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I try to look cool like the girls I’ve seen you drive around before. Trying to pretend the sweat beading my forehead is my natural dew and I’m glowing like the girls that are on the covers of the magazines you keep hidden in a box under your bed so your mother doesn’t find them. This– right here– is what people sing about on that playlist of love songs you gave me. Real music with a message that is too complicated for anyone else to understand. I think I am beginning to outgrow all my friends. But when I talk to you you introduce me to so many new things, you’re the smartest person I know. We take long drives on the weekends and during the weekdays you show me the best places to sneak off campus, we sit in your car and I stare at the lines of your face until the gray smoke you blow stings my eyes, but I don’t mind, I think I’d sit comfortably in the seventh layer of hell if it meant I could sit with you. Sometimes I wish we could be that far from everyone and I wouldn’t have to listen to everyone’s opinion but they just don’t know you as I do. “You’re not like anyone I have ever met before.” My body went numb when you said that, every hair on edge. It felt like taking a deep breath before diving into water. Days in the sun with you are forever where I want to be. The wind starts to blow colder and we are no longer laughing with the windows down. Even though summer is over I still have you to keep me warm as I watch frost slowly creep on the windows. Leaves fall and trees become barren and I want to say everything is the same but things look so much more different now that the sun isn’t in my eyes. I have to cover up to protect myself from the chill– but nothing has left me shivering more than facing your cold indifference. The girls who came before me watch me walk down the halls with knowing looks as pitiful frowns grace their identical lips. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realize how similar my frown has become to theirs. I drown myself in layers upon layers, but I still feel as bare as the trees who have been robbed of their leaves. Trees begin to stir back to life as spring comes in full bloom and I see you picking green girls not telling them you have no interest in them once they become ripe and will leave them to rot in the dirt. But, it is nice to see the flowers and leaves come back to the once-dead trees. What was once dull and gray has been brought back to life– but the dead leaves are still on the ground, staring at the foliage that is as green as their envy Spring passes, and I walk through the summer heat and you slow down beside me and offer a ride. I say yes, I don’t know why, but I’ve done things that don’t quite make sense when I’m with you. Maybe you missed me terribly during the winter too and the spring fruit you devoured didn’t satiate your cravings. Maybe you had to try it all before you realized right beside me is where you should be. I hiss as my thighs make contact with the hot leather and the heat makes sweat drip in my eyes and I feel so terrible the whole ride I can’t believe I ever enjoyed this. I look at you and see that too many days in the sun have deepened the lines on your face and leathered your skin. I want the summer to fill me with sickening joy like before. I want to feel as bright and colorful as the leaves and flowers that cover our landscape, but the foliage from last summer has died and fallen off. The leaves that hang on the trees now are new, the flowers have bloomed new petals. It is summer again but I am no longer a sweet summer child. I tell you to drop me off a few blocks from my house, and you can’t understand why I don’t find joy in the same things we used to do before. I can’t help but feel a twinge of pity that I feel for you. Poor Peter Pan can’t understand why I want to leave Neverland. But, more than that– I can’t even imagine how silly I must’ve looked driving around next to you. Kevina Wright is from San Diego, California. Kevina is 21 years old and focused on narrative fiction.

Beautiful Sorrow Hollow Decay in Bloom Luminosity I'll See Jelly Daisy I Am the Final Girl The End Sadee Bee (she/her) is ever-evolving, as living with mental illness is never a straight line, and she hopes to be a voice and advocate for those like her. She also uses art as an outlet, creating whatever comes to mind, and is heavily drawn to speculative and out-of-this-world elements. She is inspired by strange dreams, magic, and creepy vibes. Twitter: @SadeeBee Instagram: @sadee__bee Website: sadeebeeauthor.com Etsy: artbysadeebee.etsy.com

Bucket list(s) i. Things to do/achieve list 2019 Go horse-riding Learn how to play the guitar Learn a new language Buy a (very) nice party outfit Learn how to change my car’s tyre(s) Bake bread Watch a play at the theatre Donate/volunteer at/for a shelter/charity Go skydiving Ride a motorcycle See the northern lights Get a tarot card reading done Go to Japan (take many many photographs) Make pizza at home Get a poem featured by a literary magazine/journal/website Buy a (proper) fitting bra Lose some weight (maybe 5 kg) Go for shooting training Learn archery Go on a helicopter Go on a train Learn how to roller-skate Go on a hot air balloon ii. Things to do/achieve list 2020 Learn how to play the guitar Learn a new language Learn how to change my car’s tyre(s) Go skydiving Ride a motorcycle See the northern lights Get a poem featured by a literary magazine/journal/website Go for shooting training Learn archery Learn how to roller-skate Go on a hot air balloon Try to leave the house at least once a week Be more grateful Pray that the people you care about survive iii. Things to do/achieve list 2021 Pray for the people you care about Find my purpose in life Being accepted for who I am (completely) Being loved despite who I am (completely) Can you hear me? Moulding Protective mechanism caused by an abrupt change makes them unpalatable. We human call shock a burning match under the tip of a leaf in rapid succession s l o w l y up, d o w n, like watching in slow motion, pain or any emotions – they seek the light – rise, straighten or bend as gravity dictates. Adjust. Must adapt. Grow. Burrowing with rain; decaying, the good will support, but when the demand become too great nothing concrete; – an abstraction – utterly unreliable and changing, neither can possibly say how much rain will fall unpredictable, changeable. Every day. Every night. Shiksha Dheda is a South African of Indian descent. She uses writing to express her OCD and depression roller-coaster ventures, but mostly to avoid working on her master's degree. Sometimes, she dabbles in photography, painting, and baking lopsided layered cakes. Her writing has been featured (on/forthcoming) in Wigleaf, Passages North, Brittle Paper, Door is a jar and Epoch Press amongst others. She is the Pushcart nominated author of Washed Away (Alien Buddha Press, 2021). She currently has chapbooks published with The Daily Drunk Mag and Fahmidan Publishing & Co. She rambles annoyingly at Twitter: @ShikshaWrites. You can find (or ignore her) at https://shikshadheda.wixsite.com/writing

If someone asks, "Are you with me?" then you say yes, or a-ha; something to show that you are with them, because this is how they know they haven’t been left to manage the present by themselves. If you were to ask most people, most people would say they rather not go it alone, they would rather have someone with them to help them cope with the chaos. And here, it’s a demand that you never put yourself outside of the present because it’s all one really has. The crows cawing in the distance, the man stopping traffic to open his trunk and sweep small clouds of dust out, the barefoot child cackling up the dirt road and you watching it all on top of your balcony contemplating whether or not you should jump off. This is the present, and if I can let myself admit it, I must say, it sucks. Grandma doesn't like that I’ve been dreary like this for most of the month. When she sees me sitting with a blanket over my head watching downloaded movies on my laptop she pokes me through my shield asking, "Why are you in darkness, Tata?" The dark bags under her eyes pull her skin down, adding more texture to her face. I won’t answer her because I'm not sure if I'll end my vow to stay present. It’s because I’m not strong like you, ok? She snatches the blanket from my body. "Go sit outside.” She says. “Let the air