CONTENTS

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

PROSE

INTERSTATE AFRICANA

WC Dunlap // 2487 words

Travelers converge on a plane where time and space are mere suggestions and the souls of Black folk are eternal. Hear the drums, tell your stories, and find healing before your next life begins.

SILVER DOOR DINER

Bishop Garrison // 4714 words

A woman working in a sleepy diner is cast out of her routine by a mysterious child’s warning of an impending cataclysm.

PAID IN FULL

Sarah A. Macklin // 4226 words

No one throws rent parties anymore, or at least that’s what Keisha believed before her little brother appears in her struggling shop, imbued with an explained, golden glow.

THAT WHICH SMELLS BAD

Aline-Mwezi Niyonsenga // 2846 words

Catching ghosts isn’t just a summer job for Gladys, the work anchors her to a family and culture that shuns her. So much more than an evening’s pay is at stake when her latest ghost decides to run.

AMBROSIA

Margaret Saunders // 4544 words

An artist struggling to rediscover herself while providing elder care for her aunt begins receiving premonitions after an impromptu visit to a psychic.

POETRY

IN RETROGRADE

Billimarie Lubiano Robinson

PARADISE

Jarred Thompson

Tiny instances of Black girl magick

Nia June

October 2020

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR

Welcome to the 16th issue of the Hugo Nominated, World Fantasy Award Winning FIYAH Magazine of Black Speculative Fiction.

Last year when the FIYAH team discussed options for our only themed issue of 2020, I was thrilled we voted for Joy. I advocated for it—what better way, I mused, to offer counterpoint and comfort in what will surely be a tumultuous year? These past ten months proved that speculation to be laughably shortsighted, and the year isn’t finished with us yet.

But hold up. Pause. We are not only still here—we are advancing, stubborn and resilient. We know good and well how to thrive despite taking losses, laugh during the storm, and dance after it passes. And it will pass.

We have plenty to celebrate. The FIYAH team continues trailblazing with this year’s virtual FIYAHCON and inaugural IGNYTE Awards, as envisioned by our incomparable L.D. Lewis. Tickets are sold out (but you knew that because you’ve locked in your spot, right?)

Brent Lambert and I are elated to share FIYAH’s collaboration with Tor.com: Breathe FIYAH. This flash fiction anthology birthed some remarkable pieces and we are honored and humbled to share them with you this October.

This Joy issue marks a pivotal milestone in FIYAH’s existence: we are now offering pro rates to our authors, and funded to do so through 2021! I can’t think of a better way to celebrate our nickel. The entire team extends our deepest appreciation for the donors who helped make this achievement possible, and ensure we can continue elevating Black speculative voices for years to come.

I particularly want to extend gratitude to the many authors who delved within themselves and wrote to this theme in the midst of a pandemic and the countless additional plights we’re navigating together. Selections were a challenge this issue (but y’all showed out.)

Let’s get to our stories. WC Dunlap’s “Interstate Africana” is a beautiful testament to our people, diaspora, and the love that awaits us at homegoing. “Silver Door Diner” by Bishop Garrison presents a young woman’s dilemma when warned of imminent cataclysm by a strange young boy. In Sarah A. Macklin’s “Paid in Full,” a mysterious rent party tempts a struggling shop owner to cast her routine aside, and “That Which Smells Bad” by Aline-Mwezi Niyonsenga follows a ghost hunter searching for identity along with an elusive spirit. Margaret Saunders’ “Ambrosia” navigates elder care, dreams deferred, and the premonitions that pushed an artist to rediscover her joy. “In Retrograde” by Billimarie Lubiano Robinson, “Paradise” by Jarred Thompson and Nia June’s “Tiny instances of Black girl magick” round out this issue’s poetry.

Our Joy issue’s cover artist is Odera Igbokwe. Check out their interview here!

A final note on staffing: it is only fitting that the Joy issue marks the end of Brandon O’Brien’s tenure as Poetry Director. His input and creative direction over four years and sixteen issues is an integral part of FIYAH’s ongoing conversation with speculative fiction. Read his farewell here. B. Sharise Moore takes on the role headed into 2021, and we’re fortunate and excited to see her vision unfold in future issues.

Happy Black Speculative Fiction Month! Wherever you are, whatever comes next, carve out space for your joy. Thanks for supporting us through 2020, and we’ll see you next year.

Peace,

DaVaun Sanders

FIYAH Magazine

Executive Editor: DaVaun Sanders

Managing Editor: Eboni Dunbar

Poetry Editor: Brandon O’Brien

Acquiring Editors: Kaleb Russell + Danny Lore +

B. Sharise Moore + Genine Tyson + Emmalia Harrington

Art Direction + Layout: L.D. Lewis

Cover Artwork by Odera Igbokwe

Interior illustrations by Olivia Stephens + Ejiwa “Edge” Ebenebe + Trevor Fraley

All material in FIYAH is copyrighted to the original authors and may not be reproduced without permission.

INTERSTATE AFRICANA

By WC Dunlap // 2487 words

Dedicated to my daddy Charles Dunlap

July 4, 1936 – December 13, 2019

A highway runs across the universe, imperceptible to science and the conscious human mind, but it exists all the same. It is a brilliant neon artery, traversed by a billion African souls. A vibrant pink and orange stream cuts through a cloudless blue sky, lit up by the yellow hues of a sun nowhere and everywhere at once. The highway twists and turns across four dimensions with no end in sight, more experience than interval. Right side up and upside down, its travelers follow along unencumbered as spirits tend to be. Exits from the interstate facilitate entrance to more tangible realities. Past, present and future are simply pit stops along an eternal march. The highway is a timeless place, buzzing with the urgency of life, and the invincibility of joy. It is a spectacular for all six senses.

There is a constant vibrating hum, a celestial exhale setting pace to all activity. A million conversations, drumming, chanting, singing, and stomping merge in harmony— a cosmic choir. There are debates, jokes, and fables told to everyone and no one in particular. Lessons are passed like life bread. Regrets shared in whispers. Triumphs resound like trumpets. Prophecies swirl like the ubiquitous buzzing of bees, dripping with the nectar of futures untold.

And always there is the infectious laughter of children.

Life is noisy, and this road is the life eternal. It is a loud place filled with bass and trills. A traveler could sit and listen forever and still not hear all that there is to learn. But no one sits on the interstate for long. Travelers have places to go, their motion the sweetest melody in the universe.

They walk, saunter, switch, and dance to-and-through their journeys, moving in a seraphic coordination. Life blood pumped through a single heart. They are always in step, always in time, even when late. There are groups and couples and singles, walking side-by-side or hand-in-hand. The interstate is infinite with no beginning nor end. It twists across time and space, permitting the travelers to pass through past and future. Time has no meaning. Here is the only present. The travelers stay close to those dear as they exit and return, always finding one another like planets revolving around an orbit of family and love. There is no loneliness here, only expression.

They travel in elaborate tunics and wraps; intricate brocade, kangas, kitenge, and denim. Garb hangs off flickering dark forms as ethereal as light. They lean on carved staffs and canes of fantastic design while balancing baskets woven with ciphers on hips and head. Some carry patterned bags of adire, bogolan, kente and Big Mama’s favorite quilt. They tread forward and backward, upward and downward, dancing, switching, stomping in high top sneakers, leather sandals, church lady heels, and bare feet. Beads adorn waists thick and slim. Cowries and cusps hang from plaits and locs. Gold and silver loops dangle from wrists, ankles and necks. Fingers sparkle with precious gems. It is a catwalk of universal proportions; each traveler’s life lessons on magnificent display.

“Who you showing out for?” They tease one another in a million languages collected over a million lifetimes.

“My own Black self!” comes the collective answer.

Sticks of incense are waved through the air – frankincense, lavender, jasmine, and sage. The aroma of cinnamon merges sweetly with myrrh. Pipes of elaborate design pressed to thick lips produce fragrant clouds that form briefly into hieroglyph, ukara, andinkra, and graffiti. Symbols float through the air – cumulus infused with intention. Everyone gets a contact. Eyelids droop heavy with calm. As the travelers pass the highway exits, they are greeted by the flavors of the Diaspora. Scents tickle taste buds that need no food, enticing the travelers towards the mortal world. The sweet scent of frying plantains, the pungency of boiling greens. The warm aroma of lamb stew, and the unmistakable temptation of fried chicken.

Mortality draws them to the exits like the hungry to a meal – but like all meals it will be finished and there will be another. Those thus sated walk slowly down on-ramps, leaving their last life lived to rejoice in the interstate, and the life everlasting. Merchant stalls line the highway, showcasing baskets woven with rays of suns. Statues sculpted from the faces of asteroids. Fabrics stitched with the fire trail of comets. A bazaar of cosmic proportions. These wares dot the sky like colorful stars of purple and gold, greens and yellows. Each object engraved with geometric shapes, infusing them with purposeful power – transferred upon purchase, of course. The shouts of the merchants carry across the interstate.

“Are you looking for love in your travels? I got a cloak for that!”

“Is there a stain on your soul that you need to remove? This charm will do!”

“Having trouble recalling the lessons of lives passed? Try this hat!”

Travelers barter with the wisdom of lives lived. There are bluffs and exaggerations, the feigned intensity of haggling. But here there is no competition, only gladness, because everyone receives their due. A deal is struck when the wise worn hands of an artisan wraps around the ethereal, flickering palms of a traveler. Knowledge is exchanged and woven into new objects for trade. Nothing is wasted. Every experience and sensation produces a new enchantment to aid in the endless journey. It is the infinite barter, each traveler growing stronger, more capable through the collective.

There are times when the merchants themselves grow restless and seek their own journeys. They carefully close up shop, slip on their traveler’s cloak, and take with them all of the knowledge and magic they can carry. Bags overflowing, baskets brimming, carts laden with curiosities, they rejoin the interstate in search of the next experience. One such traveler bustles towards an exit with an armful of blueprints, ink glowing brilliant indigo. The traveler staggers. And the blueprints go flying into the air.

“You got to lighten your load, fam,” laugh the other travelers as they help the architect retrieve the prints.

“I’mma drop these off at the next exit,” explains the architect. “These fools trying to build a pyramid, and I gotta show ‘em how – again.”

There is laughter as the architect turns towards a nearby exit and waves.

