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zoe mahfouz flash nonfiction june 2024

Written by a person deemed ethnically ambiguous.

I know France isn’t a racist country, and I am not Arabic, so to speak. I’d like to believe that my resume, my showreel, my social media, or even my face speak for themselves, but apparently, they don’t. My mom has been fully integrated in France since she moved there as a child; yet she’s experienced systemic racism her whole life. She thought that giving me a French first name would be sufficient since I was born in Paris, white and atheist. Apparently not. In primary school, a kitchen server refused to serve me pork, said I should ask my mom if I could have some. That was just the beginning.

But France isn’t a racist country.

I started auditioning as an actress. Casting directors kept asking me about my origins, my ethnicity. I told them I didn’t speak Arabic, that I was born here in Paris, and raised in French culture. They continued asking about my origins.

But France isn’t a racist country.

They asked me to audition for a masseuse role, a Middle-Eastern-looking woman who loses her temper and starts “acting ghetto” with the customers of a five-star hotel because she “just can’t help it, it’s her nature”.  Then they asked me to audition for Fatima’s sister and learn a bit of Arabic. I could do that, right? They asked me to wear a hijab, to play a Syrian refugee. They asked me to play a Muslim YouTuber doing a DIY on how to put on a hijab. They asked me to play Samia, sitting by her husband’s side in a car before being pulled over by the police. “Hey, can you come in and audition for Suburban Arabic Girl Number Four? Basically, you’re with your homies in the subway, and you make a fuss, start yelling at people, throwing things around!”

 But France isn’t a racist country.

You can easily tell France isn’t a racist country when you walk around Paris accompanied by my mom who has dark skin. Besides the aggressive stares and whispers when we go to posh places, I have witnessed her getting pushed by a Karen’s trolly in a fancy market and followed by security guards when we stepped inside various stores. We even had a saleswoman tell my mom as she tried on clothes that she looked more like “someone dealing narcotics at the bottom of the building.” And then: “Are you going to pay cash? Wonder where that money comes from,” followed by condescending laughter. For the record, this last incident happened when my mom tried on a three-thousand-dollar coat that we bought despite everything.

But France isn’t a racist country.

It’s actually easy finding work in France when you have Middle Eastern ancestry. I’ve recently come across the most encouraging video on social media, about a Middle Eastern man who graduated as an airline pilot but couldn’t find work because of his name. A few years ago, I remember reading about another Middle Easterner who applied for a managerial position, got an interview where the employer told him he had the right qualifications, but couldn’t be hired because frankly, “no one will accept being managed by an Arabic man”. For my part, I remember when I applied for a job as a receptionist, and the recruiter pressured me to know if I had a criminal record. Because she “would find out eventually.”

 But France isn’t a racist country.

“So, tell me something: Where are you from? Really from? Oh, gee, why are you getting so cranky about it? It’s just a question! I’m trying to get to know you better! Are you ashamed of your roots? Don’t you want to act as a standard-bearer for all Arabic peoples? Stop playing the victim already! How dare you call me racist. I was about to introduce you to the best couscous restaurant in town! I bet it’ll taste exactly like the one in your country! What did you think of the movies directed by Riad Sattouf?”

But France isn’t a racist country.


Zoé Mahfouz is an award-winning actress, screenwriter and content creator. Her humor pieces have been published in Defenestration Mag, Wingless Dreamer Publisher, Spillwords Press, A Thin Slice of Anxiety and Witcraft. You can follow her on Tiktok @lessautesdhumeurdezoe.

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Beth Brown Preston poetry June 2024

You sat with brushes in hand and the light flowing above and below,

a prayer like paper. The light illumined all our sacred trees.

Somehow, we forgot all our raucous and joyous past love

when I asked you to listen for the screen door’s slam

and the call to supper as I brought you the evening meal.


And then there was that folio of your recent sketches:

so many similar dark faces filled with joy.


Then I gazed at the rich, brown texture of a watercolor on the page,

a man’s tortured face, his beard, his tough glowing bronze skin.

You said it was a portrait of your brother,

who died overseas during a rain of fire in the Viet Nam war.


And you put down your brushes to confess

we are going to start life all over again 

without waging the private wars that keep us together.


You painted your dead brother’s face

against a background of blue.


Beth Brown Preston is a poet and novelist with two collections of poetry from the Broadside Lotus Press and two chapbooks of poetry, including OXYGEN II (Moonstone Press, 2022). She is a graduate of Bryn Mawr College and the MFA Writing Program at Goddard College. She has been a CBS Fellow in Writing at the University of Pennsylvania; and, a Bread Loaf Scholar. Her work has been recognized by the Hudson Valley Writers Center, the Sarah Lawrence Writing Institute, The Writer’s Center, and the Fine Arts Work Center. Her poetry and reviews have been published in numerous literary and scholarly journals.

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claudia wair flash nonfiction may 2024

Our grandparents sit us down and teach us where we come from: Africa, enslavement, Jim Crow. Our parents tell us where it’s safe to travel and where our brown skin makes us targets. Fear infects our dreams.

They don’t talk about us much in their history books. Erasing us and those whose land was stolen. It’s hard to find accounts of those who went before us, but we know we were resilient. We know we survived.

They teach us to be ashamed of the hair on our heads. We women are pressured to straighten our hair with caustic chemicals or cover it with a wig. Our wild coils are beautiful, but they say we look unprofessional.

We are paid less but are expected to be exceptional. If we dare to be average, they call us lazy. We have no money to leave our children. All we have are stories to pass down.

We have siblings, cousins, friends who aren’t here anymore, executed for the crime of being Black. We shout the names of the dead, write them on placards, print them on t-shirts. Trayvon, Breonna, George. When we protest the murders, they call it a riot.

Sometimes we dream of better days, but those dreams are haunted by the dead. Sometimes we dream of justice, but in the end, we always wake up.


Claudia Wair is a Virginia-based writer whose work has appeared in Pithead Chapel, Astrolabe, Tangled Locks Journal, JMWW, and elsewhere. You can read more at claudiawair.com or follow her on Instagram @CWTellsTales. 