rejuvenate you. It is well." I feel like she’s ripped me out of a womb but I don’t cry. Instead, I trudge out to the veranda and sit in the white plastic chair. I hear bristles brush against the tiles in a rhythmic swish-swish hum underneath me. The chair is coated in dust but I plop myself down and look through the metal bars. Papa drops his broom on the ground and limps to the men putting barbed wire around the fence. His name is Papa but he isn’t my father. He’s an elderly man who wears an old black newsboy cap that’s as worn as he is. His main job is to open and shut the gate, although he’s usually quite grumpy and never wants to actually get up to open or shut the gate. For a month he’s taken to sweeping one particular area in front of the balcony, going over it again and again while he tortures himself standing on his bum knee. He insists on being the one that sweeps and the one that bears the pain. "Go get a ladder now!" He says to a boy in a ripped red and white wife beater. Back in the states that's what we'd call what the boy’s wearing, a wife beater. But here I think they would just call it a shirt. He can't be more than fifteen but he has muscles that are twice the size of my fist. "You are very stupid! How you go bring men but no bring extra ladder? Are you stupid?" Papa’s developed a habit for shouting like a maniac, lately. He was once a gentle man who never spoke above a mumble. Daniel, the manager of the house, goes to see what the trouble is. He's also short but unlike Papa, he’s light on his feet. He’s fashionable too, wearing a fade. "Go bring ladder, now." He says, coming to the old man’s defense. But when one of the workers says it's 1000 naira to use a ladder from the house further up the dirt road, Daniel loses his calm and yells. He calls the boy an illiterate. When Daniel’s not yelling, or watching Papa’s back, he’s an apologetic mess, cornering me in the house whenever he can to say, “Ma, sorry for not being there. I had a lot to do that day.” He had been sent to Wuse market that day and no one could reach him because his phone was switched off. Grandma nearly drove him out of the compound with a shovel, and he got on his knees to beg for his job, his knees covered in specks of sand. “Daniel, it’s not your fault.” I said. “We’re all hurting.” But I wasn’t sure if I meant this, really. Had you answered your phone, Grandma would have yelled at you and it would have put her at ease. Everyone needs a punching bag when devastation hits. He had kept his head down as I spoke, and I had hoped I had reassured him. The boy in the wife beater rubs the back of his head and walks up the dirt road to get the ladder. His long arms are like paddles propelling him forward. The other men, I believe there are three, continue. I imagine how it will look when they are done; the barbed wire curling above the gate like a snake. "Tata, there's ogbonno and amala," Grandma says. She walks over, barefoot, putting an arm over the curved rails to lean over. She likes taking off her sandals for comfort at times, this instance being one such moment. "You should eat." In the past week I have not eaten much, maybe I'm averaging one meal a day. I barely drink water, which means I keep peeling dead skin off my lips. I did eat biscuits yesterday though. Those Pure Bliss milk cookies are good no matter the heartache. Yesterday Grandma said she noticed my backside was going down. "Are you sure?" I said in disbelief. "Just a month and I'm already losing my yansh?" Grandma yanked me by the arm like I was a rag doll, ordering me to turn so she could assess my behind. "Yes o." She said, taking a good look. "Better eat your rice." She's not so lighthearted today, and calls for Blessing to bring the food. "Put the table in front of her. Right here." She motions to the lithe girl with the rainbow clogs where the tray must go. Blessing’s feet must have bricks in them, because she moves as if she’d rather be asleep. She likes to vanish in the house for hours, and no one bugs her because we know where she hides. It’s the spare room on the third floor of the house. The room where Dad stayed to get better and then where Mom stayed to cry. Each time the room was vacant, Grandma would order Blessing to clean it well. Now she stays there when she can, sitting on the floor playing a game on my old phone. "Am I paying you to be Miss Slow Poke?" Grandma shouts. Shouting is the usual for Grandma. Her stock and trade. She points a wrinkled finger to the food that has just been set down, slicing her arm in my direction like a karate chop, she gives her command. “Eat.” I look at the ogbonno with the piece of Titus poking out. It looks like a bowl of brown snot. I tear off the amala and scoop soup with it, letting the goop coat my fingers. Grandma grunts in approval and walks away. Blessing watches, rolling her eyes like she can’t be bothered. She’s been given to rolling her eyes lately. “Aunty, this life no go kill me,” she said this yesterday morning while making my bed. This is when I told her she better be careful with her attitude. That if she wasn’t careful Grandma would kill her. I mean really kill her. I warned her that Grandma’s love could easily teeter into rage. The girl straightened the bed sheet, tucking the cloth under the bed. “Aunty, like I said. This life no go kill me.” She then stood with one arm by her side and the other arm raised to point to the black and blue bruise circling her right eye. When it was fresh it looked like someone had painted purple and red on her face. I averted my gaze, unable to look. She now watches me as I chew the fish, swallowing the sludge in my mouth. “Aunty, if you don’t eat, save for me. Dis food sweet, well well.” She cooked the meal herself and can eat her way through any grief. She walks away, leaving me to myself. The boy in the wife beater walks down the road carrying the ladder with another man. Papa stands up from his chair under the roof of the tiny shed that sits behind the gate and begins shouting, telling the workers to move faster, to hurry, to stop wasting time, which doesn’t make sense because all we have is time. Daniel paces the perimeter to ensure the men putting in the barbed wire do a good job. We agreed that the barbed wire should be high enough to keep unwanted persons out, especially those who could climb walls made of cracked brick and carry themselves up and over a barricade. *** Grandpa had wanted the fence wrapped in barbed wire for more than a decade, but we never got around to it. He said it was bad luck to build the family house on an incline, said Dad should have built the compound on flat land so those living above us couldn’t peer down and see what we had. “Those boys that live on top of us are getting bigger. Youth are cruel when they’re hungry. And the country’s getting worse, sha. We’re naked here. They’re seeing our buttocks and inside our thighs.” That was Grandpa, crude until his death. I’d visit every year with my parents during the Christmas holiday and the families who lived on the hills above us were always there, living in what looked to be tin boxes with dirty white buckets lined across their makeshift houses. From what I recall, all the women in the area were mothers, the fathers were few, and most of the children were boys, except for one or two girls. Occasionally, I’d give one of the children a small bag of peanuts wrapped in plastic on my way to buy data with Grandma. I’ve always been good with faces, and I knew who each child belonged to. The one child I especially enjoyed giving peanuts to never smiled much, always staring at me quizzically when we walked by. He appeared curious about life which endeared me to him. He’d snatch the peanuts from my hand and hide behind his mother, poking his head out from her leg to observe me from a safe distance. When he got tired I’d watch his mother wrap fabric to tie him on her back. He had to be about three years old, and I was about twelve. Grandma said she knew most of the mothers in the area, and those mothers and their families kept to themselves, save for the times they walked or ran on the dirt road and gave their greetings. “Stop giving them things,” Grandpa said, scolding us whenever we got back. “Do they look like dogs you give biscuits to when you are feeling nice? They are human. Humans with needs. See, eh? This house we live in makes the mouth water. You let them come close, one day they won’t hesitate to come closer.” Grandma would