“No rest for the weary!” shouts a traveler.

“See you when you get back, Imhotep,” cries another.

“That ain’t Imhotep,” a traveler interjects with a loud steups, “That’s Amanda from Chicago.”

“Can’t be Amanda,” answers another. “She still on Earth.”

“Look like Robert to me,” one traveler suggests.

“Robinson Taylor? Nah, I don’t think that’s him…”

“Y’all know nothing!” chides another. “That’s CW from Willacoochie!”

“I ‘spect it might be all of them,” another traveler concludes.

“Aaaaahhhhh,” the arguing spirits agree. “Now that makes sense!”

And they continue on.

New, fresh souls appear in tiny bursts of light, momentarily scattering travelers from the road. There are grumbles and complaints, a shriek or two, as baskets and wares are dropped in surprise. Elder travelers quickly recover and embrace the young souls who stare wide-eyed before them. These young travelers wear simple robes of solid colors or nothing at all, their feet bare, their heads bald. Their eyes light with curiosity and apprehension as the elders guide them towards the exits. Some obey with enthusiasm, their lips curled into smiles, bellies rolling inexplicably with laughter as they move towards their first life. Others move more hesitantly, reluctant to leave the security of the interstate for the unknown.

“Why you scared?” a traveler asks a nervous newborn.

The child kicks its feet producing dusts of vibrant colors that dissipate into tiny rainbows. “Guess I like it here,” explains the child, unable to look the elder in the eye.

“Can’t grow if you don’t travel,” the elder traveler responds.

The child blinks back tears.

‘“Let that baby be!” comes a cry from the crowd.

The elder waves them off, and turns back to the newborn. “You know you’ll be back, don’t you?”

“Promise?” the child asks.

“I do,” the elder traveler smiles, “Try this exit over here. I been there. There’s some bad, but some good too.”

The child stares hesitantly up the off-ramp.

“You like Jazz?” the elder traveler asks.

“What’s Jazz?”

“Go on a’head and find out.” The elder chuckles, handing the newborn a tiny horn, “And take this with you.” The child lifts the horn to its mouth, producing a shrill, disconcerting sound. The elder takes the horn back. “Maybe this ain’t for you quite just yet.”

“I like to use my voice,” the child says, before making the sweetest, most perfect sound.

The traveler nods. “Go on a’head then and use that voice, songbird. Sing your way all the way up that ramp and through your first life. Find me when you get back, okay?”

“Okay,” the child finally relents, singing softly while skipping in time towards the exit.

The elder traveler watches the child disappear with apprehension, “First trip never easy.”

“Life is hard,” answers a traveler.

“We gotta live it though,” shrugs another.

“You got a baby now!” they tease.

The elder traveler nods and mumbles, “Yeah, they’ll find me when they get back,” and continues on.

Hair artisans beckon travelers to leave the road, promising styles that imbue power and possibility. Thus enticed, travelers kick off shoes, cross legs and sit between thighs too strong to be of spirit. The travelers watch the activity of the interstate as hard hands pull & twist coils into designs that defy the laws of physics, if such a thing existed. Plaits form like halos. Finger waves ripple like water. Locs twist around brows in ceaseless motion. Tendrils fall from heads shaved bald and float like stars around a sun.

Here stories are exchanged, the currency of the beauty shop. The artisans listen carefully as the travelers recall their journeys, offering advice gentler than their hands. They respond with styles that heal and empower. Twist outs for release, cornrows for recovery, blow outs for renewal. Fresh styles heal like medicine. Regret is oiled from flaky scalps, and trauma is trimmed from dead ends.

“My actions harmed so many,” explains a regretful traveler.

“But you were wealthy, no?” taunts the braider.

The traveler winces from a hard pull of the nape. “But I couldn’t take a piece of that gold with me.”

The braider sighs, “I suppose you could not. It was not treasure for the soul.”

“And all those lost simply to feed my greed,” laments the traveler.

“It is good that you are sorry,” the braider says while twisting an atonement pattern of concentric circles, each expanded from the other, united by a common core. There is much this traveler must undo in their next journey, and perhaps the one after that as well. “It’ll be all right,” the braider reassures, “because you’ll make it so. Now be still so I can finish. We both have more work to do.”

A travelers’ work is life, their choices following them into the interstate where experience becomes wisdom, missteps and mistakes never to be repeated again. But a darkness threatens the interstate, a stretch of road where light has ceased to penetrate. The travelers know not when, how or why it appears. It begins with a single exit, and an ash descending like prison bars, cold and thick with foreboding. Along this stretch there are no merchants lining the shoulders, no laughter of children, and the constant buzzing of life is silenced into a hush. Thunder booms like cannon fodder and lightning crackles like whips. There is no space for fear on the interstate, yet it spreads.

One exit, two exits, three exits.

Passing travelers freeze in terror-stricken awe. They want to run past the despair, towards the light. But travelers travel, they do not flee. The intrepid venture towards these dark exits, and they are swallowed by pain.

Four exits, five exits, six exits—over four hundred shadow exits sweep across like locusts devouring a field. Suffering echoes into the interstate, a tidal wave of misery where no misery should be.

It feels like eons. But it is but a beat before souls drag down the on-ramps. They return broken, each painful shuffle a reminder of all they have endured. They move stiffly, out of tune with life, their once ethereal, flickering forms heavier now. Once they soared across dimensions like celestial birds, they now lumber like boulders, tethered by horrors imaginable. Somehow, they continue forward, through the oppressive gray and towards the faint pounding of drums. They feel it before they can hear it, a shallow inhale reminding them to breath.

They stumble into welcoming arms.

“You are home!” comes a shout from a million tongues collected over a million lifetimes.

There are tears and cries of anguished relief as travelers hold one another for as long as necessary, sharing the trauma, lessening the load.

“We got you.”

“It is over.”

“We will carry your pain until it is gone.”

Yet the darkness persists, threatening to poison the entire interstate. Travelers cry out in protest, their voices piercing through the cold, thick fog of the shadow exits.

“AHHHHHHHH!” comes the collective exhale. The sound of life is insistent now, indomitable. The resistance catalyzes. Travelers stiffen with resolve and stare into the dark abyss of the exits before them.

“It is my fight now,” they declare.

Always there are protests.

“Not again, Harriet.”

“Oh no, Fanny!”

“It’s too hard, Nat.”

But travelers understand that some journeys must be undertaken. Those strong enough exchange places with the broken. Cloaks of courage are wrapped around their shoulders, emblems of protection pressed into their palms, words of power are whispered into their ears to be recalled when needed most. They carry the power of the interstate up these shadowed off-ramps and through the exits. They are emissaries of the light. They will stop the shadow spread, and when they return the interstate will be their restoration.

Tears flow like a drought-breaking rain seeping into deep, dry roots, as the broken are led away and back towards the light. The gloom gradually breaks, the hum of life slowly returns, quickening their step. Sweet scents of sage, lavender, chicken and greens pull them forward. Salt and sugar tickles their tongues. In the distance there is the beating of drums, and heartbeats synchronize to its rhythm. Ululations pierce through the air like fire, setting their burdens aflame. The laughter of children is infectious, and wails of sorrow become hallelujahs. Spirits dulled by trauma begin to pulsate a brilliant blue-black as their glow returns. Their bodies break through the gray, and they are assaulted by glory.

This is homegoing.

“Well, where to now?” a traveler asks the healing.

“Hmm,” they ponder with a slight smile, “I think I’mma get my hair did.”

And there is a chorus of laughter.

This is the Interstate Africana.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT WC Dunlap

WC Dunlap draws her inspiration from the complexities of a Black Baptist, middle class upbringing by southern parents, and all that entails for a brown skin girl growing up in America. Equally enthralled by the divine and the demonic with a professional background in data & tech, she seeks to bend genres with a unique lens on fantasy, fear, and the future.

Her writing career spans across film, journalism and cultural critique, previously under the byline Wendi Dunlap. WC Dunlap’s first serial novel, Carnivàle, is published by Broken Eye Books via their Eyedolon Patreon page. You can also find her work on PodCastle, LightSpeed, and in the Lovecraft-inspired anthology Ride the Star Wind: Cthulhu, Space Opera, and the Cosmic Weird.

WC Dunlap holds a BA in Film and Africana Studies from Cornell University. She is the proud mother of a young adult son and two British Shorthair familiars. Follow WC Dunlap on twitter @wcdunlap_tales.

SILVER DOOR DINER

By Bishop Garrison // 4714 words

The Boy is hungry. He wants apple pie and conversation. He loves that pie, but truly enjoys the company. His slender, chestnut brown hand pushes against the diner’s cool silver door. He loves the smooth touch of the glossy surface as much as he loves the way it shimmers in the sunlight. A bell tolls as the door swings open. The restaurant has traditional décor: wooden booth seats with Formica table tops covered in wine burgundy vinyl. Black and white checkerboard linoleum runs throughout the length of the establishment.

A counter sits in front of him with stools that spin on the same silver polished chrome as the door. He loves the stools. They’re bound with a faux red leather the same shade as the tabletops. The entirety of the restaurant is empty except for a middle-aged Caucasian man seated at the other end of the counter. He’s sipping coffee and reading to himself. He’s clean shaven in a mid-grade business suit. He looks rather uninterested in what he’s reading, but that’s not surprising.

The Boy missed the breakfast rush, and he’s fine with that. He chooses a stool a few seats down from the man. He keeps his hands in his pockets because he’s more comfortable that way. His feet can’t reach the floor, so he lets them swing in front of him. They occasionally kick the counter, but he decides that’s okay, too.

A woman with raven hair pulled back in a ponytail appears from a door leading into the kitchen. She wears a white and peach pinstriped top with a big collar. Her smile is filled with pearly white teeth. A white apron covered with fresh smudges of grease hangs around her waist. Her features are sharp and wonderfully symmetrical. Her skin is a rich and even mahogany. The Boy likes symmetry. Objectively, there is something striking about her look. Her eyes are deep brown and soulful. They level in on him and her cherry lips part in a smile. The smile is warm, and he’s happy to see it. As if it is a reflex, he smiles back at her. Her nametag reads Tammy.