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dana francisco miranda poetry may 2024

for Gaza

1.

my eyes 

              two dead seas

witness 

              daily slaughter


—the butcher’s feast,

the reaper’s bounty—


witness 

—the healer’s gauze,

the morphine’s mercy—


              Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! 

              don’t    you know? 


Gallant says human 

animals 

do not need      when

              corralled or culled.


life does not      need life.


beyond rations 

                or rationality, 

this is the desert 

where   insurgent winds

choke   on phosphorous

               where   open 

                             mouths 

                             have 

              stitched tongues. 


2.  

so, give me your 

              list of banned words


intifada – nakba – ya’aburnee.


              i will give you a list

of the dead—olive        trees

ripped from     root, sunbirds

plucked             from sky.      i 

will lay a tatreez of   martyrs

at your feet. i will craft lianas

from              amputated limbs

so even        Death can carry 

Palestine like a germinating

seed.      i will turn my distilled 

                tears          into bullets,

i will turn my          complacency 

              into a thing thrown,

i will turn the world

upside-down, 

              until all saplings 

              are replanted    as limbs 

                             returned. 


3.  

but if    you do not cease the fires, 

do not ask         smoke for balance. 

life cannot        home in death 

                           or occupation. 


              night is meant to be filled 

              with       dark delirium


              —the dreams of children,

              the impolite 

                            hopes of ghosts—


it is not             meant 

                           to be carcass. 

thus, let us 

              invent new ways to blush. 

let us 

              make bullhorns of our 

              dusted anger

                              until we exhume 

                              new futures. 

              let us 

              be shameless. 


Dana Francisco Miranda is Assistant Professor of Philosophy at the University of Massachusetts Boston. His research is in political philosophy, Africana philosophy, and psychosocial studies. His current book manuscript, The Coloniality of Happiness, investigates the philosophical significance of suicide, depression, and wellbeing for members of the African Diaspora. His most recent work has been published in Creolizing Hannah Arendt, The Movement for Black Lives: Philosophical Perspectives, Journal of World Philosophies, EntreLetras, Journal of Global Ethics, Disegno: The Quarterly Journal of Design, and The APA Blog: Black Issues in Philosophy. Find him on Twitter at @DanaFMiranda.

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wangui wa kamonji flash fiction may 2024

You grabbed me! I didn’t expect it. Weren’t we smiling and greeting just moments before?

Passing each other, you and I, on our way to our own worlds, with our own errands, sent by our selves?

Your muscles were shining, sinewy, curved, beautiful even. They were strong, filled up, betraying the many fights already fought, and won. They shone with the sweat of effort.

Eating all your opponents is no small thing. Even their bones, you’d crushed in your jaws.

I felt your strength when you gripped me; it surprised me. I wasn’t expecting it nor this wrestle; yet here we now were, locked in an uncomfortable embrace. I gave my all in the tussle. I gripped back, arms around your middle, locked in, I braced myself, I would not be thrown! This way and that way we went, pushing, shoving, finding, keeping, losing ground.

My face contorted, each crease matching your own, ears closed to anything else, eyes tracking your every move. My muscles tightened as yours flexed. You would not get the better of me!

You didn’t expect my tenacity either, did you? A couple of times, you nearly had me on the floor, with your stealth and tackle, but the gazelle and the hare have taught me well. I jumped, regained balance, and pushed in new directions. We scuffed up the dust; it rose in a cloud all around us, blocking view of all but our struggle. We scarce could see it, locked in our embrace as we were.

And then — was that — a half smile — that just crossed — your face? Could it be? You enjoy this? You enjoy this! Your shiny muscles tell you that you will win, that I will tire, eventually, just now, you think you have me figured out. I can’t stand you, but I can’t bear to look away. I will keep fighting. I will NOT be thrown! Locked in this our embrace, cheek to cheek, brow to brow, muscle against muscle, jaws locked, teeth gritted, feet scuffing dust, some gain, some loss, we’ll wrestle on and on and…

You think you have me figured out? I’ll show you! I tighten my hold on your arms, put my back into it, dig my feet in, and push harder, searching for the opening to fall you.

But just as I kick at a new place, what’s that? Playing with the nape of my neck, flitting with the sweat running down my brow and shoulders? Dancing with my ears…A butterfly? A breeze? The sound of a god who is memory, who is wind…

Slow, within the quiet pupil of the noisy scuffle the message arrives, and lands: You don’t know me. You’ve only heard about me. I know myself; I know my self. I re-member. I look into your eyes and half-smile. I slacken my grip on you, dropping your arms, and our death embrace. I jump back.

Amazing, isn’t it? When I loosen my grip, you can’t hold me. I see surprise on your face, you weren’t expecting that!

Before you think to restart a fight that chases us in circles, I turn and walk away. I was on a journey before, one on which I sent myself. Butterfly song carries on the wind; I hear it.

Goodbye.


Wangũi wa Kamonji is a regeneration practitioner researching and translating Indigenous Afrikan knowledges into experiential processes, art, and honey. She centres Afrika, ancestrality and Earth in her multigenre storytelling extending ancestral invitations to rethink and reimagine everything with Indigenous Afrikan ontologies. Her children’s story “The Giraffes of the Desert” appears in the anthology Story, Story, Story Come. She is published in Shallow Tales Review, Open Global Rights, Africa is a Country, and The Elephant. Wangũi holds close Micere Mugo’s call to find the songs lying around and sing them for all to hear and sing with us. She is based in Ongata Rongai, East Afrika. She can be found on instagram at @_fromtheroots and @wakamonji and on X/twitter at @_fromtheroots.

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chinemerem prince nwankwo poetry may 2024

for girls frail & brittle.  for body crossed

with a disheveled spirit. & everything in

the     name of gender distill

salvation. how much illumine a reflection?

there’s a sag  story  in shattered glasses.

every ample breast hangs as a pendant

of grief. of past merge from                    jarring

voices. of future that splits in shards.

of many solitary night that craves

the gift of death.

my poem gradient to a girl. don’t

know if that                   counts. & each hour

past

flesh & blood  she loses identity.

it hurts to rove into strange waters.

but girls sail

broken                      in agitated waves.

what depiction are we? maybe a girl with

the shadow of a damsel. mother

says we’re feminine ‘cause our legs opens.