wave him off, defiantly. “Shut up your mouth. God’s watching over this house.” He’d grumble to the tv while he sat on the couch shaking his head. The house had been there before I was born. When I was younger I felt tiny compared to the house which appeared to be like a large and sprawling giant. I always had to jump to sit on the furniture as I could never reach it. But as I got older, the house started to look different. It needed painting, and the cushions of the couch I used to break my back to get on had deep grooves in them and were no longer so comfortable to sit on. It was too large to maintain. But Dad loved to boast about how he was the only son who could buy a family house. He would boast that even his oldest brother couldn’t do that, and Mom would scold him for showing off, said his brother could feel his arrogance and was probably trying to find a way to put him in his place. When we went to see…We ended up traveling to see Grandma in February because we were too busy to fly during the holiday. There had been reports of people dying from a strange virus that had started in China and was now spreading to other countries. Grandma said it was the white man’s disease and that it wouldn’t hit Nigeria. She said this to my Dad to protest his insistence that she stay indoors and keep away from crowded areas, especially the markets. But Grandma, as old as she was, loved the markets and since no one was really there to watch her, she did as she liked. That’s when Dad said we should get one-way tickets to see how things went when we got there. Getting a one-way ticket seemed final somehow, and I always appreciated the feeling of getting a round-trip ticket, knowing there was proof that I could always go back, but I saw Dad’s concern and put my own concerns to rest. When things got worse, Grandma wanted us to fly back to Maryland, but I had just told Dad about a dream where I saw blood dripping from the metal bars of the balcony and he said, “We’re staying.” Grandma begged for Dad to put everyone on a plane, but he said it was better to stay and burn white prayer candles. “You have to watch your health,” he said, “And if we leave, you’ll be alone. Everyone else is in a different state.” Grandma protested, said “Nothing will kill me, I’m fine,” but when she saw Dad wouldn’t budge she changed her tactic. “Send your pikin home, then. The country is getting worse. This soft girl won’t last. What does she know about this life past festival season?” She pulled her chair closer to me, giving me a once over. “I’m staying put.” I said, matching her stare down with my own. She shook a wrinkled finger at my nose. “No. You don’t understand.” She said, trying to talk to my Dad to make the final call. But I, having had the dream of blood didn’t flinch, “I’m not leaving.” I said. And then I said nothing more because I knew she was right. Dad, who was never at ease if he didn’t have Grandma’s approval, tried his best to appeal to her. “If we leave,” he said, “we’ll be turning in one problem for what could be a more dangerous one.” But Grandma, being the wisest of us all asked, “What could be more dangerous than death?” Mom, our resident skeptic, was never one to indulge my dreams. It’s not that she wasn’t a believer, it was more that she had adopted the logic of the West. I must see it to believe it. If it wasn’t yet seen then the supernatural could be rebuked or thwarted for another time. She ran her hands through my braids, probably to comfort herself more than me, “Tata’s always had these dreams. They’ve never been dangerous. Let’s not worry.” That was mother, never interjecting herself in her mother-in-law and husband’s spats. She rubbed my hand with hers and I admired how smooth hers were. She looked at my father. “We’ll stay. I wouldn’t want to be without you all at a time like this.” Dad put his hands behind his head and leaned back in the chair. Two pit stains in perfect ovals had darkened his gray shirt. His arms that were once solid now jiggled in some areas. He had first seen Mom at a Catholic church in Maryland, when she was more solid herself. Dad, perhaps recalling those days, took one hand from behind his head to tap her hand while he turned his gaze away from her. He was always cavalier in his affection, but after forty years of marriage she never seemed to mind. “We thought Ebola was bad, but this, I don’t know. A virus that constricts the lungs? I tell you, not my cup of tea.” He said, ending his sentence with a tsk tsk to emphasize his disdain. He was watching CNN, the BBC, and Arise as much as he watched the televangelist channels, reciting the numbers of the dead and the gruesome details of people who had coughed themselves to death in overcrowded hospitals. “I hate it myself but it’s best to stay calm. See how things work out. God always finds a way.” Mom said this, but she didn’t sound as certain as she usually did. Grandma, disagreeing with Mom, stood to go to the kitchen though everyone knew she had no real work there. These two disagreed on many things, and when one was in disagreement the other would walk away. On her way to the kitchen Grandma spoke loud enough for us to hear before the door shut behind her. “This Covid no go kill this old woman. I’ll survive it, sha. But this Covid -- hear me well -- it will kill. It’ll beat the lungs purple and blue.” Mom flashed a glare at the kitchen door. Dad looked to Mom and fixed his gaze, letting his hand rest on top of hers. He titled his head back and whistled, maintaining some levity. “Ah! I thought everyone was saying 2020 would be humanity’s best year. Kai! What a year to retire, eh?” He laughed well that day, and we joined him, thinking it wouldn’t catch us. He died a month later, complained that a snake wrapped itself around his lungs and that there was nothing he could do about it. *** The month after Dad died robbers had entered the compound. They climbed over the wall, one by one, jumping from a hill. Not one of them broke a bone, which made me wonder what they were made out of. It was four of them I think, but Grandma says she knows they were five. Mom was sleeping and I didn’t want to wake her. They scurried about the compound, two of them running to where the generator was in the back, and the other two running to get inside the house. Grandma stood on the balcony. “Get out!” She said, screaming. “May God punish you!” Papa was chasing one boy in a red hoodie with a shovel, aiming the blade at his face. The boy grinned as the old man jabbed the weapon at his heart. “I’ll beat you. Beat you well.” Papa said, adamant about the matter, and if you had seen his face, you may have believed he could have won. He lunged the blade to strike, but the boy stuck his leg out tripping the old man who fell forward on his knees, rolled over on his back, and yelped. The boys at the back of the house were talking, don’t ask me how I heard them, but one said the generator was too big to carry. Grandma’s shouts turned to screeching, a sound that mimicked the birds who crowed wildly when the sun was out. Mom stood on the balcony behind me, screaming. She wasn’t a yeller, so her voice began to croak. She had woken up from her sleep. “Tata, get out of there. Do you hear me? Run!” I was outside, unable to move, but I could watch and hear everything. The quiet and calculated chatter of the robbers, Grandma’s screeching mixing with the cawing birds, the clanging of pots and chairs coming from the house. I could even feel Papa’s pain too in one knee. The boy in the hoodie walked towards me and another boy followed, rushing ahead to grab my shoulder. Mom and Grandma argued. Can’t you hear Blessing fighting them in the kitchen, if you go down you won’t make it outside. Don’t tell me what to do old woman, they’ll hurt her. You can’t go, she’s in God’s hands. I’ve lost a husband, what more? Papa tried to move towards me, sliding on his back, doing his best to protest the oncoming assault. The noises were fast becoming one, and Mom’s words came out in jagged bits. Don’t touch her. If you do, blood. If you do, blood. I was sure the boy in the red was a boy I had seen. His once pudgy face harsher and more defined than before. I closed my eyes when another hand grabbed my shoulder. When I heard a large thud and Grandma’s screeching no longer sounded like a bird crowing, but became the exact noise of a crowing bird, my eyes opened. Horror swept the face of the boy in red. The other boy who was a bit taller