“Well, hello there, mister!” There is a faint hint of a twang in her voice: the remnants of a Southern accent that she left behind not that long ago. She surveys the room. The Caucasian man continues to read from his device. The only sounds to be heard are faded echoes of the city outside. She sees no one else. “You here by yourself?”

The Boy nods.

“Well, I’m not sure that’s right. Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“No,” the Boy responds. “I’m right where I should be.”

Her face contorts ever so slightly. “Young boys should be in school this time of day, mister.” She chuckles, brushing loose strands of hair away from her face. There’s an effervescence about her: a dynamic sparkle of life. It makes the Boy smile again.

“Are you hungry?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“Well, let’s make a deal. I’ll have the cook make you whatever you’d like. But then you’ll have to tell me about yourself. Like, maybe who your parents are or where you’re supposed to be, so we can get you there safely. How’s that sound?”

He feels himself nodding without even trying.

“Okay, mister man. What will it be?”

“Do you have apple pie?” he asks, knowing the answer.

She leans in and whispers. “As a matter of fact...” she pauses and looks around as though hiding some tantalizing secret. “We don’t just have any old apple pie, but the best apple pie in town.”

The Boy smirks at the statement. He loves playing along. “The best apple pie?” he whispers. “That sounds amazing.”

“It is wonderful! How about a slice of that with a little bit of milk?”

“That’d be great.”

She pats her hand on the counter and disappears into the kitchen.

The Boy adjusts a bit in his seat, his hands resting comfortably in the pockets of his bright red windbreaker. His high-top sneakers still occasionally squeak, rubbing against the glossy wood near the bottom of the counter. The Boy sees the Caucasian man occasionally glance over. He grins a few times during their exchange. The Boy always likes the man. He seems nice.

Tammy reappears from the back. In one hand she carries a tall glass of milk, the other holds a handsome slice of apple pie. Steam still rises from it when she sets the plate in front of the Boy. He takes in a deep whiff of the aroma: hot baked apples, rich cinnamon, warm and buttery crust. The Boy’s mouth begins to salivate. As he prepares himself for the treat, he overhears the Caucasian man ask for his check. Tammy cashes him out, and the pair exchange familiar pleasantries. Then he pays and heads for the exit. He tells her he’ll see her tomorrow, and she returns the gesture. Tammy then retrieves a nearby set of silverware along with a cloth napkin and places them in front of the Boy.

“Deal’s a deal. Go ahead, little mister. You get a few bites, then you have to tell me the info.”

The Boy nods, picks up the fork, and digs into the dessert. It practically falls apart in his mouth, the flavors dancing across his tongue. He feels bad for ever thinking of the pie as only above average. Of course it’s the best apple pie in town. In part, it’s what brings him back to this place.

Into his third bite she asks him the question again. Always the detective, Tammy is. “Okay, young man. Out with it. What school do you go to? Where are your parents?”

He knows what comes next. He always thinks he’ll have more time, but he never does. He always thinks it will be different somehow, but it never really is. He places the fork on the counter. He takes a long drink of the milk, then, setting the glass back down, picks up the napkin and slowly wipes the corners of his mouth. Returning the cloth to his lap, he looks up and lets his brown eyes sync with Tammy’s.

“I don’t have any parents, and I don’t attend school.”

Tammy blinks and nods knowingly. The Boy knows she thinks he’s a delinquent, a truant, or perhaps a runaway from a foster home. She leans in again to engage him more. “Okay, I’m so sorry to hear that, honey, but who takes care of you?”

“I take care of me. And I missed the city, so I came back.”

“Missed the city?” she asks. “You aren’t from here?”

The Boy shakes his head. He motions around the room with his hand. “Nope. I just like coming here. I missed it.” He picks up the fork and goes after the pie again.

“You had to leave?” she asks.

“Yes and no. Technically, not yet,” the Boy says between bites. “I’m told my work here is complete, so I have to go. There’s no more value left in studying it.”

Tammy is honestly confused. “In studying what, honey?”

“The world, Tammy. How this world ended. Or will end. Depends on your point of view, your perspective.” The Boy’s tone remains calm and flat in that explanation. He takes another bite of the pie. He lets the cinnamon overtake his senses, the buttery crust is flakey and still warm.

Tammy examines him partly in disbelief, partly in discomfort. The Boy leans across the counter. His windbreaker rustles with a crinkling plastic sound. Tammy pulls away. The awkwardness from her is palpable. He practically sees it hanging in the air between them.

“I’m not sure the game you’re playing here, sweetie, or who might have put you up to it. It’s not funny or cute, and I’m going to need you to leave.” Her voice is even, authoritative, unequivocal. It always is in this moment. The Boy knows she needs some proof that he just isn’t some child with a big imagination.

“Susan Culpepper. Eighth grade. In the lunchroom. You made fun of her clothes in front of a group of girls. You said she looked poor and homeless. All of you laughed. At the end of lunch before class, you were in a restroom stall and saw her come in crying. She sobbed for a solid two minutes. Then she left. You wanted to apologize and didn’t. The next week she transferred schools. You never hung around that group of girls again, and to this day you regret never telling her you were sorry. You looked her up on social media more than a dozen times.”

Tammy’s eyes are the size of the saucers sitting behind her on the counter. “I– I never told anymore that story.”

“You told it to me. Susan is married now with two children in a lovely brownstone in Flatbush, Brooklyn. She’s a wealthy author married to an anesthesiologist. Funny how life works. Writing about the abject poverty she survived as a child made her a millionaire. This world loves its irony nearly as much as it does its war.”

Tammy shakes her head vigorously. “That’s not possible,” she whispers. She wipes away the tears cascading across her cheeks now. The Boy always hates seeing her sad.

“I’ve never seen you before in my life. Who put you up to this?”

“You and I have had this conversation on more than one occasion. To be exact, we’ve spoken three thousand, two hundred and eighty-five times.” He looks up realizing she’s still petrified in horror. “This is something we go through as well. You don’t believe me, then I tell you to go in the back and turn on the television. In exactly seven minutes a live report airs about a plane crash in Texas that’s killed fourteen people, the cause of which is still unknown. Then you tell me you just think one of my relatives had something to do with the crash.

“That’s when I tell you that the gentleman that was here earlier, Oliver Marks, doesn’t come here for the marginal coffee or runny eggs. He comes back because he’s in love with you. It’s something you’ve long suspected. He has been in love with you since he walked through the door one year, one month, and sixteen days ago. He’s a young widower and doesn’t know how to deal with his feelings. He feels betrayed by them, by the fact that he could have affections for someone besides his deceased wife. So instead of acting on those emotions he comes and he sits and he eats mediocre food so he can simply see and speak to you.”

The Boy returns to his plate, but then he quickly adds, “That’s not fair. All the food here isn’t mediocre, or I wouldn’t keep coming back for the apple pie. It’s the best I’ve ever had.” He takes a bite.

Tammy’s voice cracks as she speaks. “Did Oliver…did he…”

“No one put me up to this, Tammy, I swear. I’m not trying to trick you. If you’d like more evidence, I can keep giving you examples of– ”

“Are you God?” she interrupts.

“No more than you are.”

“Then how do you know all of this, and how can you see the future?”

The Boy only has a few bites of pie left. Sometimes he asks for another slice before delving deeper into the conversation, but today he believes he’s had enough of a treat.

“We’ve discussed the specifics of your life every time we’ve met. Each instance is not identical to its predecessor because I typically ask a variety of questions. At this point, however, there’s really no mystery left in it. So much like Oliver Marks, but without the romantic inclination, I came here today for the pie and the conversation.”

“You don’t speak like a little boy.”

The Boy touches his finger to his nose, then points back at Tammy. “Sharp as a knife. Let’s just call me an ‘Other.’ We’re something...different. The details would take up the entirety of a conversation, so instead I’ll simply tell you that I’m very old and from a place very far away.”

Tammy’s grip tightens along the counter edge behind her. For a moment, she appears to relax, leaning forward as though to inquire more about the Boy’s nature. He is filled with excitement at the potential that she may engage in an action she’s never previously taken. “An alien,” she says, as she’s whispered thousands of times prior.

The Boy’s heart sinks. “Feels like a pejorative, Tammy, but all right. It’s accurate, I guess.”

“What if I just want you to go away? What if I just scream for Big Mike to come from the kitchen and deal with you?”

“You’ve done that before. He’s in the back engulfed in some morning sports news program. Sometimes just general screaming, sometimes specific yelling for Big Mike. Sometimes a combination thereof. When asked I always leave.” He points to the door behind him. “If you want me to leave now, I’ll go. But you don’t want me to leave.”

Tammy’s voice cracks. “Oh? Sure about that?” She picks up the knife sitting to her left. Sometimes it’s been the knife, other times the spatula, but never anything else. She points it at him as though ready to strike.

The Boy nods. “Yup. I haven’t presented any threat to you besides knowing a bit about your background and situation. And your curiosity is pushing you to understand. That and you look crazy pointing a knife at an innocent child.”

“You think I want you to answer questions more than I’m worried about you hurting me?”

“I have no interest in hurting you, nor have I posed any physical threat. If I wanted to do that, we wouldn’t be sitting here talking about it. But, yes, that’s what I’m thinking.”

Her rigidness melts somewhat but not completely. She moves to the front door and pulls it back. The sun reflects off its silver sheen. She looks up and down the street, then returns her attention back to the Boy inside. Knife still in her hand but now at her side, she hovers near the Boy. “Why has no one come in yet? We usually have a few more people come in. Are you holding them back or something?”

“No. Nothing I’ve done. There was an accident a few blocks away. It held up a city bus. We have another fifteen minutes before your next customer shows up, a young local newspaper reporter that had a long night. She comes in and has the pancakes. A couple of college students studying for an exam come in a few minutes after that.”

“The world’s going to end?” Tammy says in the tiniest possible voice. Her southern roots are suddenly obvious in her accent. This is a regular occurrence, and the Boy thinks it’s likely due to the stress of the situation. She sets the knife on the counter and takes the seat next to the Boy.

“Ended,” he corrects her. “A long time ago. But, for you, it’ll be tomorrow. Three-oh-one in the afternoon, Eastern Standard Time.”

Tammy protests. “That’s not possible. It doesn’t make sense.”

The Boy sighs. They’ve been through all of this so many times before, but this part never changes. He grabs nearby salt-and-pepper shakers. He lifts the pepper and presents it to her.