 & we immerse  a cycle of  ritual:

       splitting & opening. [daughters of Eve].


Chinemerem Prince Nwankwo, SWAN IV, is an Igbo apprentice poet and essayist who’s currently a final year student of the Department of History and International Studies, University of Uyo, Nigeria. Chinemerem is poetry editor at The Cloudscent Journal and an assistant poetry editor at Arkore Arts. He tweets at @CPNwankwo.

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Cheryl Atim Alexander poetry May 2024

Dearest, Lilith. Israel is carpet bombing Rafah, Gaza—right NOW.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     But, Lilith. More than 1.7 million Palestinians are in Rafah, Gaza—right NOW.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     But, Lilith. The Prime Minister said Rafah was a safe space for the displaced—

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     But, Lilith. I am watching newborns and toddlers with their legs blown off in real time.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     But, Lilith—see these images teeming with terrorized children hanging from the rafters.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     But, Lilith.  Babies are being wrapped into the tiniest bags.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     But, Lilith. Mothers and Fathers are weeping            wailing in desperation          trying to find safe passage for their babies.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     But, Lilith. Multiple families are being decimated by Israel as we speak.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     Oh, Lilith. A little girl called Hind Rajab is starving to death among her decomposing relatives        and those who set out to save her are scorched alive    and strewn into smithereens.

Shh…I’m watching the Superbowl.

     My Dearest Lilith. The world has tipped over onto its head and I am          afraid. Enough is enough                       and I am too weary                      to whisper      

          “No more?”

Shush now. Please! The President is tweeting.


Cheryl Atim Alexander is an Afro Greek woman who was born into a family of readers and writers. Her writing emanates from a plethora of life-affirming experiences and serves to inspire anyone who may have misplaced their voice. A tireless writer, she has been published in Wilderness House Literary Review, Written Tales Magazine, Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press, and Kalahari Review. Cheryl was recently nominated for Best of the Net 2024.

    

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otsile sebele seakeco short story april 2024

I was struck by the complexity of South African society as I stood in line at Home Affairs. Around me were a number of people who asked where to go, what to do and amidst that, was a lot of chattering. The intercom hailed for a who-and-who to report to the staffroom, while the lady seated opposite us eventually exclaimed, “Next!” I marshalled myself to one of the front desks to her inviting, “Good morning,” followed by “Your ID number please.”

My ID, license and a few other cards fell victim to a thief whose only gain was a couple of rands and who, perhaps, had no intention of disorganizing me to the extent that he or she did. I gave the woman my particulars, answered a few questions, and then returned to where I was instructed to sit. Next to me was a man, and in front of us were two Colored women.

I caught a disturbing whiff from the man next to me. His discomfort suggested that he was aware of his odor. I tried my best to let him feel comfortable and, in a way, to let him know that I knew that life sometimes forces us to lose control of important things that qualify us as functional human beings. I wanted to let him know that it was okay and undoubtedly forgivable to lose interest in or to forget the value society places on good hygiene, especially when one’s life is consumed by more compelling issues than bathing.  

It started getting busier, the queues got longer, and the row I was in moved at a snail’s pace. The Home Affairs we were in was in the township. It was attached to a police station and a few government offices. While eavesdropping on the women’s conversation about their acquaintances, families, and lives, I kept raising my eyebrows at some of the alarming and funny things they said. I could almost picture some of the characters and events they mentioned as individuals I knew and lived with and as things I had witnessed in my neighborhood.

As the morning progressed, a white man and his daughter walked in. They went straight to where they were instructed to sit by the security guard. Heads turned in their direction, and a stillness overcame the room as they settled in. It was obvious that they had sensed the sudden silence and the attention they’d drawn. The daughter looked in our direction while she lent a smile to everyone. Her glance was poised, and her eyes seemed to acknowledge an interested yet unwelcome audience.

It was hard not to look in their direction or to feel the awkwardness their presence caused. I took a moment in clandestine fashion to peek at the entire room. I was not surprised to find everyone’s eyes fixed on the white man. He was very tall and muscular and by no doubt of Afrikaner descent. His focus remained on his phone, and not once did he lift his head unless he had something to say to his daughter.

The activity continued — everyone followed the security’s instructions and listened attentively to the tellers. In moments when my eyes weren’t fixed on my cellphone or I wasn’t listening in on the two women’s conversation, or caught between the two, I sat back, closed my eyes, and allowed my mind to wander off. It was in between these moments that I noticed another white family of four walk in. Unlike everyone, the mother, father, son and daughter walked in brazenly without noticing the security guard at the door. They walked across the room in search of a place to sit.

I sensed that everyone wanted to see if the security guard would confront the family to direct them to where they needed to sit, something she had done quite firmly all morning. We all looked in anticipation while hesitation overtook her before she finally decided to approach the family. The white woman, however, had already left her seat to speak to one of the tellers. “Hello, we’d like to make and renew our passports. Jim here has been chosen to represent South Africa at the Under-16 cricket world competitions in Australia.” She was loud enough for us to hear what she said and for us to look between her and the security guard to see what would unfold. 

To our disappointment no drama transpired. Instead, the security guard waited for the lady to finish until she escorted her and her family to the correct seats. They shared a warm exchange, and everything was back to normal. I sat there waiting to be called to the last post. It was extremely hot, and I had forgotten to bring a bottle of water. The man next to me mumbled that he couldn’t wait any longer, so he took off, and I occupied his seat.

I didn’t know whether to be relieved that I was a step closer to completing the process or to feel sorry for him because he would have to come back again. By the sound of it, his predicament was whether to miss work for a few hours with the risk of his site manager noticing that he was absent or to work without a temporary ID which might see him not get paid at the end of the month. It was a terribly sad story, but I took up his seat with little regret and waited patiently for my turn to be called.