spoke, maintaining some calm. “Get out.” He must have clued the rest of them to flee, as they climbed up the wall, carrying a battery, a Jerry can, lights, containers of cassava, garri, and a 24-pack of toilet roll. They also took rice, all the rice. When I turned around I saw a body splayed out on the tiles, arms and legs spread out like a star. Grandma stood on the balcony flailing her fists, yelping like Papa. She’d go on to say my mother made a sacrifice. That her heart gave out before the fall. God’s mercy, she’d call it. And when I asked what happened to Blessing, she told me that Blessing made her sacrifice too. “But you,” Grandma said, looking weaker than before. “Your sacrifice starts now. You’re an orphan. You have to focus yourself, now. That’s the only thing that can be done.” *** A man comes with a medium sized pail filled with cement to seal in the cracks between the bricks. He’s somewhere in age between the boy in the wife beater and Papa, not too old, not too young. I sit on the balcony, watching Papa follow the locksmith like a shadow, his neck craning over the poor man’s shoulder. Daniel has gone to get something from town, “My phone is on, ma.” He says, “I’ll be quick.” I gave Blessing the rest of the amala and ogbonno, knowing she’d appreciate it more than I could. Grandma doesn’t like this about me, she says it’s because my parents never raised me to appreciate the small things, but she says that now I must learn. When the birds stop their noise Grandma walks to me, barefoot. She rests her hand on my shoulder. “Still out here, hmm?” She asks, content that I have stayed outside. I nod. “Yea.” We listen to Papa who’s outside the wall, knowing that though we can’t see him, he is yelling at the man sealing the bricks. “Pack in the cement well!” he orders. Grandma laughs a little, patting my shoulder before she walks inside the house. “I’m going to rest.” She doesn’t enter the house until I answer her. Daniel runs up the road carrying a black nylon and he enters the gate. He waves up at me. “Ma, I’m back” he says, hurrying to get the words out. “I’m here.” I give him a wave and cross my legs, looking out to the hills. There, I hear children laughing and squabbling, unwilling to contain their noise. I think this moment is a nice one, but then I spot a few of them who have ran from behind a tree and now see me. A shorter kid whispers to a taller kid and points to the men putting the barbed wire in. They watch and give me a proper greeting while I consider the time we have left. Itoro Bassey is a Nigerian-American writer, journalist, and educator. She has received writing fellowships from the Vermont Studio Center, the San Francisco Writers Grotto, and The Edward Albee Foundation, among others. Some of her popular pieces of writing include Running, Anti-Blackness and the African Immigrant, and A Visitor in My Homelands. She has just debuted her first novel, Faith, which follows several generations of Nigerian women grappling with migration, ancestry, and spirituality. She was living in Kenya and Nigeria for five years before relocating to Washington DC to work at the BBC as a producer and journalist.

“Next question! If a man with a white van pulls up next to you and asks you if you want some candy, what do you say?” “Why of course I’ll love some candy, kind man! Could I also take a spin in your sweet ride? I heard there’s nothing like cruising in a white van with no tags, I’m sure you won’t unalive me,” I deadpanned. They both glared at me, but neither could stop the grin that took over their faces afterward. My mother slapped my arm. “My Child, oh God help me,” she managed to get out between laughs. “Okay in all seriousness, I left the emergency numbers on the fridge. If you need anything, call us and if you’re unable to reach us, Beatrice is also just a call away. Don’t open the doors for anyone you don’t know. You can have a few friends over, but don’t go crazy. Be safe and make smart decisions, Mercedes.” Dan was all business now as he handed me some money and with a kiss on my cheek, headed out the door. Mom walked up to me and held me in a tight embrace, “I love you darling, and we’ll see you soon.” And just like that she was out the door. I ran to the window and watched Dan's BMW i8 speed out the driveway. I waited a full 15 minutes before I called Keisha. “Hey girl,” answered Keisha's raspy voice. “The parents are gone and the party tonight is a go!” —----------------------------------------------- I don’t know what I was thinking when I decided that throwing a party was a good idea. All three of my closest friends had shown up to help make sure this was a night to remember, and that was chaotic in itself. When my mom married Dan three years ago, my life was uprooted from Boyz n the Hood to Clueless, and my friends reflected that. Keisha had been my girl since I was 5 years old when some boy had been tugging at my hair and she pushed him off the swing set in retaliation. Ten years later and Keisha still didn’t mess around when it came to me, she was my ROD and my sister, no blood was necessary. Olivia and Tracey were the two blonde girls that took me in when I transferred to East Middle School in seventh grade and had no friends. I had sat alone at lunch for two months as with my background, I was even too black for the black kids that had grown up in the suburbs all their lives. One day, my mom grew tired of my sulking and forced me to go to a cheerleading interest meeting, and being the only two girls that could do a back handspring, Olivia and I bonded. After that day, she invited me to her lunch table which sat Tracey and a few other people. Olivia, Tracey and I soon became inseparable. Olivia and I ended up making the team and just like that I became very known, and with my new friends, the new school wasn’t so terrible anymore. I remember introducing them to each other thinking since I loved all of them they would love each other. That was so far from the truth. Olivia and Tracey were uncomfortable with Keisha, always flinching when she was too loud and seemingly unable to hold her gaze. One time they told me they thought she was too aggressive. Keisha claimed they’re racists and are only tolerable of me because I’m a pretty rich black girl that waves pom poms for fun. I think they all need to get over themselves. And for the sake of this party, that’s what they were doing. “Ahhhhh, omg omg! Cedes, Nathan just rsvp’d to the party,” exclaimed Olivia referencing the cute musician I had recently found myself crushing on. “No way, let me see!” responded Tracey as they both knew I had it bad for the Latinx hottie. “It’s no big deal,” I said with a wave of my hands, refusing to look up as the huge smile on my face would give up the nonchalant act. “Who’s Nathan?” “Shut up! Shut up! You know you loveeeeeee him. Nathan is so cute! ‘Do you think Nathan noticed me today? I wore this outfit just for him,’' Olivia mocked me. I hadn’t been able to shut up about him for months now. That boy was the finest thing high school had to offer. “WHO’S NATHAN,” screamed Keisha. Olivia and Tracey went silent immediately but I didn’t miss the roll of Tracey's eyes. “It’s nothing Keish, just some boy I like,” I responded gently. “And I your best friend am just hearing about this, wow. He better not be white.” “He’s not,” I defended. “And why does that matter?” asked Tracey, full of annoyance. “It just does, and I ask that you please stay out of black women's business, Mercedes understands,” Keisha rebutted without sparing the girl a glance. This was not going well at all, and with the party only a few hours away, I needed them to not fight. I knew there was only one thing that could do the trick. “Girls follow me to my closet for a pleasant surprise.” Everybody was on edge but they followed me anyway. When I revealed what was in my closet, eyes widened, and smiles broke out. Bottles filled with tequila, rum, vodka, and any liquor I thought to tell the cute senior with a fake that had obtained these precious commodities for me. “Now that’s what I’m talking about, let's get this party started!!” screamed Olivia, and we all, including Keisha, cheered. —-------------------------------------------- After hours of drinking, games, and dancing, the last of my guests left the party around 3 a.m., and my girls and I found ourselves alone again. The party was a success and I knew it would be the talk of the school come Monday morning. I almost couldn’t wait to