“Today a small-minded man will feel threatened. He will feel the walls of his dictatorial power collapsing around him. In a desperate miscalculation following a perceived threat, he will launch a volley of conventional munitions at an enemy. Hundreds of thousands die. He hopes it will be the show of force necessary to stabilize his position domestically and abroad. It’s not and it won’t.”

Now, the Boy lifts the saltshaker in the same manner as the pepper. “Another small-minded man will use this opportunity as both a distraction from his own political ills and an opportunity to demonstrate his own nation’s power to its allies and opponents alike. Except the second man demands a nuclear weapon be utilized in the attack. Tens of millions die because of it.”

Placing both items down now, the Boy makes a loose sphere with his hands and fingers. “Feeling as though he has nothing to lose, the first man convinces his military and scientific leaders to retaliate with a highly experimental, exceptionally poorly designed and constructed nuclear fusion weapon. The weapon is the fever dream of pulp fiction writers: a warhead designed to detonate after burrowing beneath the target area following impact.”

The Boy slowly pulls his fingers and hands apart. “Things don’t go according to plan. The payload crashes into the ocean and continues to dive until it hits the floor bottom. Then it begins to dig. They cannot stop it. It digs for miles and miles until it finally– ” The Boy purses his lips, pushing air out of his full cheeks.

“That’s awful.”

“It was, yes.”

“But I still don’t get how you’re here if you said it already happened!”

The Boy’s throat is dry. He takes a sip of milk. There is a nearby paper napkin. He places the milk down again while lifting the paper, just as he has in the past, presenting it to Tammy.

“I know you were a biology major– ”

“Of course you do,” Tammy huffs.

“– and physics wasn’t your thing.” Even after all these years, the Boy is still excited to relay scientific theory to anyone willing to listen. He feels as though he’s again lecturing young minds as he did centuries ago. “Think of this napkin as space. This corner is where my people are from. This opposite corner is you. It would take us a very, very long time to travel from this corner to that one if we went the through the shortest path in normal space. It would be what your people might refer to as relativistic travel.”

“Like the theory of relativity?” she asks.

The Boy nods. “Depending on the speed of the ship, time on it would go on normally while decades or even hundreds of years would pass in our respective homes. One trip used to mean saying goodbye to the families and the world we knew in order to explore the universe around us.”

The Boy folds the two opposing edges of the napkin together. “Long ago, we learned a method of travel that folds the space between distance points, so travel is much more convenient. We were able to visit other worlds and search for life similar to our own. Unfortunately, we found Earth after it was destroyed.”

Tammy waves her hand around. “But we’re right here! I’m standing here breathing and crying and talking to an alien, apparently! Or maybe just losing my mind!”

The Boy tears the napkin nearly ripping the Earth-corner completely off. It flops in the breeze of an air vent above. “I know we are. When the Earth was destroyed it did something to the space surrounding it. Actually, it was the anomaly that drew our attention.” The Boy flaps the torn napkin corner towards her. “The explosion somehow caused a rip in the fabric of space and time. When we traveled to this system, we found something your scientists might call a wormhole. Think of it as a sort of tunnel. While some wormholes that are navigable may lead to other points in space, this one brings a traveler to a specific time: 7:45 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, the day of the first explosion.

“We cannot go back beyond that point. Life on this planet is caught in a never-ending loop with all of you reliving the last thirty-two hours of your existence. We have no idea why this is. We come through the wormhole. We come and speak to people. We return to space and watch the explosion from a safe distance. We wait a few hours and watch time reverse in this specific area of space with the world piecing itself back together. It’s a mesmerizing sight to behold. Then, eventually, we go back through the wormhole to our own time for supplies, resources, and to analyze our data.”

“Why a little black boy?” she asks out of the blue. She has, however, randomly asked the question in this manner before. It does not surprise The Boy.

“Because I’ve watched American culture closely and studied its history with great care. In this city, even in plain sight in the middle of the morning, nearly no would ever really see me.”

The sad reality of that truth lingers in the air.

“I don’t think that’s fair,” she responds. “Things have never been great, but you’re a child– look like a child, anyway. Someone must have seen you walking around alone and asked what you were doing. Someone must have cared.”

“You always do,” he tells her.

Tammy has a certain hesitance in her voice, maybe still shaking from the last thought, but she continues.

“Why keep coming back here?”

The Boy smiles. “For the pie and the conversation.”

“I’m serious!”

“So am I!” he protests. “My colleagues think I’m crazy. I came here years ago to conduct research, gain as much knowledge as possible so we could avoid any such catastrophe ourselves, and return home. The more I got to understand this place, however, the more I began to appreciate it. It’s a beautiful cacophony of nonsense and contradiction. It was utterly hopeless before the bombs fell, but somehow it still felt as though you would figure things out and make it all work.”

“Until we didn’t.”

The Boy picks up the glass of milk and polishes off the last sip. “Until you didn’t. Anyway, I wanted to know more, not just about the science and politics behind it, but something you people refer to as the ‘human condition.’”

Tammy releases a miniature gasp. “And I was doing that? Teaching you about what it means to be human?”

“In your own way, yes. We’ve taken walks and you told me about growing up in South Carolina and studying biology at Chapel Hill. We talk about falling in and out of love, about family, about what brought you to the city. We talk about everything and nothing here. We really only take a few hours most of the time, but they last for an eternity, so to speak. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now.”

Tammy shifts in her position, and for a moment, the Boy believes she may get up for some reason unknown to him, and the idea again excites him. She looks over her shoulder at the door, seemingly ready to leave, but she does not. Her attention returns to the Boy as it has time after time previously.

“Why not? Why doesn’t it matter?” she asks him.

“I’ve been called home permanently. My leaders believe we’ve gotten everything we can from this effort.”

“But you disagree?”

“Yes,” the Boy shakes his head, frustrated. He knows in the very depth of his being it’s not true. There is so much more to learn from humans, but these bureaucratic decisions were often made with little consideration for the science.

Tammy’s brown eyes rest on him. He thinks for a moment he can practically feel her staring through his child-like façade, seeing his real image.

“Then what?” she asks. Thinking a moment longer, she answers her own question before he can engage. “You want to help us? You want to find a solution to the loop, don’t you?”

“I’ve already tried to help your leaders two thousand, three hundred and eighty-eight times. I’ve gone against our non-interference policy and had to defend my actions with my supervisors. I was lucky they bought into the scientific research benefits and didn’t see the harm in engaging a constantly resetting society. Having viewed your species themselves, they never believed I was going to be successful. They didn’t think anyone would listen, and they were right. I’ve shown up impersonating leaders, celebrities, people back from the dead. I even tried actual religious deities hoping to inspire some type of change.”

“If showing up as the Second Coming didn’t do it, nothing will, I guess.” Tammy breaks into a timid grin, but there’s something dark and bitter about it. It’s small and sad, but it’s there.

“If anything, it just made things worse before the missiles flew. Nothing stops them. Ever. So, with years of data, I’ve been told to pack up. I wanted a final goodbye with you.”

“So just like that? That’s it? You tell me this wild story, you tell me aliens exist, and the world is going to end tomorrow. Not just that it’s ending, but it’s doomed to repeat the process forever! And you super-advanced aliens are just like, ‘That sucks. Bye y’all!’ And all of that without any regard for how being the only person on this planet with that information might affect me?”

“That’s just it, I think about how you and all your friends and family feel every day. I’ll remember you forever along with our many hours of shared experience but come three-oh-one tomorrow the world will end again, and you won’t remember a thing.”

The Boy stands now. In a moment, the young reporter will show up. She’s nice, but never really takes him seriously. He decides to just go. But something in him wants to keep up one small tradition. Something that’s just been for Tammy and him all these years.

“I do have a question before I go,” he tells her. “For a moment, try and forget everything we’ve talked about. Forget everything I’ve said and just think. What would you do if you knew the world was going to end tomorrow and there was nothing you could do to stop it?”

Tammy folds her arms and stares back at him. In the past, she’s only shared six responses: making up with her estranged father, finding Susan Culpepper, taking a trip to Paris, traveling to California to dive into the Pacific one last time, or addressing her claustrophobia. A few hundred times she answers with running a warm bath and drinking red wine. Regardless, three thousand, two hundred and eighty-four permutations elicit only six total responses.

Suddenly, Tammy’s head shoots back up. Her eyes are laser-fixed on the Boy’s face. He finds it perplexing. Different. His hearts flutter.

Tammy unties the small apron at her waist. Then, she shouts toward the kitchen. “I quit, Mike. I love ya, thanks for everything, but I’m gone!”

“What?” Mike’s voice echoes back.

To the Boy she says, “You asked me what I’d do? I choose to live. Oliver works over on Fourth and Shire. I’m going to find him and learn about him. I enjoy his company. I don’t know if it’s enough time for anything beyond a coffee and getting to know him, but I’m going to enjoy what time I have left. He’ll be some part of that. I’m going to live my life, little man. It’s all I can do.”

The Boy can only stare at her. His words fail him. He realizes his mouth is ajar, and slowly closes it.

“What?” she asks him.

“This is– this is new,” the Boy tells her.

“What’s new?”

“Your response. You’ve never done this before.”

“You’ve told me almost four thousand times the world’s going to end, and I’ve never chased after Oliver?”

“You’ve never so much as acknowledged what I told you about his feelings, let alone a discussion of finding him and learning more about him,” the Boy tells her.

Tammy throws the apron into the air. “Well, hell,” she says. “First time for everything, kiddo.” Without another word, she races out of the shimming silver door and into the morning sunlight. The Boy follows behind her and watches as she hails a taxi. There’s something in her beaming smile now he’s never seen in all their years of conversation. Once inside, the car merges smoothly into traffic heading in the direction of Fourth Street.

“Maybe they’ll let me stay just a little while longer,” the Boy says aloud to no one in particular. “I’m sure we can figure something out.”

