surely not enough to keep paying for his car. Sighing he withdrew $200. He went to his car and rushed off to step two: to the hardware store. Don’t be suspicious. Home Depot had its usual smell of wood and paint. He walked to one of the clerks in a bright orange apron. He was a short, sturdy man with red hair, surprising for an older man such as himself. Red hair like hers. “Hi, I’m making a garden for my wife. Her birthday is coming up soon and I want to surprise her. Where do you keep the shovels?” Nice one! Quiet. “Aisle fifteen,” the clerk responded, his voice had a southern accent hidden in it. “Thank you, sir. And lawn bags?” “Aisle thirteen.” “Thank you.” A wooden board, hammer, and nails he needed were in aisle four. He walked briskly to aisle thirteen, looking through all of the bags. Most were paper, barely big enough to stash a tree branch. He continued scanning the shelves until he spotted plastic bags. They’ll fit her. He snatched a box and headed to the shovel section. Quickly grabbing the first shovel he could find, he rushed to the wooden boards. You didn’t measure the window, did you? Well, it’s kinda hard when hiding a body in the dark! His eyes looked at all sorts of boards until he found one that looked about the size of his window pane at the parlor. Close enough. Hammer and nails were the last items on his list. He paid at the register with the same clerk. “Hope your wife likes the garden.” “Huh? Oh yeah. She’ll be so surprised. She’s been hinting at it for months.” “Oh I know how that goes…the wife wanted me to build a bird feeder for about a year before I actually got it done. Heaven knows why we need one…” “Really?” Reggie feigned fascination. “We don’t even really get birds in the yard, but she wanted one. She’s a bit strange, but she’s mine,” He laughed. Reggie faked his laughter, paid for his materials in cash, and rushed to his car. He remained distracted on the road until he walked through the threshold of his store. He flipped on the lights, closing his eyes for fear of what he’dsee this time. Empty. A sigh of relief. I have to get rid of the body. He pushed the shovel and bags into the broom closet and then walked to the front of his store. Holding the board, he realized it was short a couple of inches. It doesn’t matter. He began the chore of hammering the board on the broken window pane. Then tend to the rest of his shop as normal. He cleaned the counter, hands shaking. No one saw you last night. No one saw you. Just get through to closing and you’re home free. The door chimes sounded as an old couple came in. The old man and his wife stopped in front of Reggie, staring at the menu board. “Hello, how may I help you?” Reggie asked a little too loudly. “I have sensitive teeth and my dentist says I need to be careful of what I eat,” He said to himself more than to Reggie Pretty sure those are dentures. Reggie’s eyes were immediately distracted by the little old woman that wandered away from her husband and began looking around the parlor. She had thick glasses that could look through just about anything and that’s what made him jittery. She had started walking around the store looking over the pictures on the wall. His store had a 1950’s look to it: checkered tiles made up the floor with bright, red, pleather seats created the booths. There were stools at the front by the counter, much like a bar or truck-stop diner. There were pictures of America from across the decades sprinkled around the walls so it wasn’t unlike new customers to look around at the decorations. But she was looking a little too much for Reggie’s liking. What if she knows that girl? What if she knows she’s missing? What if she suspects something? “Sir?” The man interrupted his spiraling thoughts. “Huh?” “The temperature of the ice cream?” What kind of ridiculous question is that? But Reggie smiled, “Uhh zero degrees. Unless you want soft serve.” He was sure the old man would ask the temperature of the soft serve but she wasn’t listening, still distracted by the wife walking toward the spot where the body was only a few hours ago. “What kind of toppings do you have?” The man was becoming insufferable. What does she see? Reggie evened his voice and forced another smile “Nuts, gummy bears, and sprinkles.” Not many customers, so what was the point in having a lot of toppings? The man began contemplating his choice, looking at the toppings to see what he could digest. No nuts because he was allergic. No gummy bears–too sweet. No sprinkles because something about it getting caught in between his chompers. Then he went into a long-drawn-out story about why he and his wife were in town. Something about traveling across the states in an RV. It took all Reggie could muster not to scream at the man to shut up. It went on and on…All for just plain vanilla in a cup. “Marla, what do you want?” The man asked his wife a little louder than necessary. Marla didn’t respond, instead looking at the window with a large board covering it up. A sign with a picture of a smiling ice cream cone saying “Oops we have a spill. Please be cautious” hung from it. Technically not a lie, just glass, and a body spilled, rather than a child’s melted cone. “Marla!” The old man yelled, capturing both of their attention. She looked at her husband in confusion. “What do you want?” He repeated his question. “Oh you know, my usual,” she said, turning back to the window. Reggie began to sweat, looking below the woman’s feet at the mat. I’ll have to try again later. “Yes, so one large vanilla in a cup, and one small Neapolitan in a waffle cone,” The man continued, not noticing the distraction in Reggie’s eyes. That’s when Reggie finally heard the order. Neapolitan?! The sudden weight of the man’s words made the scoop heavier in Reggie’s hand. “One moment. It’s in the back, not many people order it,” he mumbled to keep his voice from trembling. Keep calm, they don’t know anything. He nearly sprinted to the back freezer but breathed slowly and walked to the back briskly. He opened the freezer door, the cold temperature was nothing compared to the ice-cold blood that ran through his veins. There she was. Shoved crookedly between the containers. Her head lay on top of the Neapolitan container. Her eyes were still wide open, staring at her shooter. The crimson river that flowed from her head-hole had become frozen to her forehead like a waterfall stuck in place. He carefully shifted her head off the container lid as he moved to open the ice cream. A thick, frozen, red stream sealed the lid to the bucket. His stomach turned at the horrific image, it almost made him vomit again. “Uh, sir my ice cream?” Marla called, her head poking over the counter. “Coming right up,” he answered just loud enough for her to barely hear him. With a little more effort the lid was forced open. He grabbed the warmed scoop and hurried to fill the woman’s cone. He turned to face his customer, handing the little old woman her ice cream cone when he spotted it all too late. The strawberry part of her treat had bits of red in it. His eyes swelled in horror as the couple finished paying for their order. He wanted to tell her that the ice cream spoiled, been contaminated, anything to get her to stop licking her cone. Calm down. Calm. Down. It could just be the strawberries poking out. But he knew he was lying to himself. He tried not to gag as Marla’s tongue slurped the red flakes, leaving spots of it on the corner of her lips. Reggie stared, mouth agape. When they finished, they cleaned up their spot and left the store. He held back a shutter as the two walked out of the store into the summer heat. He didn’t stop her. Why didn’t he stop her? Because cannibalism is bad for business. Nyla Jones is currently an Honors Senior English/Creative Writing major, French and playwriting minor at Howard University in Washington D.C. She is studying to become an author, poet, and scriptwriter. In 2015, her poem “Darkness” was published in the anthology, Emerging Voices, which explores the voices of teenagers all around Montgomery County, Maryland. Since then, she has had her poems in Howard University’s Sterling Notes.