ride that high of endless praise that was sure to come. First I had to tackle the mess that the party had left behind. Thankfully, my girls had all told their parents that they were sleeping over at mine. And as they were my ride or dies, they were helping me out with cleaning. I was on backyard duty, Olivia was on kitchen duty, Keisha was on living room duty, and Tracey was on bathroom duty. I was picking up garbage in the backyard when I heard a blood-curdling scream come from the bathroom. I dropped everything and ran as fast as I could. Was Tracey okay? Both Keisha and Olivia had also heard the scream and were in front of the bathroom when I arrived. Olivia pushed the door open and what I saw made me stop in my tracks. Tracey was crying hysterically next to a girl that was slumped over on the bathroom floor. She had light brown skin and looked to have been throwing up in the toilet before she passed out. The stench was all-consuming and the girl was unmoving. I recognized the girl. She was from my old neighborhood. I tried to rack my brain for a name but couldn’t come up with anything. “Is she…” asked Olivia hesitantly as her voice trailed off. “I don’t know! I don’t know,” responded Tracey still in hysterics “Calm down,” demanded Keisha. “Move out the way and let me check her pulse.” She put two fingers to the girl's neck. “She’s breathing but it’s extremely faint,” came Keisha with the final verdict. We all gasped in relief. At least she was alive. “Okay that’s good, I’ll call the cops so they can get her to the hospital,” I said while beginning to dial the number on my phone. Olivia hit the phone out of my hand. “You can’t do that,” she exclaimed. Tracey and I looked at her in pure shock, mouths agape. “What the fuck do you mean that I can’t do that Liv, what do you want me to do?!” “I don’t know! Just not that! This is bad, like really bad, Cedes. If we call the cops and she doesn’t make it, there’s no going back from this,” said Olivia with a crazy look in her eye that I had never seen before. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, Olivia. We can’t just let a girl die,” Tracey burst out. “Not let her die, just….” Olivia faltered. “She’s right,” Keisha spoke up. “If this girl is found dead in your house, we’re fucked. Me and you, Cedes, more than the others.” If this were another situation, I would’ve jumped for joy. Keisha and Olivia had never agreed on anything. I, however, was mortified. Who were these people and what did they do with my best friends? What they were suggesting was unimaginable, actually, what were they suggesting? Tracey voiced my thoughts, “What are you guys saying?” Keisha and Olivia looked at each other like they finally understood the other and said in unison, “No cops!” “You guys are crazy. There’s no way we could not involve the cops when there’s a person in this condition in my house,” I said. “Exactly. Your house. And not even your house. Dan’s house. How quickly do you think it’ll take Dan to toss you and your mom aside when the news is reporting a dead girl found at his house during his stepdaughter's party? Forget that. Do you think you’ll be able to continue living in this town, finish high school, and go to college? Hell, you may even end up in jail especially if the cops were to check your alcohol level. This would be bad for all of us, but it will absolutely ruin your life, Cedes. This is your house,” said Olivia looking me in the eyes without missing a beat. Tears filled my eyes because she was right. This scandal would ruin everything my mom worked hard for, the better life she always wanted for me. Keisha took a sharp intake before continuing Olivia’s monologue, “Not only that, Cede, but you’ll be the black girl from the hood that threw a ghetto rave and got somebody killed. That’s what they expect of us, don’t give it to them.” “I don’t agree with not involving the cops at all but they’re right, this falls on you, Cedes. Whatever happens, you’ll get the worst of it. The decision is yours,” added Tracey. I always viewed myself as a good person that made moral decisions, but I somehow found my mouth moving, and the words that came out discredited any good deed I’d ever done in my life. “Okay, no cops” Tracey and Keisha audibly gave sighs of relief. “So what’s next,” asked Tracey “We have to get her out of here,” responded Keisha. “And do what with her exactly?” “Okay, I got it. She’s still alive and I doubt she’ll die. She probably just drank too much alcohol. We could drop her at the hospital, and they’ll just have to, like, pump her stomach or something. Everything works out, we don’t have to call the cops to your place and get in trouble for underage drinking, and she’ll be good as new tomorrow,” exclaimed Olivia. I looked at her in disbelief, did she think this was a Disney movie? I seemed to be the only person that hadn’t completely lost my mind because the other girls were nodding their heads in approval. “Okay so we drop off a half-dead girl at a hospital, and just drive away, no regard for cameras, just vibes?” I pointed out the gaping hole in this plan. “We don’t need to worry about cameras, Cedes. I know her, she’s from home, and nobody will be looking for her,” said Keisha solemnly, “And when they find out what’s wrong with her, it’ll be obvious that there’s no foul play involved.” The sad thing was I believed her. Whatever happened to this girl, nobody would care. “Alright, so let's do this. I’m going to start my car and make sure it’s good to go. You three bring the girl to the car. After that, Tracey, you stay here and clean, we need a cover just in case. Keisha and Cedes, come with me to the hospital.” “Why I gotta go?” Keisha protested. “I need you to drive. Tracey can’t drive yet. Cedes and I will stay in the back with the girl and make sure she’s okay, and when we get to the hospital, we’ll carry her to the bench as we’re the strongest, got it? “Got it.” “Got it.” “Got it” —---------------------------------------------- Keisha checked the girl's pulse before we left, and she still had a heartbeat. We sped on the freeway to get to the hospital. I kept praying that everything would be okay. Keisha cut the trip in half getting to the hospital in eight minutes rather than the usual 15. When we pulled up to the edge of the white hospital building, the girl looked more gray than brown and her body felt cold to the touch. I had never felt a human being that cold. I copied the move I had seen Keisha pull earlier and checked for a pulse. I couldn’t find one. “Guys Guys! I don’t feel a pulse! Why don’t I feel a pulse? Am I doing something wrong? Keisha, please check!” I almost screamed at the top of my lungs. Keisha felt around for her pulse and tears filled her eyes. “She’s fine, go put her on the bench,” whispered Keisha urgently, not sounding like she quite believed her own words. Olivia also had silent tears streaking her face and had been whispering to herself that we were doing the right thing the entire car ride to the hospital. I pretended that I didn’t hear her. I looked at the girl knowing this image would forever be frozen in my mind. This girl’s last memory would be of a party of someone who couldn’t even remember her name. Olivia and I struggled to carry the girl to the wooden bench fifteen feet away from the entrance that read in bright red letters, Emergency. She seemed to have gained a hundred pounds in the last ten minutes, as though she were weighed down by our sins. The two of us attempted to prop her up on the bench, but the girl’s body didn’t cooperate so we ended up putting her in an awkward laying down position where her legs hung over the side and it appeared as if she would fall over and topple onto the ground at any moment. I glanced at the two empty ambulances not far from the benches, and the various cars spread throughout the parking lot, and realized that time wasn’t on our side. In the dark of the night where our faces were only being illuminated by a sole street light, it felt as if we were alone, but looking at the building of finality, I knew that was far from the truth. It would only take one heartbroken mother coming out for air, a nurse coming out for a smoke break, or a security guard patrolling the area, for our entire world to crumble. Olivia and I locked eyes, and I knew she had come to the same conclusion. We turned our back to the girl and ran away without a second glance convincing ourselves she would be saved and that we were good people.