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT BISHOP GARRISON

Bishop Garrison has worked in the national security and foreign policy profession for over 15 years. He currently serves Director of National Security Outreach at the non-profit Human Rights First. He is a graduate of United States Military Academy at West Point as well as William and Mary Law School. Bishop is a veteran of Operation Iraqi Freedom and served in multiple positions in the Obama administration in addition to serving on state and national staffs for two presidential campaigns. He’s the author of numerous non-fiction policy articles and opinion pieces that often intersect with race, culture, and national defense. In non-fiction, he as previously published the short story “Flicker On” with Terraform of Motherboard from Vice Media as well as the upcoming “Conscription” in an anthology from Black Lawrence Press scheduled for an August 2021 release. Bishop has received several military citations and civilian accolades for his professional work to include the Taylor Reveley “Citizen Lawyer” Public Service Award from his alma mater William and Mary Law School. He resides with his wife and two children in Northern Virginia.

PAID IN FULL

By Sarah A. Macklin // 4226 words

Weariness settled on Keisha’s shoulders and leaked into her soul. She retrieved her cold lunch from under the counter and scrolled through her phone for the latest bill notices. Far more contributions than sales came into the consignment shop and she started to wonder if they’d make rent this month. On top of that were today’s customers. Two blondes who questioned the authenticity of everything they put their hands on. A faded debutante, desperate to sell her gaudy 70s dresses. Then, all the ones who looked at her like the help. Keisha sighed deeply. Today had been a day.

The door chimed and someone rushed in. “Sorry I’m late!”

Keisha didn’t even bother to look up from her phone at her little brother. “You were supposed to be here after class finished. It’s Tuesday so ain’t that two?”

“Listen, I was heading here but I had to take a walk around campus first. Have you ever thought about how beautiful the trees are there? I never just looked at them.”

Keisha finally raised her head. Justin looked different. He nearly... glowed. She swallowed, stunned by the sight. He always wore an easy smile, but today his grin seemed wider, brighter. A certain lightness exuded from him, so much that she half expected him to float.

“You’re in a good mood. You found a new boo?”

He laughed as he came to the counter, the sound lightening the mood in the shop immediately. The moment he stood beside her, she felt her shoulders relax just a hair. “No, sis. I’m taking a break. I... went to a party last night.”

“You didn’t try drugs, did you? Let me see your eyes.” She reached out for him.

Justin evaded her grasp, taking refuge on the other side of the counter. “You know I don’t mess with drugs. Just weed.” She growled at him but he laughed it off. “The party was amazing. Beyond amazing.” He paused and Keisha physically felt her patience thin. “Transcendent.”

“Transcendent,” she repeated incredulously.

“Transformative. Enlightening. Euphoric. I feel like I left all of my stress there.”

Keisha stared at her brother like he’d grown another head. First, what did he know about stress? Second, all her brother talked about were his new boyfriends and what party he was going to next. Now, he’s talking like some... hippie. She hmphed, folding her arms. “Now I know you’re high.”

“No, sis.” He sighed. “It was just a rent party.” He started straightening up a stack of shirts on a table.

Keisha came from behind the counter, returning to his side. “Who the hell throws rent parties anymore?”

Justin laughed again, a strange airy quality to it. “I know! But there were fliers in the coffee shop near campus so me and a couple of friends went.”

“You went to some stranger’s house party?!”

“Her name is Miss Yasmine and she’s all right. Her house is over on the edge of town, country side, not interstate side. It was incredible.” He looked at her with a sparkle in his eyes. “Wish I’d remembered to tell you. It would have done you good.”

The golden light of sunset suddenly flared up behind him, creating an aura. A light ignited from within him, radiating out from his chest and lighting up his face and eyes. She swore she felt his complete and utter peace in the depths of her soul. That peace tugged at her, touched some part of her, wanting to bring it out. She felt tears forming. He looked like some sort of angel. She rubbed her eyes vigorously but the light didn’t fade.

“Something the matter?” Justin asked, stepping out of the sunlight.

The aura around him faded. He proceeded as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. Was she high?

“Did anything... weird happen at this party?”

He paused, a blouse half folded in his hands. “No? I mean, it was just good. Best party I’ve ever been to. I usually leave a party feeling pretty high. Feeling high, not for real high. But after last night, I feel like I could take over the world. Like the world is mine.” He looked to her with a carefree expression that she hadn’t seen on him since he was a child. “Do you know what I mean?”

“No, I’m more worried about making my own rent.” She looked about the shop, at the shelf of handed down designer shoes, the racks of gowns and blazers given up by women who could afford to pay for them full price, and sighed. It had seemed like such a good idea to open up the shop when she’d finished school. Keisha owned the only consignment shop in town and knew there were more than enough ladies from near the north side who’d be willing to sell their last season wears.

What she hadn’t counted on was a growing sense of resentment. Being treated like the help. The sense of entitlement from her customers, or their demanding behavior. Their ill natures left a heaviness in the air long after they departed and an ache in Keisha’s back that stayed with her longer each day.

Justin came and started massaging her shoulders. “It’ll be all right, sis. You didn’t make a mistake opening this place. It’s your pride and joy. And joy is what will keep you going.”

Keisha gawked at her brother over her shoulder. “Who are you?”

He laughed, thankfully continuing the massage. “I just know that everything’s gonna be okay. You should too.”

She nodded. Justin’s hopeful attitude, usually so infectious, didn’t touch her. She looked about the store, the sunshine highlighting its emptiness. Hope didn’t pay for the store and without the store she didn’t know what they’d do.

∙ ∙ ∙

The next month held the same problems. More clothes coming in than heading out. More customers acting like the queens of the store and she was their servant. They had barely made rent last month. To make matters worse, she hadn’t seen a customer all day. Even on her slowest weeks one or two would wander in.

Keisha flipped through a magazine she’d picked up on a whim at the grocery store. The starlet gracefully lounged across the front, the first black woman to be on cover. She felt that she should support. Reading about the lives of the rich and famous provided a nice diversion for the afternoon. Just a little while to forget her troubles and daydream about a life without struggle.

The shop’s doorbell interrupted her reading. She was surprised to see a trio of teenagers coming in. Not her usual customers, but maybe they were looking to score a prom dress on the cheap. She straightened her back, wiggling her toes to get the heaviness out of them. “Can I help you?” she asked with a smile.

The girl in the lead, a pretty young woman with a tightly curled afro puff, smiled back. “Yes. We were wondering if we could leave some fliers here at your store.”

“What kind of fliers?” She tried her hardest not to look at them suspiciously. They had the same sort of lightness Justin had to him before. The same sort of peaceful, joy-filled... aura. It prickled across her skin, sweetness fighting her sourness. She felt herself reject immediately.

“It’s for a rent party.... ma’am.” The boy probably added the last bit to gain her favor.

Keisha sighed. “Please don’t ma’am me. I’m not even old enough to be your mama. Lemme see the fliers.”

Afro puff girl handed her the stack. Miss Yasmine’s Rent Party, it read in big letters across the top. Her eyebrows shot up so far they almost touched her hairline. Another one? No way this woman held rent parties month after month without some bull going on. Now, weirdly happy teenagers strolled about town trying to recruit people? What kind of scam was this? She asked the kids as much.

“Ain’t no scam,” said the last girl. “She holds them to help out other people who are struggling. But everyone comes out with a little something.”

Keisha scrutinized them only the way a big sister could. “Leave ‘em here,” she said at last.

The kids thanked her, even invited her to come, and left. She stared at the small stack of fliers on her counter, an unwanted visitor in her shop. She picked one up, scanning over the rough photocopy. Keisha’s eyes drifted down to the date and time. This Saturday at seven. Entry was three dollars.

The idea of going turned over in her mind. She hadn’t been to a party in ages. It might be nice. But she thought of the way Justin had glowed in the sunlight. She still couldn’t explain it. No good reason could possibly be behind it. Something happened to her only little brother at that party, something unnatural and she didn’t protect him. Who the hell was this “Miss Yasmine” and just what was she doing to people?

The debate of attending walked around her mind until that Friday. Justin pestered her to go from the moment he saw the fliers beside her elbow on the counter. At first, she vehemently refused, but that little bit of curiosity in the back of her head, kept nagging her. Finally, as she closed up shop, she relented. Her brother practically danced around the room.

∙ ∙ ∙

When Keisha pulled onto Miss Yasmine’s street, a host of other cars already lined both sides. She drove along slowly, stopping several times for partiers leisurely making their way toward the home. It was a two-level house, typical southern style with a front porch without a railing. Her grandmother had lived in a house just like this. A picket fence cut off the back porch, freshly whitewashed. Party goers entered through a side gate, grinning widely at each other and calling out in the boisterous way of good friends. Some carried packs of soda under their arms. Some carried nondescript brown shopping bags that screamed of a trip to the red dot.

Keisha pulled over in front of a neighbor’s yard, still suspicious. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. No strange lighting. No nothing. Just regular people going to a regular party at a regular house. The memory of her brother glowing came to mind again. No, this was no ordinary party. And she would find out what was going on.

A tall woman with thick cornrows that ran between the shaved sides of her head played bouncer. She smiled, showing one gold tooth. Keisha had expected an aggressiveness to the woman, but her demeanor was more than welcoming. “Three dollars,” she said smoothly. Keisha pulled out the money and passed it over, feeling a little foolish for expecting trouble. The woman opened the gate for her. “Is this your first party?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I hope you get what you need.”

Keisha nodded, stepping past the woman as quickly as possible. She didn’t like the way the bouncer seemed to be in on a secret. Her suspicion jumped up a notch. The yard she entered was massive, at least an acre and a half fenced off at the edge of the woods. To her surprise, there weren’t just teenagers. Plenty of people who looked to be in their forties and older mingled as well. Couples around her age stood around, red Solo cups in their hands. A DJ with long locs was setting up towards the porch, crates of records beside the turn table. She took a deep breath. It was just a party. A weird party that had her brother glowing in her shop and had a trio of teenagers acting like they were just coming down from a high. She frowned and her back had that tight, heavy feeling again. Her feet dragged as she walked farther in. Still no glowing people, only perfectly ordinary looking party goers. But that didn’t ease her nerves. She knew danger lurked behind each of these carefree smiles.

Then she smelled the food. Keisha’s chin tilted up and turned toward the tables to the side of the massive yard. The scent of candied yams and macaroni and cheese, of grilled chicken and fried pork chops, of red velvet cake and peach cobbler wafted on the slight summer breeze and called to her like a snake charmer’s melody. Her stomach groaned in longing. Her feet made the decision for her and carried her through the crowd. She looked over the spread, seeing even more foods that brought back memories from childhood cookouts.