I was finally done. I stepped out of Home Affairs to a buzz of activity. It was unusual for me to be anywhere else but at work. I relished the feeling while I tried to map out my next stop. In the distance, I saw the father and daughter hop into a beautiful huge bakkie with wheels the size of a small modern car. They didn’t say much to each other, but both looked relieved like everyone else that exited the building. 

Kids close-by pointed at their vehicle with great admiration, and adults like me couldn’t resist following it with our eyes until it was out of sight. A dream car of note, I sighed and immediately turned around in view of my surroundings. They weren’t as inspiring or beautiful as what the bakkie had signified in my heart. I lit a cigarette and stood for a while watching people go into the police station, leave Home Affairs and others, like me, hang around.

I left the premises without having figured out why I felt the way I did at Home Affairs. However, when the second white family drove past me, it was then that it occurred to me that despite my daily interactions with countless white people, their presence in today’s setting seemed to take away a lot of what they usually embody in other spaces. In retrospect and to my surprise, I suddenly forgot about the degree of influence, authority, and power they generally assume in the worlds I inhabit, especially when subjected to the security guard’s command.

I pondered on the moment a little more until I realized that the silence and awkwardness that characterized the room was a culmination of the disbelief of seeing white people in the heart of our township and having to come to terms with the possibility that they, too, could endure what has become such a norm in much of our lives. Before then, it was hard to imagine that they could also stand in long queues, sit on skewed and broken chairs, or tolerate having to wait hours on end to get something done, when what often stood as a reflection of their livelihoods was comfort and ease.

I immediately juxtaposed this with the security guard, a black middle-aged woman, who I suppose holds very little authority in society when she exits Home Affairs. Unlike the two white families, with one set to travel overseas and the other with a stunning vehicle, it was difficult to look past her — childlike in her discolored uniform — as someone who could ever experience what the two families espouse. My thinking was eventually interrupted by a long hoot from a passing taxi whose conductor almost convinced me that I had called out to it because in fact, I could have done with a lift.


Otsile Sebele Seakeco grew up in Kimberley, in the Northern Cape, South Africa. Added to his love for dogs and fiction, he is a poet interested in creating works of art that enable him to reflect, grapple with, and speak life into the reality of existence.

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byron armstrong poetry april 2024

Calloused hands cleave sugarcane

outstretched to Caribbean sun.

Fires of resistance forge

weapons from master’s tools.


Exiled from tribes and gods,

through slave castles to plantations,

we revolt to revel in a history

hidden within outlawed drums.


Onyx angels trouble the water

under a voiceless ocean.

Down by the riverside,

Water breaks like hearts leaping from slave ships.


We sing Soul into existence by

freeing our holy ghosts.

In America, voices rise

above lies hiding gospel truths.


Sarah Baartman is a woman in a zoo.

Her captors have forgotten their mother.

Proud buttocks attached to hips

that birthed nations, an oddity on display.


Josephine Baker is Sarah’s reckoning,

Impundulu’s plumage electrifying crowds.

Snaking hips now become an infatuation.

J’ai deux amours, both Black and women.


Black magic invokes ancestors

speaking through us in tongues,

code-switching suffering into

chariots coming forth to carry us —


home is Jim Crow incubating culture in the stuff of nightmares.

This seed bears strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees.


Big Mama’s hound dog howl

shakes cobwebs off Elvis’ pelvis.

Long tall Sallys go tutti frutti

for rock’s white king.


Blue-eyed soul’s sleight of hand

makes King Richard feel Little

but say it loud Mister Brown,

‘I’m Black and I’m proud!’


Soul power plants seeds

for Black Power now.

Funkadelic spectacle brings

one nation under a groove.


If Paris is Burning,

The House of Baldwin has set it aflame.

Let Joseph Bologne compose a melody

with the fire next time as muse.


Punk meets Rudeboy

in old Brittania,

a London calling that doesn’t Clash

With gangsters in a ghost town.


Oku Onuora’s reflections in red

migrate colonial class struggle.

Linton Kwesi’s dread beat an’ blood

is chocolate magic hidden in ganja mist.


We are moving culture people

even after our forced exodus,

we get up, stand up for our rights,

to sing redemption songs.


Tonight Amiri Baraka and Maya Angelou

will cut a rug.

Uncle Jimmy will catch a vibe as Aunty Toni

stalks the dance floor.


Earth-toned limbs and elastic bodies

vogue into Harlem living rooms.

“We will house you,” says Mother at the ball

like Madonna with child.


We paint the message of our plight

like hieroglyphics on new pyramids.

white lines blow away, but

redlining remains a sign of the times.


As public enemy number one, it would take

a nation of millions to hold us back.

Within this terror dome, we fight the power

and try to shut em’ down.


This lemonade is bittersweet

yet quenching our thirst for a renaissance.

Tina was simply the best

So Beyonce had a suitable prototype.


Come forth Orishas through our ancestors as ebo.

Write Sonnets in Adinkra on our minds so we remember,

we are music rooted deep as the foundations of a nation

where our bones are bricks for monuments to liberty once denied.


Sunrise Symphony

A cacophony of cooing birds chirp daybreak through shuttered windows.

Rhythm rides sunlight scattered between curtain slits in situ.


Sza croons smooth awakening with soulful aplomb, and I

connect consciousness to the chaos of kids clomping on concrete.


Rubber soles squeak step and scratch slide across sidewalks,

with wanton abandon these careless kids collect scuff marks on new kicks.


The elongated beep of garbage backing up bellows a beware.

Gears grind dust while mechanical movement swallows detritus into itself.


The gaping maw mashes solid matter made malleable as

an attentive mama bird regurgitates food into chirping chicks.


Scared mice scramble, skittering behind thin walls,

my loquacious feline scratches plaster, mewling feral discontent.


Gravel-throated exhalation punctuates the ceremonial performance

of fluttering wisp of blanket announcing serene shedding of twilight.


Uncovered extremities crack while crawling from their extraneous cocoon.

Mattress warbles a spring-loaded whine as I shift lumbering mass out of idle.


Flat feet creak the floors of this venerated Victorian,

as I trod tenaciously toward toothbrush territory.


Turning bathroom taps triggers pressure tremoring pipes,

evacuating an element essential to eliminating the end of existence.