We're all lips and limbs under a velvet blanket when my crush's mother barges in, she’s all hands when she yells whaddya youse doing, he’s all mouth when he says nothin', then she points to the phone, it's "the nice Italian girl next door," snatches the blanket from me and folds, when she asks where I'm from, I know what she means, and later I'll learn my crush, with his Saturday Night Fever smile, is not a "nice Italian boy," and his mother's hips will block the door when my father darkens it with his voice, and she'll pretend not to understand his rapid-fire speak, the crisp roll of his r's, the soft j of his y's, and I'll pretend not to see my crush's shadow behind her, remembering the stain of his sweat, the violating crush, the crush of being nothin'.

In Blood, Sweat and a Glimpse of Hope “we will walk through darkness till daybreak” — The President who never Was Angels, gather. Sing hosanna to the Most High. A country is now a 100m race with a Champion who will wear diapers & aim to run faster than Bolt. We don't have to guess his outfit 'cause we know the only brand that can contain the speed of light to teach a country the difference between day and night is an agbada that covers bones over- shadowing flesh just as the sun overshadows electricity to the point high tension lines become driers for washed clothes and bodies to receive fresh air and sparkling sunlight. The economy is paraplegic and infrastructure is in crutches but the first thing he must do in the race is to hit the ground running even before "on your marks." Manifestos are swill-supping man-dog-fucking porn -ography so the second thing to do is continue running although his eyes hold scales to cloud sight that college is not elementary school where money is harvested from a mother's wrapper and the finger -ing 4 years does to a brain is enough to last for a lifetime. Shall we pray.~ God save the president that wears diapers whose third plan is "Don't rest." Eyes that cannot tell a mic from ice cream must know what rest looks like— A depravity that has sockets carrying bags enough to make a child wonder if a presidential statement is an incantation from odùduwà's rest or a statement that yes a country is a race but maybe a drag race. Where tribe is worn on skin and is a guillotine blade chopping off sanity to weave barbaric woe into pun. Confetti is popped champagne glasses clinked and still I can't tell if after bodies turned to apostrophes for hours feeding on stench from unwashed bodies & sordid breath was enough for lots to be casted into swines like the Christ did or maybe just maybe a successor to Usain Bolt had enough running juice to run a country infinitely and utterly into the ground– the neverending divine comedy across all seas. I Echo is a Ghanaian-Nigerian journeyman writer writing to save his life. Previously published under the name "Chris Baah," some of his works have been published or are forthcoming in African Writers Magazine, Kalahari Review, New Note Poetry, among others. He tweets on @AyeEcho

Preserving Ecosystems Three generations—one of each, huddled around the living room at evening tea, our ancient shawls against the February chill of the countryside. A while ago, Ma had snapped at her old-school communist and Stalinist bapi: “So what if Ukraine was once a part of the USSR? War is bad, and Putin is horrible!” Her bapi didn’t agree, didn’t argue. A Bengali serial fills the empty space: poor single mother to a gymnast daughter, family and class politics, forbidden love—the usual. Idiot box, indeed. My empty tea cup aside, I target mosquitoes, applauding them dead in single precise shots. Ma is amused when her bapi asks for the corpses. “Why dadu?” I tease my old man. “They’re food for the ants,” he says, unflinching; gathers the dead bodies strewn across the cement floor, lays them out on the window sill. “To preserve the ecosystem.” I wonder if it is the same sentiment that keeps him from reasserting his pro-Stalin stance. If families are ecosystems, preserving them is more important than shallow ideologues, isn’t it? I choose not to ask. A detergent ad fills the space. Glossary: Ma: Bengali for “mother” Bapi: Bengali for “father” (the usual term is “baba”; “bapi” is a variation) Dadu: Bengali for “maternal grandfather” My Fading Reds I can feel my reds fading, riding out of my eyes and into the wild, threaded around the splitting wisps of my soul, jumping ship before it inevitably sinks. Some of my reds are on a Gulmohar tree still blooming in my old school campus, hoping I will peel the red off the five sepals and stick them on my fingernails, transform into a little green-nailed monster in pigtails and a pleated skirt. Some of my reds are on a Rangan tree at the corner of the old children’s park, hoping I will pluck one flower off and suckle on its honey stem. Some of my reds are in expired pastels and watercolour paint tubes, hoping I will scratch amateur roses on white shirts and yellow sheets. Some of my reds are in hardened lipsticks, hoping I will leave a stain on a charmer’s jawline. The rest of my reds are looking for places to perch. They need roots, memories, but I have none left with red in them—all my love stories being unwritten, my friendships coming undone, and my blood unbecoming family. Tejaswinee Roychowdhury is a writer, poet, and artist from West Bengal, India. With her fiction and poetry nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2023, her work has been curated in eleven countries. Her publications include Muse India, Driech Magazine, Amity (Hawakal), Taco Bell Quarterly, miniMAG, San Antonio Review, and more. She's also a lawyer and the founding editor of The Hooghly Review. Catch her tweeting @TejaswineeRC and find her work chronicled at linktr.ee/tejaswinee.

