At thirty-three years old, with not even an ugly contender at her doorstep asking to marry her, Alima had gone to see the old clairvoyant.
Tag: Writing
The Sweetest Sorrow
I always knew when you were close. Sometimes, I would smell you on my clothes, but only on the nights you got drunk enough to sleep on my shoulder. I never moved you off, and you never complained about the crick in your neck in the mornings after.
Author Jason Reynolds never gets boring
For his 2024 novel Twenty-Four Seconds, Reynolds realized that there were not many books addressing “black boys’ tenderness.”
Two Poems by Jack Brown
A man walks into the bar and sees only me
because I am there. He says Good enough but hesitates.
sacred bodies
how many times can someone cry out for God in a night?
Camp (It’s a Mitzvah!)
It is 1982. I just turned 14 last month. It is the summer before 10th grade. I am at a sleepaway camp in the Catskills. I am staying in what used to be a hotel that the camp randomly assigns to campers. It’s not fancy, but it’s better than the cabins. It’s really cool because I am with a group of girls from Long Island. It’s like they are a gang of Rizzos from Grease.
I Bought a Rug
Recently, I looked around my room and thought, if I were to die inexplicably in my sleep, I would be surrounded by nothing.
Letter from the Editor, 2023-24
The phrase “particularly in these times” stands out to me.
Unbecoming Homeless
Who cares about which direction the stocks are headed when you don’t know where you and your family will be sleeping tonight?
Cecilia Gentili’s Legacy, Southern Transness, and the Reclamation of Sainthood
Above all, Cecilia embodied the spirit of a saint, transcending the boundaries of convention and challenging sanctimony as a trans sex worker of color.
Down South
Driving gingerly driving motherly.
Hope for Rain
It is summer and all my friends are dying.
Pixelated
I was 15 in North Myrtle Beach,
skateboarding towards 420 World
under the stale haze of old billboards and tattered confederate flags. Big Mike worked there,
and it’s where the porn was.
Figures
When a people are made into numbers, by nature, they become divisible. By design, subtractable.
Third-Person Autobiography: Not Just for Therapy Anymore
…Sindy continues to write about herself in third person. It may not seem much of a disclosure, but to her it is bare and breathing. She has concerns that she’ll come across as presumptuous, or as Elmo.
Pumpkin, Spice, Naughty, and Nice
If Christian girlies who love the fall season truly knew and embraced that their bescarved, twinkly-eyed glee comes at the behest of many who suffered brutal deaths, or that their Target scarves were forcibly made by Indonesian children for less than a dollar a day, would they smile so big when sipping those tasty PSLs?
Troubled Sleep Interview
There are people who talk about the Internet or reading PDFs, but the thing is, those people are all wrong. That’s the great truth of it; no matter what happens with smartphones, or streaming TV, or people ordering books off of Amazon, I think the written word is here to stay. People will always like to read physical books. For anyone who is thinking about a career in writing, there will always be demand for that and there will always be opportunities for that.
Shy
In the wake of extremely outgoing parents, I was allowed to drown in my shyness and stay hidden from the world. In retrospect, the label kept me safe for a time. I never had to discuss the turmoil in my life. I learned to dissect and process my pain alone. . .
Let the Clouds Cry
Dream about the heart-shaped leaves
on the thin branches of the purple tree.
You know the one.
Where the butterflies
sleep amongst the flowers,
Blessed by the tears of the clouds.