I hack up phlegm to emancipate lungs from belabored breath,

a primordial brew like one-celled organisms ovulating through osmosis.


Shaving my epidermis with unskilled precision that slits skin,

bleeding a truth that betrays the solipsism of lighter shades,


A denial of equal existence disassociated from the divine.

A skin displayed in human zoos and prisons perceived lesser.


My mirror meditation doesn’t reflect what bluer eyes have shown

through white knuckle-clutched purses and locked car doors upon approach,


The spritz of pink spray tans around plastic plumped lips,

Stealing features like African masks pilfered for Picasso paintings.


While Kardashians run through Black men like O.J. fleeing the police,

carving away ethnicity under the knife to live anew in Black women’s bodies.


Black men run from the police to flee the cries of Black women grieving,

high-pitched siren wails drowning out muffled gasps and lovers’ mourning.


A symphony muted by screaming teapots, the clink of a swirling spoon,

and the pin-drop drizzle of honey in a steaming cup of the blackest tea.


Byron Armstrong has been awarded literary grants from the Toronto Arts Council and the Canada Council for The Arts. He was longlisted in the Top 100 of the 7th Annual Launch Pad Prose Competition. His work is published in Heavy Feather Review and The Malahat Review. A son of Jamaican immigrants, his feature writing exploring sociopolitics and art has appeared in The Globe and Mail, Whitehot Magazine, and Arts Help, amongst others. The recipient of a 2022 Canadian Ethnic Media award for best online article, he resides in Toronto, Canada (Tkaronto) with his family. 

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Jassy Ez flash nonfiction april 2024

“It’s okay, we’re talking about those Black people. You’re different.”

“You can’t possibly be cousins with her (with your dark hair and brown skin); you   look nothing alike.”

“I know that you think he’s cute, but Koreans don’t go for darker-skinned people.”

“You’re so beautiful and olive complected.”

“She’s an Oreo; more Black than White. She talks White.”

“What’s up with your hair?”

“Your Mama doesn’t know how to do your hair; you shoulda let me do it.”

“Do you feel like you’re more Black or White?”

“What are you?”

“You look exotic; where are you from?”

“My Dad doesn’t know that your Dad’s Black; he thinks you’re Mexican, so it’ll be okay.”

“There’s not supposed to be a Black person in this show; it’s not historically accurate! Oh, sorry. You’re half. That shouldn’t offend you, right?”


Jassy Ez, or Jasmine Ezeb, is an English Literature instructor in New Orleans, Louisiana. She enjoys teaching World Literature to her students and witnessing their light bulb moments as they make connections between old myths and modern-day society. She has a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature from the University of Holy Cross, and she was awarded Best English Student at her graduation. When not working, she likes to spend time with family and friends, explore small bookshops, and record audiobooks.

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ada chinara poetry april 2024

Rocking in the dark and silence again, 

two heads nuzzled against my breast, 

eight limbs flail out from beneath, 

an octopus gliding through the sea.


 

I know they’re old enough 

to be put straight to bed

yet here we are 

night after night 

squeezed into this glider,

once sea green

now a mossy grey, 

lulling us to the beat  

of a mesmeric sway.  


There was another glider 

in the Special Care ward 

where I sat and rocked 

my newborns light as feathers, 

me with a heart weighted

and ready for flight.

In that glider I soothed tiny bodies,

stroked downy heads, 

inhaled sweet breaths 

and prayed 

and cried 

and sang 

over my daughter 

and my son.


And there was the nurse who said 

there was something wrong with my boy— 

his tiny body didn’t move right

his cry wasn’t right, 

and he wouldn’t be right. 

But the baby next door 

had just the right cry, 

an intelligent cry 

is what she called it.

And that baby was white,

and my boy with his pale skin 

and navy eyes and wispy hair 

only looked the part—

except for his nose, 

round as the sun, 

harbinger of Blackness 

to come.


I knew she was lying, 

but I had to stake my claim. 

So I asked the doctor, loudly

if anything was wrong with my boy

(I made sure she was nearby).

“No,” he said, “not at all,”

and she didn’t come near me again, 

because I was that bitch.  

She left me to glide  

on my private sea 

with two hushed, sleepy infants 

born strong but early 

nestled in the crook of each arm. 


My foremothers glided 

on a rockier sea 

surrounded by the stench of death 

on their way to hell 

where their worth was measured

in profits not theirs.

Arms and wombs and spirits full   

of children not yet separated, 

did they too sit hushed, in stunned 

silence and darkness,

waiting, praying for renewed life 

or release from this earth?


And there was Solitude, 

insurgent mother from Guadeloupe, 

captured for abetting a slave rebellion. 

They waited until she gave birth 

to take her life. 

Did she rock her baby through the night: 

its first and her last?

Did she glide to a realm 

where they could be free?


Another nurse came at night 

when the ward was still.

She whispered that my babies 

were strong and smart 

and ready to go home. 

She saw her children in mine 

and offered a wordless pact. 

There we were:

two midnight women,

conjoined in solitude,

conspiring in the dark 

over babies to be freed. 


And I suppose that is why 

we retreat to this glider 

night after night.

It has long been this way:

Black mothers and children, 

gliding, hoping, praying, breathing. 

Nestled together in darkness 

and in silence, 

awaiting the peace 

alighting at dawn. 


We Bar at One O’ Clock

I must have circled the earth that year

in Trinidad under the blazing sun:

my sinewy legs trekking

up Mount St. Benedict for a breeze, 

and down to Curepe for doubles with pepper.

I ran across Maracas beach,

then sprinted to the maxi taxi

that carried me to Chaguanas, 

and on to Enterprise, 

where Abigail’s mother whispered,

“lean on the Lord,” 

when I nearly fainted from the heat 

one Sunday morning. 


Walking home I passed We Bar

where men gathered, imbibing the spirits 

the church had traded for grape juice. 

And I stopped, for a moment watching 

the rude bwoys and natty dreads 

who watched me constantly:

watched my legs in perpetual motion

up and down Eastern Main Road,

offering me smiles or sly compliments 

muttered at half breath,

but never a drink or a dance,

for I was marked in their eyes 

with the sign of the cross:

a good girl not to be touched. 