The Place I Call Home An Ode to jersey City, New Jersey ,my home for more than 15 years I'm from the most diverse city in the nation, a nation's icon, its pride A melting pot of its own kind— cradling the identity of everyone in its womb I’m from heaps of spices and color-filled festivals marinated with bay leaf turmeric-laced hands, I’m from eyes filled with endless dreams carrying our identities across the border, calling this piece of land our beloved new“home”. I’m from Diwali, Christmas tree, Holi, and Easter Egg, together giving a new meaning to our festivals back home I’m from dressing up for Halloween, while filling a home with the aroma of homemade Diwali sweets. I’m from carrying our hyphenated identities with accented voices across the border like a dandelion trying to stay rooted— living a life perched at the crossroads of being judged Thinking always “Does an immigrant have a right to be heard?”. I’m from working hard and ignoring slurs hurled at the Townsquare “Go Back to where you belong” ringing like hot lava in our veins Still carrying the love for the land and people, we now call our home carving hyphenated identities for our loved ones, evermore. I’m from the land of Buddha and Gandhi, the sound of “OM” ringing in our ears for eternity, where nonviolence is the sacred core of one’s existence and its sanctity. I’m now from a place that teaches the meaning of empathy, coexistence, and acceptance that teaches you might be broken but you are not done yet. Is the Blood Drained Enough This Time? More than 349,000 students have experienced gun violence at school since Columbine - Washington Post The darkness of this arcane truth keeps getting mystifying. It takes yet another senseless incident for our not-so-intelligent brains to find the viridity of the truth. The truth with its stained teeth that laughs at us every time we look in the mirror, mind seeded with a bowlful of questions like maggots trying to find their way out of rotten fruit, after everything good and golden has been masticated. A truth stripped of its logic and sense. We know that the silvery truth lies in the core seed of everything which is pure but forgotten. The innocent cries of the soft innocent bodies in the cold corridors of the school, whose walls are now painted with the dark shade of dried blood instead of the rainbow laugh that once bounced back uninhibited in these closed corridors. Who are we to define freedom with our false sense of perceptions? Does a handful of weapons sticking out of a tight belt with its metallic craving for death, curbing the laughter of many, make this country free and great? The brackish taste of death impinged on the small graves carving their screams in the shallow womb of earth devoid of their existence. How much more blood do we need from the bodies of our young and vulnerable to irrigate the parched earth of our motherland to satiate its endless thirst? The land doused with the blood of those innocent supple hands crumbling under the weight of small bones—a cold quarry of screeched screams resonating endlessly in the cold corridors of our schools begging one question: Is the blood drained enough this time? Megha Sood is an Award-winning Asian-American Poet, Editor, and Literary Activist from New Jersey, USA. She is a Literary Partner with “Life in Quarantine”, at Stanford University. Member of National League of American Pen Women (NLAPW), Women’s National Book Association, and United Nations Association-US Chapter. She is an Associate Editor for the journals Mookychick(UK) and Brownstone Poets (USA). Author of 3 books including Chapbook ( “My Body is Not an Apology”, Finishing Line Press, 2021) and Full Length (“My Body Lives Like a Threat”, FlowerSongPress,2022). Co-Edited anthologies ( “The Medusa Project”, Mookychick, UK) and (“The Kali Project", Indie Blu(e) Press, USA). Her co-edited anthology “The Medusa Project” has been selected as a digital payload to be sent to the moon in 2023 as part of the historical LunarCodex Project in collaboration with NASA/SpaceX. You can find her at : https://linktr.ee/meghasood

Taproots thrust and dive, trusting in their feeders' thirst no, tata never touched me like that (tiny girl, you still left me with him) Good. They say if they’ve done it before, they'll do it again. (But family above all else) Leaves whisper and gossip, carelessly flinging our secrets no, i tried to stop it, i tried to get away (fixed wife, i trusted him) They can't control themselves, it’s ok. (But family above all else) Canopies harbor and defend, granting dappled respite no, it’s over mom, please stop (weary mother, this was never my life) Just try. Plenty of us don't like it but we do it anyway. (But family above all else) Crowded roots mindlessly strangle themselves And the wind, it moaned disappointment echoing generationally And the boughs, they broke canopy aching wistfully And the bark, it sloughed armor clattering wearily And the taproot, it festered foundation decaying soundlessly A note from the poet: The home where I grew up was also home to an over 300 year old pecan tree and it was my secret keeper, my friend who watched over us. A few years after I moved away from home, it was cut down by the new owners and I was heartbroken. I miss my ancient friend and am still searching for a new sentinel, especially given all I've lived through since it was felled.

Hi Shannon. Let’s jump right in. This October, your first collection of stories, Company, will be published by the highly esteemed Graywolf Press. This is a huge accomplishment. Congratulations. Please share your thoughts and emotions. Gush. Brag. Oh gosh, I’m elated! Publishing a book is my longest-held dream, and I’m really pleased with the way this one has turned out. Graywolf is a dream press, and I’ve had amazing luck at every stage of the process—my agent (Reiko Davis) is wonderful, the book’s editor (Yuka Igarashi) is fantastic and brilliant, and I’ve been delighted by the early blurbs and encouragement. A huge part of the book’s backstory is that while I was writing it, I was working full-time and expecting twins (my second and third children) in the earliest days of a global pandemic. Even after I had signed with an agent and had an early manuscript, there were months when completing the project felt like an impossible task. I’m sure there are many alternate realities in which I set the book aside or gave up entirely. I’m glad that didn’t happen in this one, because I’m excited to one day tell my kids I pushed through and got it done. (This is not to take away from anyone—especially any parent of small kids—who, for whatever reason, must set their work aside to deal with more pressing things. As proud as I am of Company, so much of its existence was outside my direct control.) Care to give us a teaser for the collection? Happy to! This is a collection of thirteen tightly linked short stories following three generations of a family of Black entrepreneurs, musicians, academics, and big-hearted flailing Millennials. The title refers to the fact that in each story in the collection, someone either pays or receives a visitor; the stories explore the tensions those interactions kick up, the long reach of the past, and the idea of cultural inheritance. It’s full of secrets, jazz, and sisterly sparring. I first became a fan of your work through two stories: “Mote” (published by Joyland) and “The Second Liliosa” (published by TriQuarterly). At first, they seem quite distinct, yet on second read, the similarities of old friendships, difficult relationships, and child raising are clear. Are these recurring themes in your work? And how does a story come to you? That’s really interesting—I hadn’t thought of those connections between “Mote” (which is included in Company) and “The Second Liliosa” (which isn’t). I think the similarities you’re noticing come from the fact that when I wrote both stories, I was in sort of a creative hangover from my twenties and still processing some of the challenges that decade gave me. For example, I was still grieving the recent end of a 20-year friendship I’d thought was lifelong, and you can really see that in a lot of my stories from the time. I think I was writing a lot of characters who felt compelled to reach back into their own childhood friendships and examine how they affected the present. Something similar is true of parenthood. In 2017, when I wrote “The Second Liliosa,” I was starting to talk about kids with my then-fiancé; in 2019, when I wrote “Mote,” I was in the trenches of raising a toddler. I had spent a lot of my twenties wondering whether I’d ever be in the right relationship for parenthood to make sense; even after that question was resolved, I still carried a lot of the stress of wondering. Early parenthood is so difficult and transformative, and it was very therapeutic to write Merritt (the main character of “Mote”), a character uninterested in motherhood. “Mote” isn’t about motherhood, but it is partly about how motherhood can limit our movement. And now that I have kids, I suspect that all the questions