Keisha jumped in line, filling a plate and ignoring the little voice in her head warning of tampered foods. She warily filled a cup with fruit punch—with real fruit—and took a sip, making sure she didn’t taste alcohol before drinking freely. The punch was a liquid version of a lazy Sunday afternoon from the first cup. The second soon followed.

The DJ began playing and the crowd erupted in a joyful cheer. People started dancing, some obvious couples just enjoying themselves, some friends just being silly. Keisha found herself chuckling despite her misgivings. Nothing seemed amiss. She settled to the side of the yard, watching. She couldn’t see anything that explained her brother’s glow or the auras of the teenagers. But some explanation had to show up eventually. She took another sip of her drink, steeling herself against the relaxation that threatened to overcome her. Keep your eyes open, girl.

Once the sun set behind the tall pines, an older woman came to the DJ’s side and picked up a mic. Her hair rose up in a huge, salt-and-pepper parted afro that crowned a pecan brown face. On her arms were enough bracelets to make Erykah Badu jealous. The smile slightly parting her lips didn’t hold any of the weariness Keisha usually saw in her elders.

“I pray everyone is having a good time?” A cheer rose up in response to her throaty voice. The woman chuckled from her spot. “Glad to hear it, children. I’m always so glad to see my people happy. You deserve to be happy. We deserve to be happy. While you are here, take off the cares of the world and revel in the joy that the world doesn’t want us to have.” Her arm was thrust out like a preacher prophesying.

Another cheer went up and people returned to dancing. Keisha took a bite of her heavenly peach cobbler. So that must be the infamous Miss Yasmine. Keisha could see why people were drawn to her. The woman had an aura about her like a favorite aunt. Keisha’s brow twisted in a scowl.

A moment later an odd blue light caught her eye. She jerked her head toward it, her heart skipping a beat. Her rational mind begged for the blue to be a piece of jewelry, a crystal earring that caught the light for a moment. But it grew in intensity. She peered through the crowd until she saw a young woman outlined in bright blue near the middle of the unofficial dance floor. Keisha’s breathing grew heavier. No trick of the light could explain this. This woman glowed. The woman danced as if she didn’t notice the light. It raised up slightly from her body and she took it off like old clothes.

Around her, others began to glow as well, the light looking like a second skin. Soon nearly everyone in the party was taking off their glowing layer and letting it dissipate into the night air. Keisha tried to back away, but she found herself against the fence. The partiers closest to her glowed bright gold, shining in the night, their faces relaxing as the last of the old layers faded away.

Keisha struggled to breathe. She turned about, panicked at the other people who seemed... lighter. They moved on the dance floor without the concern of others watching. They spoke to each other kindly, their faces relaxed and at peace. She dropped her plate and fled towards the gate.

∙ ∙ ∙

Keisha refused to speak about the party. Not the next day or even the next week. Not even when her brother pried the fact that she went out of her. What was she supposed to tell him? That she saw people glowing just like him? That she may be losing her mind? She made him swear to never go to another one of Miss Yasmine’s rent parties. He reluctantly agreed on the condition that she take a day off soon to get herself together. Keisha agreed, not meaning a word of it.

It took her nearly two weeks to feel like herself again. The customers kept coming in, getting on her last nerve with their ridiculous demands and attitudes. Cotillion season was approaching so now mothers were coming in, daughters in tow, to find a spectacular dress for a reasonable price. Each time she helped them, she felt like she’d been drained, leaving her body heavy and sluggish. Keisha trudged back to the counter like a rusty robot desperate for oil. She began to wonder how much longer she could last.

When the shop bell sounded on a Friday before lunch, the last person she expected to see was the host of the rent party. Miss Yasmine had braided her hair today. Beads were scattered throughout the style and she’d swapped her army of bangles for a host of rings. Keisha stood as fast as her stiff back would let her, struggling to keep the frown from her face. Yasmine was older than she thought. Delicate lines radiated from her eyes, lay across her forehead, and framed each corner of her lips. Her skin radiated light and warmth, with all the vibrant color of youth. She smiled Keisha’s way and Keisha almost returned it earnestly.

Who was this... this witch? “Can I help you?” she asked, feigning unfamiliarity.

“I’m glad I found you.” Yasmine’s voice sounded as rich as the syrup off the yams at the party. “You left something at the party.” The older woman reached into her bag and pulled out a Tupperware container, setting it on the counter before her.

Keisha looked at it. Then at Yasmine. Then back at the container. She opened the lid warily. Familiar scents flew out, calling to her once again. She stared down at the steaming collection of soul food, mouth beginning to water. Memories began leaping forward, clear and poignant images of celebrations from younger, better times. She shut the lid, pushing it aside. “Thank you.”

“Why did you run away, dear?”

The question caught her off guard. “I... didn’t run away. I chose to leave.”

Yasmine studied her for a moment. Finally, she clasped her hands together. “You saw it, didn’t you?” When Keisha sucked in a breath, Yasmine laughed. “So you did. Most people don’t even remember what happened. It’s rare to have someone who sees the shedding.”

Keisha shook her head, confused. “What the hell is it?”

“The shedding of the weight of this world,” Yasmine answered. like that was an adequate response. “The shedding of troubles, of burdens, so that we can live freely.” A pause. “So why did you run?”

Keisha struggled for an answer. “How was I supposed to act when people start glowing all around me?”

“Maybe join them?” Her shrug annoyed Keisha to the depths of her soul. “I’m holding another party in a couple weeks. I think you should come.”

“No, thank you.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not afraid.”

Yasmine chuckled again. “You sure looked afraid, running out like you’d seen a ghost. Why are you afraid of a little bit of happiness?”

“I’m plenty happy.” Keisha folded her arms solidly.

“I’m sure you are. Every day more of life’s heavy weights plops down within you like marbles in a jar. How long until your jar is full and it breaks?”

Keisha bit her lip.

“It’s Keisha, right?”

“Yes.”

“Come to the next party, Keisha. Shed your weights and live free.” Yasmine smiled at her again and Keisha responded with a weak one. “Enjoy the food,” she called as she left the shop.

Keisha watched her walk away down the sidewalk. Her eyes slid to the food and her stomach twisted with the same longing feeling from the party. She retrieved a fork from their back room. Standing over the container like a boxer about to face an opponent, she stabbed the fork into the mac and cheese. Her hand trembled as it brought the bit to her mouth.

Flavor exploded across her tongue like fireworks. The warmth of it moved from her mouth to her body, relaxing her shoulders and spine. It tasted like family, like love, and the memory of her family’s last Thanksgiving together, the last holiday before the accident. Her mother plucking the handheld game from Justin’s hands while her father playfully teased her about a boy she wanted to ask to the movies. They smiled so brightly. They were happy and they were free.

Then, life snatched it cruelly away, leaving them broken and desperate to put themselves back together. Now, this meal, this simple meal, reminded her of the peace she’d lost. Fat, hot tears ran down her cheeks and splashed on the counter.

∙ ∙ ∙

Keisha exited her car on Yasmine’s street looking around to see if anyone was staring at her. Music wafted across the neighborhood and only a few stragglers made their way to Yasmine’s yard. The same bouncer waved her in, refusing her money.

It was just as lively as before. The usual party music was playing with songs that would delight each generation represented. The music rippled along her skin, brushing her with the memories of first kisses and family reunions. The rich chatter of the crowd nestled in her ears, speaking of a sense of tranquility she rarely felt. It rubbed against her nervousness uncomfortably. She made her way to the food, picking up a red velvet cupcake and nibbling on it, her eyes scanning about for glowing people.

“You came.”

Keisha nearly jumped. Yasmine stood to her right, pouring herself a cup of punch. She finished off her cupcake before she spoke. “Your bouncer wouldn’t take my money.” She reached in her pocket, but Yasmine stopped her hand.

“If I get to see you leave this party walking lighter, you’ve paid your way in.” She turned Keisha toward the dance floor and gave her a push.

Keisha made her way among the dancers, moving a little with the music. It was a familiar song, one she’d heard often before. People gave her encouraging smiles, one middle-aged man offering to be her dance partner. She took his arm. He taught her a few steps until she was able to dance on her own and then set her free. Keisha tried to keep her laugh in but it bubbled up and out of her. She closed her eyes, allowing herself to feel the music deep inside her. The strong bass was a heartbeat, melding with her own. The melody slipped into her mind, a soothing balm to her frazzled nerves. Her body moved of its own accord, joyous dancing that eased the ache in her soul until she felt it lifting up, pulling itself free from her.

Keisha opened her eyes to a glowing dance floor. Her vision blurred from the blue glow that rested over her body. Around her people still moved with the rhythm, the cocoon of light around them. A man to her right grabbed the glow around his chest and pulled. The second skin stretched, ripping until he freed himself of it. A woman ahead of her did the same, then a woman to her left, until the crowd enveloped her with people casting off all the troubles they’d accumulated. Renewed was the first word Keisha could think of to describe how they looked after the shedding. Refreshed. Free. Joyful. And she realized she wanted that desperately.

With trembling hands, she grabbed at her glowing layer, pulling at it like a coat. Her hands tingled unpleasantly and she felt the resistance of the burdens she’d carried with her for so long. She pulled an arm free, the ripping away hurting for only the barest second. A cool relief replaced it, glowing golden from within her. Keisha tore herself from the rest of her second skin, limb by limb. Finally she held it in her hands in amazement. All of the years of scrapping and fighting to keep the shop open. All of the nights worrying about how she and her brother would make it. Every time she was made to feel less than. All of those burdens rested in her hands.

Keisha glowed bright in the night, the color of shining gold. She swayed, feeling lighter than she’d felt in years. The music surrounded her, mingling with the heavenly red velvet in her belly, mixing into a sense of euphoria that threatened to overwhelm her.

She turned to Yasmine, tears of joy forming at the corners of her eyes. Yasmine made the motion of casting something up. Keisha gazed at the old skin in her hands and felt the weight of the sorrow within it. With a carefree laugh, she tossed it into the air and watched it dissolve on the wind.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT SARAH A MACKLIN

Sarah A. Macklin is a writer and artist from a tiny town near Columbia, SC. She was a storyteller from a young age, creating elaborate dramas with my dolls inspired by the soaps she wasn’t supposed to watch. You can now read her fiction in FIYAH, Translunar Traveler’s Lounge, and her debut novel, The Royal Heretic.