It wasn’t true, but no one 

has greater faith than men 

in a bar at midday.  


There was one dread

who had long studied me,

the chasm between us buckling 

under the weight of his gaze 

that I never returned. 


But that day I lingered, 

watching him from the doorway 

as he danced by himself,

lost in the medley of Marley. 

It was one o’clock in the afternoon 

and he moved as though time had stopped 

and he had floated away,

far from the concrete of St. Augustine.

See him now in the mountains

dancing among the trees,

free as we are meant to be:

a rebel, soul rebel. 


I could not disturb his reverie

or shatter the myth of my being,

so I walked back to my room 

in the house across the street 

where the music from We Bar wafted

in with spirits mixed with sweat.

And in my room I danced,

alone and with my dread— 

if you’re not happy 

then you must be blue.


There are no saints or sinners,

there is just we— all of us 

capturers, soul adventurers

moving together, dancing alone 

at We Bar at one o’clock.


Ada Chinara (Ada C.M. Thomas) is Assistant Professor of English at Wheaton College in Massachusetts. She specializes in literatures of the African Diaspora in English, French and Spanish. A public humanities scholar, she has worked at cultural institutions including Penn Center in the Gullah Geechee Cultural Heritage Corridor, and as a Public Scholar through the New Jersey Council for the Humanities’ Public Scholars’ Project. Her forthcoming manuscript, Aminata: Abbey Lincoln’s Song of Faith, will be published by Rutgers University Press.

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taylor mckinnon poetry april 2024

My brother said he’d seen so many dead bodies

And had so much                  death              around him

How could he weep for the poor faces of the Palestinians?

                        How could he weep?

But I’m not a man and I could never understand

What it’s like to                    need a man              to tell me

To will me into hope for the future

I said no words to my brother really

I just remembered the little boy

Who ran away from trains who

Had                 wonder                       in his eyes at the sky

And I remember all the                   death              that has surrounded me

That has got up inside of me

And I remember the faces of the Palestinians who do not ask for hope

They ask for their story to be told and to be heard

And I listen to the shrieks of their story in my ears and I listen

And I cry real tears as I feel the full weight of my people dying

Of our people dying

And I feel the fire of death in my veins

And I wipe my tears away so that I can wash the feet of my dead

While my brother remains in his room


Taylor Mckinnon is a Black woman and writer based in Boston, Massachusetts. She has a lifelong interest in literature which she has studied in English, Latin, and Ancient Greek. She loves all things horror and loves nature a lot even though she is allergic. Her poetry has been published in a gathering together, the Papeachu Review, the BLF Press Black Joy anthology, Solstice Literary Magazine, and several other journals. You can find her on instagram at dtturns. 

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eraldo souza dos santos creative nonfiction april 2024

One

Ai, Eraldo, I think people have always made me a slave, in one way or another. After so many years, how many?, I don’t remember…, Dona R. arrived at the puteiro and asked your aunt: Where is Nilva?

That was in 1971, I believe. Dona R. is still alive, you should go to Teófilo Otoni to ask her this before she dies. Your grandmother worked for her. She did the ironing, cleaned the house, that sort of thing. Your aunts and I worked in her house since we were small children. I worked for her until I disappeared and also when I appeared again, before your grandmother sent me to Rio. Dona R. went to the whorehouse, the whorehouse was full of men, she got your aunt out of there and made her tell where I was. That’s all I know. Your aunt had come back to town very recently. A gentleman saw your aunt in the whorehouse area and told Dona R. They went there with the police, but the police had to stay outside.

I think the house and the farm were near Feira de Santana, but I could be wrong. Back then, my hair was very, very long, but as they didn’t want to take care of it, they cut it short like yours. I couldn’t comb my own hair alone either. I was very small. I could only see the town when they took me to the farm in their car during the holidays.

I don’t know what they produced on the farm. It was a very small farm. I looked after the children in the family. They were four or five, I guess. Me? I was probably a bit older. They were already walking, and how they were walking…! All the time. And I had to go after them. Two children, that’s it. Every night they would take a piece of an old mattress and put it in that little corner of the room for me to sleep on it. There was only room for my feet if I shrank down, and I didn’t have a pillow.

I don’t remember what they all looked like. Up until I was 20 or 21, I could remember their faces perfectly. Today I only see shadows. No, I don’t remember their names. Everything disappeared from my mind. But if I close my eyes now, I can see your aunt’s face perfectly.

Two

A police car was there when we returned from the farm. The policeman was kind to me. He asked: Is your name Nilva? I said yes. I don’t think I was afraid. He said: I need you to tell me if you know some people. Then he went to the car, and your aunt got out of one of the back doors.

No, I don’t remember realizing that Brazil was going through a dictatorship. I know because you have told me and because since Dilma was elected, they’ve been talking about it on TV all the time, haven’t they? The dictatorship started the year I disappeared, is that it? Ai, I only started learning all these things when I became a dumb old woman…

I think I disappeared in 1968. I think I spent three years in Bahia, but your Aunt Nires said it was much, much longer. Seven, she says… I don’t know now. Could it really have been that long? Who knows…

It was because the policeman arrived with your aunt that I tried to run away. I remember trying to run across the street. I shouted, It was her! I tried to get away from her. The policeman immediately grabbed my arm. It hurt. He said I shouldn’t be afraid. Maybe it wasn’t a policeman, but someone from the Juvenile Court?

Your grandmother got out of the police car, she was there too. I thought I’d never see her again. That she had forgotten me. I didn’t even know where I was.

That was how I reappeared.

Three

It was a normal, white, lace dress that your grandmother used to make me wear on Sundays. The dress had disappeared, but when your grandmother decided to sell the house, your Aunt Nires found it in a box and threw it away. You know your aunt. She said the dress was grimy.

What she told me was that when I disappeared, your grandmother put a nail in one of the living room walls and hung that dress on it. She only took the dress off the nail when I reappeared. Maybe some kind of simpatia? It was just an old dress, and you love keeping old things. I can’t wait to get rid of all those papers in your room to make room for the books in the boxes. The albums must be there. By the end of the month I want to clean the house, this house is filthy.