surrounding parenthood (including the choice to remain child-free) are going to show up in my future work. So I guess the answer is, whatever I’m going through, whatever I’m obsessing over or worried about, is where the nut of the story comes from! Lightning round 1: name two authors, one historical and one contemporary, who inspire you. Historical: Toni Morrison, though of course I could spend my whole life trying to achieve half what she did in hers. Contemporary: There are so many! This is cheating, but I’ll name three—Danielle Evans, Deesha Philyaw, and Lisa Taddeo. Lightning round 2: I know you have three very young children (all boys?) but allow yourself to imagine them twenty years in the future as young men. What three books, other than their mothers’ works, would you like them to have read by that age? The Warmth of Other Suns (Isabel Wilkerson) We Should All Be Feminists (Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie) Black Magic (Chad Sanders—my brother!) In this issue, we are highlighting established BIPoC writers such as yourself, alongside young writers from Howard University. You went to an HBCU (Spelman College). Can you tell us about that experience and how it shaped you as a person and a writer? Spelman College is such a wonderful place. All my early schools were very diverse but predominantly white; by the time I got to college, it was really important for me to get to learn and explore my identity in a place where my core sense of belonging wasn’t constantly called into question. I majored in English (with a pre-law concentration). In addition to a standard curriculum of literature and composition classes, I got to take a few electives that were very focused on African diasporic writing and specific eras of Black writing. One of my most formative Spelman experiences was a seminar I took on the work of Toni Morrison with a professor who was doing her dissertation on that subject—I could have read Morrison’s work on my own for my whole life and not uncovered some of the insights I got from that class! The last few years have been very hard. Hard for kids, hard for parents, hard to be an American, hard to be a world citizen. Do you see fiction as having a responsibility in these times? Do you feel an extra responsibility, duly or unduly, as a Black female writer? Phew, “hard” is really an understatement, isn’t it? I was having babies during the most isolating parts of the pandemic—but if I hadn’t been, I know I would have been consuming tons of fiction (books, movies, and TV) to feel normal and stay connected with the world. As is often pointed out, fiction (in all forms) is so important and sustaining, especially in times of crisis. I’ve been paying attention to all the difficult conversations happening in publishing, particularly about who gets to publish what and how much they get paid to do so. Whatever reactive things people are saying, we all have access to the numbers and we know that Black writers remain underrepresented on bookshelves and on those all-important lists. There are all sorts of reasons for that, but one, we know, comes down to simple economics: most fiction writers are not supporting themselves entirely through their writing. So although I know this isn’t exactly what you meant, the answer is YES, I feel a huge responsibility: to take advantage of opportunities as they arise and to share those opportunities, and to help demystify certain publishing realities to help make the whole thing more accessible to other writers of color. Any advice for young writers? This connects with my previous answer. I hate to see writers buying a fantasy about a particular sort of writing life, then getting frustrated when it doesn’t manifest. I work full-time and do my writing on the side, in my spare time. There are lots of writers who do it this way, but there are others who do MFAs and spend some time focused entirely on writing (with or without funding), and still others who are supported by partners or parents. My advice is to make informed choices about the sort of writing life you’d like, then to prepare accordingly. Also, if you can, find writers whose circumstances are like yours and talk to them about what works for them. (This can be tricky, because artists can be very opaque about money matters, but some are very open and honest about this stuff.) For me, working full-time in another industry means I have less writing time than I’d like and can’t get away for glamorous residences—but also means I have an income that can support occasional writing-related expenses (conferences, workshops, books, etc.). I’m always happy to talk about how I budget around my writing life and what it takes to fit it in! A couple of hard-hitting questions to finish. I know from Twitter that you like to knit. Any connection to writing? Complement? Antidote? I took up knitting about six years ago, and I can hardly remember my life without it! Knitting is very meditative. You can do it while you watch a show or listen to music, because it occupies your hands and certain parts of your brain but not the whole thing. I do find myself working out tricky sections of dialogue while I’m knitting! But it’s also sort of the opposite of writing. You can write for hours and not wind up with a usable draft. If you knit for hours, you WILL end up with a scarf (or whatever). Another imaginative one: You have carved out space and time to write, zero distractions, but nothing coming. Classic writer’s block. What snack and/or beverage helps you out here? And do they work? If it’s evening and the stars align (meaning no kids are waking up to ask for water), I love to write with a glass of red wine. Throughout all my stories, you can find references to the wines I either was drinking or wished I was at certain points in the writing. But that was mostly pre-kids! These days, I turn more to music to help writer’s block. Anything else I should have asked you? Côtes du Rhône; or, to save some money, Zinfandel. Shannon Sanders is a Black attorney and writer near Washington, DC. Her debut short story collection, COMPANY, is forthcoming from Graywolf Press in October 2023; her short fiction has won the PEN/Dau Short Story Prize for Emerging Writers and can be found in One Story, Electric Literature, Joyland, TriQuarterly, and elsewhere. Find her at ShannonSandersWrites.com or on Twitter at Twitter.com/ShandersWrites.

Author’s Note: Below is an excerpt from “Rejection Therapy” by Takier George, a hybrid collection of narrative poetry/fiction. Memories From My Father’s Ashes I think if I didn’t see it less people would expect me to talk about it I was never a daddy’s girl And I had never seen him so tall before As he hung, he was so close to the sky So close to God So far from me that all I could do was stare. When Mama got home, she screamed for him Then, she was screaming at me I thought you only spoke so loudly When trying to call someone In another room But there we were, All together I yelled “STOP!” And she did The room was still As still as it was before she entered As still as the rope daddy held on to I was too young then to mourn a lost goodbye But now, I wonder why he never held me as close as he held the sky From the ages of 10 to 12, I didn’t speak Or at least no one could hear me From the ages of 10 to 12, I didn’t speak I wasn’t Emori, I was “that girl who can’t talk” From the ages of 10 to 12, I didn’t speak Well, I didn’t speak to people I didn’t know. Mama heard me From the ages of 10 to 12, I didn’t speak But I watched. I watched the way people lived. I knew enough about death From the ages of 10 to 12, I didn’t speak At first, they tried to make me, but eventually they gave up From the ages of 10 to 12, I didn’t speak Daddy took my tongue with him and refused to give it back From the ages of 10 to 12, I didn’t speak And I didn’t pray to a God who wouldn’t hear me I think Daddy took more of me with him than just my tongue Either way, from the ages of 10 to 12, I didn’t speak If My Mother’s I Love You Was a Prayer On Sundays, she’d pray She found his sin washable Loved him despite it You cannot save everyone Especially men like him She spoke in scriptures Led his finger down the page Sanctified his heart Her i love you was a prayer That still sits in his dresser His hands never met In prayer, she’d reach out instead Reaching up to God Her last resort was gospel His last resort was heaven Takier George is a spoken word artist from the DMV area. George is a full-time student at Howard University majoring in English (with a concentration in creative writing) and a minor in tv and film production. From 2018 to 2020, George was a member of the D.C. Youth Slam Team. In 2019, George and her team members performed at Brave New Voices, the largest international teen poetry slam competition in Las Vegas. George has also performed at venues like the Arlington Country Blues Festival, the Library of Congress, and The Kennedy Center. In 2020 and 2021, George was published in Sterling Notes Literary Journal. She is currently working on her first chapbook.