“There is joy to be had in life. Although it is easy to get caught up in the inevitable thorns that life can trap us in, I think that taking time for ourselves can provide the protection we need. Even if only for a moment.”

- Trevor Fraley, Illustrator

THAT WHICH SMELLS BAD

By Aline-Mwezi Niyonsenga // 2846 words

They found the body in a construction site in Kibagabaga. The police came, ruled it as an accident. The young man had no surviving relatives: his grandmother had died of a stroke mere days before. The local pastor held a memorial service to shoo evil off, but evil was stubborn.

Within days, workers fell down or fell ill. Scaffolding rotted or splintered. Other preachers came with holy water and booming speeches, one from every Christian denomination, then the imams, then the spiritualists. Still the accidents happened. The restless spirit had not left. The owner had two options: abandon the plot of land or call Maman Zaninka. He chose the latter and asked for Mama Zaninka’s special seasonal service: the help of her grandchildren.

Gladys and Jean-Claude received the news with a sigh and set out in their Sunday best. To Gladys this meant sweeping her braids into a high ponytail to elevate her smooth forehead. To Jean-Claude it meant leaving his inch-long hair uncombed. His eyelids naturally drooped, which either suggested perpetual cool or reluctance to do the job. Gladys worried it was the latter.

While Gladys strode into the construction site in a white shirt and slim slacks to appeal to the businessman in this client, Jean-Claude couldn’t even tuck his polo shirt or keep himself from wrinkling his flat nose at the herb-strewn, rosary-decked, Quran-laden mound where the body was found. Luckily, a phone call distracted the owner from noticing the sheer lack of professionalism.

Jean-Claude nudged the mound with his foot. “Why does it still smell like corpse?” he muttered.

“It’s the herbs, idiot.” Gladys swatted him with the plant called nyiramunukanabi, ‘that which smells bad,’ good for chasing ants and bad spirits away, in no particular order. Its long stem sprouted thin leaves and tiny yellow flowers, not at all fragrant.

Swatting her brother again for good measure, Gladys waved the plant around and muttered in tongues the way an exorcist would. She then spun in a wild dance so fast that her long braids swung in an arc around her and smacked her brother in the arm.

Jean-Claude rubbed the spot and turned to the owner. “We’ll come back in the evening for one last check,” he said. “Then the area should be cleansed.”

“Eh!” The owner got off his new 4G phone. His slick face scrunched like a used tissue. “I didn’t pay Maman Zaninka that advance for ‘should.’ If the accidents don’t stop in one week, I won’t pay you the rest.”

Jean-Claude shrugged. “Your choice.”

Gladys smacked him again and flashed the owner a brilliant smile. “We assure you, after tonight, no bad spirit will bother your construction site.”

The owner wagged a finger, his gold watch flashing in the harsh sun. “We’ll see. These apartments are supposed to sell for millions. If you lie, I’ll sue you and Maman Zaninka both! Your umuzungu scams won’t work here.”

Gladys tightened her smile at the word umuzungu. She heard it once every client. The word meant ‘white person,’ but the fine print revealed a more nuanced translation.

“You know that threats will add ten percent to the final instalment.” Jean-Claude played the recording back on his phone.

The owner growled, but Gladys quickly intervened. “On that note, please make sure that no one is at the site at 8:00 p.m. tonight.”

∙ ∙ ∙

Maman Zaninka worked out of a small office at the back of a bookshop in the quartier commercial. Among the busy shops selling everything from flowers to cloth to fridges on a street rife with motorbikes, trucks and people weaving in between, it was easy to miss. Potential customers usually noticed the religious effects decorating the front of the shop and asked for a book on exorcism or keeping ghosts away. The owners sent them to Maman Zaninka.

Hot and tired, Gladys plopped onto a chair in the cramped office—which also served as a storage space for four walls of books—and waited for one of the bookshop attendants to hand her a pineapple Fanta.

“Our client called to complain about his service,” Maman Zaninka said. “He said you were very rude.”

Gladys sucked her teeth. “He threatened to sue us. We simply informed him about our policy.”

Maman Zaninka raised an eyebrow. “You don’t realize how insulted he was. You must have shown him disrespect.” She shook her head. “This is what I get for having abazungu grandchildren. You’re not raised to show respect. Maybe I should come with you tonight, make sure you are doing things the right way.”

Gladys felt her cheeks grow hot. “No, we can handle it.”

“If you fail, it will be the last time you go,” Maman Zaninka declared. “I’ll hire someone else to hail the Birunga Express.”

Gladys dug her fingernails into her palms. Like hell she was letting some outsider take away her job. This was her family, her duty, her heritage.

∙ ∙ ∙

The Birunga Express in question was late, and so was their ghost. The rumbling minibus was their ghost’s transport to the Virunga Mountains, a string of volcanoes in the north. Stumbling on a pile of soil, Gladys glanced at the road, shadowy against the glittering lights on the hills beyond Kibagabaga. It was already 8:20 p.m. Gladys and Jean-Claude were more guides than exorcists. A thoroughly chastised ghost was usually on their way to the depths of a volcano by now: the place where souls found rest.

Ten minutes passed with no sign of their bus or their ghost. The more Gladys waited, the worse she felt, as if she couldn’t shake a bad smell, the kind that made her want to scream, smack her nose repeatedly and burst into tears.

And Jean-Claude, her irresponsible brother, was stacking bricks into a tower.

“Will you please take this job seriously?” Gladys snapped.

Jean-Claude flashed his phone’s flashlight at her. “I’m waiting for our bus.”

“I’m waiting for our bus. Look for our—” She burst into a sneeze.

A cool breeze stirred some dust and gravel into a tornado. The tornado dissolved into a sparkling mist that hovered over the site where the body was found. The mist solidified into the shape of a hunched figure with a scarf wound tight around its head and an igitenge around its waist. Sinewy skin clung to its skinny arms and a weathered face framed its twinkling eyes, alive with mischief. Some of the mist clung to its body, tagging it as a spirit.

“That’s not our ghost,” Jean-Claude said.

Their brief specified a tall, young man. An old woman stood before them. She raised an arm and violently swatted the air in front of her nose.

“Unuka nabi pe!”

“What did she say?” Jean-Claude asked.

Gladys blinked. “I don’t know.”

“I thought you were learning the language.”

“I am!”

Gladys stomped over to the woman. The ghost pinched her nose and stepped back. “Unuka nabi pe!”

The words clicked. “I think she’s saying it smells bad.”

Jean-Claude sniffed her shoulder. “She’s right. You smell bad. Like really bad.”

Gladys shoved him aside, eyes fixed on the woman. “The bus is coming. Birunga Express iraje. Stay here and wait. Ihangane muyitegereze.”

The woman widened her eyes and spoke in a stream of words that Gladys couldn’t pick out. Something about inside? Doing something? Eating? After pointing at Gladys and pointing at the road, she raised both arms high above her head and swung around.

Gladys blinked. “Mushobora gusubiramo. Can you repeat that?”

The woman shouted in frustration and burst into dust. The dust gathered into a whirlwind that blew past the siblings and turned on the road. Gladys stumbled after it.

“Wait! Hagarara!”

First their bus was late, and now they had a runner for a ghost. The wrong ghost at that. If things kept going so splendidly, that developer might sue them after all, and Maman Zaninka would kick them out of a summer job. Gladys couldn’t lose this. It was the only tie to this country she had.

The whirlwind veered into a square building that leaked loud EDM music. Laughing women in high heels and tight dresses strutted through the entrance, followed by a group of white people in shorts and batik pants.

A security guard stopped Gladys short. “Only eighteen and up allowed.”

Jean-Claude immediately turned away. “I’m seventeen so I’ll wait outside.”

Gladys glared at him. The security guard hadn’t asked him to prove his age. How could he leave this ghost to her alone? Did he care so little about this job? Squaring her shoulders, Gladys showed her passport and entered.

A wraparound bar greeted her, swarmed by shouting patrons in scratchy sequins. The crowd sprawled around a glossy pool. Pointy-shoed men lounged on cushioned chairs while stilettoed beauties swayed. White women in kaftans flirted easily with open-collared Africans. Gladys heard snippets of French and English among the mixed crowd: an expat’s paradise. She wandered, distracted by the heavy gold on wrists, by expensive bracelets scratching her forearms and hoop earrings slapping her face as she weaved through the crush. Men in sunglasses leaned on white rails at the club’s edge, their backs to the view of the glowing convention centre on the next hill.

A good-looking man with dreads smiled her way. Gladys blushed, suddenly conscious of her business attire. She tossed some braids over her shoulder as he walked over, dodging dancing couples and loaded food trays. Close enough to touch, he halted. His face twisted into a grimace.

“Unuka nabi pe!”

Gladys’s heart sank. Jean-Claude wasn’t joking earlier. She did stink. She escaped into the crowd, blinking away tears. Why couldn’t she smell her own body odour? Maybe the problem wasn’t her smell. Maybe that man couldn’t believe how ugly she was up close. Gladys sighed. Why was she unattractive everywhere she went? Bad enough that people called her umuzungu here. Back home wasn’t any better.

Gladys wiped her eyes. This was no time for self-pity. The sooner she caught this ghost, the sooner she could leave.

Weaving through the crowd, Gladys spotted her ghost at the edge of the pool. The old woman waved her arms and swung her hips as if she belonged there. None of the patrons noticed. Pity they didn’t have her family’s gift. ‘Grandma Ghost at the Club’ would have made a popular video on WhatsApp.

Gladys put her hands on her hips. “Tugende. It’s time to go.”

Shaking her head, the woman raised her arms up and swayed from side to side in a move that looked strangely traditional in a place that played deep house.

“I said let’s go!” Gladys gripped the old woman’s arm and stomped off. Or she meant to stomp off, but she stepped too close to the pool’s edge. Her foot slipped and she splashed into the pool. Thrashing to the surface, she barely had time to cough the water out when hands yanked her out of the pool.

“That’s her,” the guy with the dreads said somewhere behind her. “The woman who stinks!”