She left at dawn that day and went to the street market to buy food with Mom. She came back and left at about 11, 11 o’clock, and told your Aunt Nires to let her take me to your grandmother to buy a pair of shoes. Mom’s orders, Nires wouldn’t say no. Then she took me to a place where there were only truck drivers. And we traveled from Teófilo Otoni to Bahia by truck.

I don’t know if she gave me to them, if she sold me to them… Perhaps “selling” is too strong a word… I don’t think anyone knows, will ever know what really happened. Your Aunt Nires doesn’t think she sold me… Whenever we passed a highway police station, she would gently lower my head so that the police wouldn’t see me. I didn’t think anything unusual was going on. I trusted her. I was used to going out with your three older aunts, I just couldn’t go out alone.

No, it wasn’t your aunt who drove the truck… It was a truck driver. Your aunt didn’t even know how to drive. Today, I think they did get some money in exchange for me… That’s at least what I think…

We arrived at a big house. Your aunt and the truck driver went in and talked to the couple who lived there. When the conversation ended, she said, Nilva, I’ll be right back. Then the couple took me to a room with a little mattress in the corner. A mattress from a child’s crib.

Then the next day, when I woke up, they said: Your sister’s gone and she’s not coming back. And I’m going to stay here? Then they said: Yes.

The bad thing was that it wasn’t just looking after the children. They put me in charge of waxing the whole house, too. Especially a large room where they kept things like old furniture. This room was also used as a garage. I used to clean all the house on my knees. That’s why, when your grandmother found me, my knees were so bruised, dark, to the bone. I never understood why they always asked me to wax everything all the time. I would put the wax on the floor, and the Black maid would wax it. The waxer was too big for me.

I liked it when they took me to the farm. I was freer there. I could eat fruits off the tree. The cooks treated me very well there. They were Black, too. Breakfast had cheese, bread, and cornbread. They would ask: Do you like this? If I said yes, they would always prepare it for me. Lunch was much better too, with chicken, pork, beef… Everything was very tasty. Maybe because they felt sorry for me… The other house also had a maid, but she was much more reserved.

I never understood why your aunt didn’t come back to pick me up from there…

Your aunt told the police that we had traveled there by bus. But when the policeman, I’ll never forget his nice suit, talked to me alone in a room, I said no that we had traveled by truck. He asked me, Do you remember the truck driver’s name? I said no… The truck driver had vanished, never to appear again.

Four

It’s been so long since I’ve seen these photos! Your Aunt Neuza, yes. She seems happy in these photos, right? I don’t know who the rest of these people are, they’re all whores. The bichinha loved to drink… That man must be the pimp, those are perhaps the clients. I think she preferred whoring because it was less work than being a maid cleaning a madam’s house. Or she really liked it? I don’t know. She loved drinking with these people. Your grandmother never said anything about it. She lived with us, for sure. Once she stopped drinking, she would suddenly start shaking a lot, looking sad. Then your grandmother would shout: Nilva, Tico, go and buy your sister a shot of cachaça at the little store! I would bring the glass from home. I carried the glass very carefully so as not to spill it.

She wouldn’t let me get close to my boyfriends. She threatened to kill all of them. She said to Dica once: If I see you together again, my knife will find you!.. When I came back from Bahia, I only slept in her bed, afraid that your other aunt would kidnap me again, at night. I loved running my fingers through her hair before sleeping…

Once she put alcohol on her own body and set it on fire. I think it was because she fell in love with a man who cheated on her. She spent a long time in hospital… Several parts of her body became wrinkled after that. She was very, very beautiful…

Once she was in the city center and got into a fight with a woman. She stabbed the woman several times. No, I don’t think the woman died… Neuza went home calmly. She hid the knife behind our big, old radio and went to sleep. Then the police arrived in the morning. Does Neuza live here? Yes. Can we talk to her? Yes. Then your grandmother woke her up. Did you stab so-and-so? Yes. And where’s the crime weapon? Oh, just a moment. She gave the policeman the knife, full of blood. She was locked up for a long time…

She died of that m-disease that I don’t like to say the name of.

Five

Imagine, if you’re the grandson of a German or a Swiss! Your grandmother was very beautiful. Black but with big blue eyes, you can imagine. And she spoke German. I think she worked for some German family? Remember when she spoke German to you? She was illiterate but spoke German! Crazy.

I don’t know who my father really was. All your aunts and uncles don’t have their father’s name on their birth certificates. Neither do I. I think each of us has a different father… You must meet Dona D., too, before she dies. It was her niece who bought your grandmother’s house ten years ago. She loves a good gossip! She knows everything but only plays jokes. One day she said to me: You have the same mark over your eye as your father. Could it be that my father, or your grandfather, is still alive?

Your grandmother always said that my father was J.L. He always hated me. He never lived in the same house as we did. He lived with another woman. I was good friends with his sons. I don’t know why they put it into our heads that we had to call him dad. Maybe he was Neuza’s father. Maybe also the father of that aunt of yours who stole me from your grandmother. I think he had her with another woman but didn’t want to take care of her, and your grandmother decided to adopt her. You know, we love to adopt girls in this family. She was the only white one among us.

One day his children and I went to play. G. ended up hurting himself on the barbed wire on the farm. We carried him to our father’s house. Your Uncle Tico ran because he couldn’t tolerate blood, a coward as always. Dad took G. to hospital and then told your grandmother that I had been responsible for the accident. And she gave me the worst beating of my life. He kept smoking that pipe of his while she beat me until I pissed myself from the pain. When G. was discharged from hospital, he said it wasn’t me. But it was too late. Your grandmother had decided to send me to Rio to work in the house of one of her sisters-in-law.

Six

I don’t know why the police haven’t arrested your aunt. I think your grandmother preferred not to press charges so as not to see her daughter spend a lifetime in jail… She got angry when we asked her about this. When I came back, your aunt was still living there, as I said… Life as usual. That’s why I used to sleep in your Aunt Neuza’s bed for fear of being kidnapped at night.

But one day she disappeared like dust. I think your Aunt Neuza threatened to kill her in revenge. Your grandmother looked for her for a long time, everywhere. In vain. Perhaps Neuza’s knife found her.


Eraldo Souza dos Santos (they/them/theirs) is a Brazilian writer currently based between Paris and São Paulo and a 2022 LARB Publishing Fellow. He will join Cornell University as a Klarman Fellow in Summer 2024 and the University of California, Irvine as an Assistant Professor within the Poetic Justice Cluster in Fall 2025. His first book, to be published in 2025, is an autobiography of his illiterate mother and a meditation on the lived experience of Blackness and enslavement in modern Brazil. At the age of seven, his mother was sold into slavery by her white foster sister. It was 1968—eighty years after the abolition of slavery in Brazil and four years into the anti-communist coup d’état, during the month in which the military overruled the Constitution by decree. By weaving in extensive archival research and interviews, the novel narrates their journey to Minas Gerais—where she was born—and Bahia—the Blackest state in Brazil, where she was enslaved on a farm for three years—to investigate why the family that enslaved her has never been brought to justice. It also narrates his grandmother’s journey to search for her missing daughter. You can keep up with Eraldo on Twitter at @esdsantos and Instagram at @era_o_eraldo.


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cls Sandoval poetry april 2024

I remember the old wives’ tale

repeated too many times

to me when I was little


Spit out those watermelon

seeds or you’ll grow a watermelon

So many of my friends imagined

that the melon itself would fill our

bellies making us appear pregnant


I always pictured the watermelon

outside of my belly, connected to

the vines wrapping ‘round and ‘round

in my gut like an out-of-use

garden hose



Walking by Charles Henry Alston

The Black folks are walking 

During the bus boycott

Just like in Alston’s depiction

Rosa Parks inspired them

When we read about Rosa Parks to our daughter

From her book, whether it’s February or not,

And when we read about the many other

Strong Black women who look like Evelyn


Our little one looks at each page thoughtfully

Pointing to the feet of the woman depicted

“She has shoes,” Evelyn notes

We affirm her observation


“And she has shoes”

“And she has shoes”

“And she has shoes”

She points out on every page


“Yes, baby girl.  Shoes for walking.”


CLS Sandoval, PhD (she/her) is a Pushcart nominated writer and communication professor with accolades in film, academia, and creative writing who speaks, signs, acts, publishes, sings, performs, writes, paints, teaches, and rarely relaxes. She’s presented at communication conferences, served as a poetry and flash editor, published 15 academic articles, two academic books, three full-length literary collections, and three chapbooks. She has recently published flash and poetry pieces in literary journals, including Opiate Magazine, The Journal of Magical Wonder, and A Moon of One’s Own. She is raising her daughter, son, and dog with her husband in Walnut, CA. 

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jasmine harris flash nonfiction march 2024

My momma, who woke up before the roosters crowed and before the early birds tickled worms from the earth, was always the last person ready. As I walked by her room before gracing my spot on the couch for the morning wait, she had on her robe and was just setting the temperature of her curling irons. The third time I checked, she was scrutinizing two almost identical necklaces. Holding one to her chest in front of the mirror, then shaking her beautiful black curls to and fro as she reached across the basin for the other. 

I remember bouncing on the edge of the couch, Bible gripped tightly, as Bobby Jones’ gospel played in the background. Pink peacoat layered on top of a pastel-colored dress, ruffled matching socks, gloves, and polished shoes. Momma assured us that rather than vain pageantry, our attire was symbolism of our adoration for the Lord. When she said this, I imagined angels seated like a panel holding large boxing-style score cards in their wings and watching each of us as we entered the sanctuary. Their task: to rank our attire in order of holiness. As I pondered their nodding in approval or blushing in disdain, I spun my head from the clock to the television so quickly it appeared the hands stood still. Nonetheless, we would be late to church once again.

Throughout the washing of dishes, and syruping all of our pancakes, and ensuring each hair on all four of our heads was in place, she licked her thumb. Swiping a lingering crumb from Leilon’s face, she was finally ready. En route, I begged to crack a window as our dusty van seemed oversaturated with my anxiety and momma’s bitter perfume. The ride usually took about eighteen minutes allowing either for a nap or several minutes of my wishing my mother were a more aggressive driver. She drove as if we were floating on clouds, cranking up The Clark Sisters’ Living in Vain as we coasted. My stomach could have easily competed with the world’s best on beam — tossing and turning in and out of knots. Fifteen minutes late and probably missing all of praise and worship, I struggled to place each foot in front of the other while entering the double doors to the church. Not a single thing would be different on the program; yet I scanned its contents, feeling as though I heard an ominous “tisk” and vowing to make up what we had missed later at home. Momma said God was our everything – a healer and a way maker. And we should be grateful for all He’d done for us — life, groceries, and clothes. But we were always late.

It never made sense to my tween brain. How could she love God so much, dedicate an entire day to honoring Him, but show up late every time? How could she be so rude?  How would God know we took him seriously as we slumped into the last pew of the sanctuary? During my Saturday night scarries — what I called my anxiety-filled dreams on Saturday nights –each church member would turn around in unison, heads shaking in disgust, as we dragged in like stale bread. How many points off would we receive on the scales of good and evil? How would God know I truly cared if we missed half the sermon or praise and worship? As I pondered God’s love evaluation system, questions bounced around in my dome like pickle balls at a senior center. I soon realized I’d left my eyes open, and my head was up instead of bowed during the benediction. How would I ever make it to heaven?


Jasmine Harris is a multi-genre writer and educational specialist featured in the Hidden Sussex Anthology, Prometheus Dreaming, Syndrome Magazine, and several others. She most recently served as the 2023 Arts and Science Center of Southeast Arkansas Arts in Education Artist in Residence.  Harris focuses her writing on celebrating Black culture and community, intersectional identities, and the evaluation of popular culture. She frequently quotes her inspirations as Maya Angelou, Ntozake Shange, and Tupac Shakur. Stay updated with her work and projects through her website https://jasminemharris.weebly.com or on instagram at dr_harris.