Before Gladys could blink, her rescuers dragged her towards the exit and threw her out on the dusty parking lot. Rolling onto her back, she sighed, too tired to really despair at her ruined clothes. They’d lost their ghost. That developer would sue them. Their grandmother would dump them. Might as well pack her bags and never show her face in this country ever again.

Jean-Claude peered down at her. “I called grandmaman. She told us to wait.”

Gladys burst into tears.

∙ ∙ ∙

Sniffling on the grass near the parking lot, Gladys waited until Jean-Claude came back with paper towels. She wiped her tears and dirt-encrusted arms with them to little effect. She not only smelled like a pig but looked like one, too.

“Why are you trying so hard?” Jean-Claude asked. “That lady isn’t even our ghost.”

“She could be.” Gladys hiccupped. “We have to finish the job.”

“I told you I called grandmaman,” Jean-Claude said. “She’s on her way to help, you know. We don’t have to keep running around like headless chickens.”

Gladys shook her head. “You don’t understand. We have to do this right, or she won’t trust us again.”

“So?”

Gladys blew her nose and stared up at the sky. Clouds glowed where the moon hid. Kigali stretched below them, a maze of hills and valleys and hills.

“Doing this job is the closest thing I have to belonging here,” she said. “If I can’t do it right, how can I justify being here?”

Jean-Claude flicked her forehead. “You don’t need anyone’s permission.”

Gladys flicked him back. “I’m not like you, Jean-Claude. I can’t accept that I’ll never fit in.”

He flicked her again. “You don’t have to try. Just be you.”

∙ ∙ ∙

Gladys sneezed in the cold of the construction site. Maman Zaninka would arrive in the next fifteen minutes, which could really mean an hour. They had failed their mission, and their grandmother would take them out of the family business. Forget what Jean-Claude said. She was nothing without this job, just another migrant with no place to call home.

Rubbing her shoulders, Gladys wandered the edge of the half-built wall around the new property. It stood on an incline (then again everything stood on an incline in Rwanda) which gave her a view of the glowing city beyond. She could even pick out the club from earlier by its roving spotlights. A vibrant city, busy and colourful, clean and lively, spread out before her eyes. If she knew the language, she’d fit right in, she thought, but that was a false hope. She would still be an outsider.

A hand tapped her shoulder. “Byina. Byina se!”

Gladys whirled to confront the ghost. “Why can’t you pass on?”

The old woman ignored her outburst and raised her arms up, swaying from side to side. Gladys deflated, too drained to stay angry. The ghost grabbed both of Gladys’s arms and raised them up too, as if to imitate her pose.

“Byina, byina. Byina se!”

The word clicked. Kubyina. To dance. This whole time the ghost was asking her to dance. A delirious giggle escaped Gladys. To think she embarrassed herself in a nightclub for this foolishness.

Jean-Claude walked over from his brick Eiffel Tower. “What’s happening?”

Gladys pointed. “She wants me to dance.”

“Why don’t you?”

Gladys sucked her teeth. “Are you serious?”

Jean-Claude shrugged. “You know ghosts. It could be important.”

The woman continued to wave like a frantic bird. Rolling her eyes, Gladys raised her arms and followed the woman’s lead. Jean-Claude clapped the traditional drumbeat to match: Ta, ta. Ta. Ta, ta. Ta.

Gladys swung her arms and stomped her feet to the beat. The woman exclaimed in delight and sang a song to match. Gladys found herself giggling as the ghost corrected her steps and adjusted her form. No stress. Just learning. All this from a ghost she had wanted to strangle moments earlier.

Maybe Jean-Claude was right. Maybe she didn’t need to fit in. She could just enjoy herself, have fun with this job instead of stressing, brush off the judgment instead of internalising.

The dance finished by whirling in a thumping twirl that lifted all the weight off Gladys’s shoulders, making it spin, spin into the sky. Dizzy, Gladys stumbled, and the ghost steadied her, guffawing.

“Urakoze cyane. Urakoze.” The ghost hugged Gladys, slapping her back hard like aunties do, but the slapping didn’t stop. Gladys frowned and struggled to pull away from the ghost’s crushing embrace. The slaps turned into a burning barrage.

“Stop. Buretse!”

Redness blurred Gladys’ vision. The ghost smacked her one last time, so hard that Gladys coughed out a red mist. Gladys blinked. The mist solidified into the shape of a tall, muscular man in dusty clothes. Their missing ghost!

Gladys gaped as the old woman grabbed the man’s ear and pulled hard, scolding him in rapid-fire sentences that Gladys doubted anyone but the man could follow. A loud honk made her jump. The Birunga Express’s dirt-encrusted frame idled on the side of the road as if it had been waiting there the whole time. Glowing mist hovered over its wheels. The wrong ghost dragged the troublemaker up its steps, still scolding him.

“Nta soni?” she said. This was a phrase Gladys knew well: have you no shame?

“Nyogokuru, mbabarira,” the young man whimpered.

Nyogokuru. Grandmother. Gladys recalled a minor point in the brief: the deceased’s grandmother had passed just days before him. So that explained their wrong ghost.

The bus doors slid closed. The Birunga Express honked one last time, flashed its headlights and vanished in the glare.

Silence settled like dust in the construction site. Gladys stared at the road, then at Jean-Claude. Jean-Claude stared back.

“So…”

“I don’t stink.”

“You don’t stink.”

“We’re not getting fired.”

“Yep.”

“And I can dance.”

“Barely.”

“Hey!”

Her mouth twitched. His body quivered. Their laughter burst into the street, a wave so strong it drove out all the bad spirits in Kibagabaga, and ants, in no particular order.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT ALINE-MWEZI NIYONSENGA

Aline-Mwezi Niyonsenga is a writer of Rwandan descent. She has short stories published in super / natural: art and fiction for the future, Selene Quarterly Magazine, Apparition Lit, Djed Press, Underground Writers, StylusLit, and Jalada x DWF: Diaspora. Her work has been shortlisted for the Monash Undergraduate Prize for Creative Writing and the Deborah Cass Prize for Writing.

AMBROSIA

By Margaret Saunders // 4544 words

“Breathe easy,” Mama Gold tells Seline the first time she reads her, stabbing my little sister’s lifeline with a crimson acrylic. “You’re tense.”

I sit across the room on Mama Gold’s gaudy crushed velvet divan, watching Seline get her palm read. This is a scam but my sister’s fiancé Samuel left her a month ago and ever since, she’s had nothing to believe in but the stars. We were riding the J this morning when a pamphlet advertising Mama Gold’s psychic services blew into the train car when the doors opened at Crescent. It landed at Seline’s feet. She picked it up and studied it, her eyes wide as saucers. A sign.

I agreed to go with her. Better to play make-believe than spend another night falling asleep to the sound of her crying through our paper-thin walls.

Mama Gold’s apartment is half of a two-family home located on a side street off Utica. She greets us at the door wearing a zebra print bath robe and a purple pashmina scarf pinned up like a turban on her head. A long hallway, so narrow that we have to walk in a single-file line, leads us to the back parlor where Mama Gold does her readings. Through the window, broken-down Cadillacs fill the backyard, busted open, mechanical parts spilling out like intestines. She sees me staring and closes the drapes, blocking out the sun. Bodega candles cast the room in a dim light, each wrapped in a photocopied picture of La Virgen. When Mama Gold speaks, she drifts in and out of an island accent, alternating between sounding rich and ripe as a mango and speaking like the only Jamaica she’s ever been to is in Queens.

“My third eye is getting a little…hazy.” Mama Gold smiles. Seline looks at me pleadingly, and I take another twenty out of my wallet and wave it at the psychic just so she can tell Seline what we already know— Samuel isn’t coming back. The confirmation makes my sister cry so hard that she starts shaking.

“You’ll be better off without him,” Mama Gold promises. “There’s a better love coming on the horizon. Your twin flame. You loved him in another life. Venice…1545. You met at a masquerade.”

“I only want Samuel,” my sister sobs.

“Well he does not want you,” Mama Gold says. At that, my sister lets out a moan that sounds primal. She balls up her fists and puts her head down on the red velveteen table, almost hitting it against Mama Gold’s Party City crystal ball.

“All right, thank you very much.” I get up to collect my sister, shaking my head. “If you’re going to scam people, can’t you at least try to cheer them up?”

“I tell the truth as I see it,” Mama Gold says, unbothered. I roll my eyes and help Seline to her feet. “She will be okay,” Mama Gold continues. “This is not happening to her, it is happening for her.”Seline moans again and sinks into my chest.

“What are you now, Ms. Cleo, or a motivational speaker?”

“I’m sorry she’s upset, but in time the universe’s plan will be very clear,” Mama Gold says to my back as I finally manage to drag my sister towards the hallway. “And if you’ll wait—they have a message they want me to give you.”

“Well you can tell them that I’ve reached my spending limit for the day.”

“When you see Alice…” That stops me. I turn to look at her. “When you see your aunt Alice this week. Listen to everything she says.” Suddenly, I am the one shaking, and my sister is gripping my hand to hold me still.

“Let’s go,” she says softly.

“You should be ashamed,” I tell Mama Gold. “Preying on people’s pain.”

“Listen to Alice,” Mama Gold says. “And she will tell you everything you need to be happy. And when you are, she will finally be free to go.”

“Come on, Marie,” Seline urges me down the hallway with her and out the door.

∙ ∙ ∙

I had not wanted to put my Aunt Alice in a home. We were so young when our father left, I recall him only as a shadow. So young, when mama died, that I remember nothing save for the lullabies she sang over Seline’s crib. My aunt took us in—she’s the only tangible love I’ve ever known.

Even when we came back to the apartment to find her shredding the toilet paper into strips, even when she lost time and made up memories, even when she smeared the walls with her own shit, and got lost in the neighborhood she grew up in, and even when she forgot us. Especially when she forgot us.

I told Seline it would only get worse if she were somewhere unfamiliar. So I put off my plans for art school and pulled double shifts, six days a week at the bar hoping to afford a home health aide. I couldn’t. Watching Alice myself felt like a losing game. If I fell asleep, she’d wander down the block. If I caught her in a bad moment, she’d beat me like a stranger. She wouldn’t eat. Her cheeks hollowed to the bone. We looked into an adult daycare. Even thinned out, she was strong, physical. The site director told us she was too aggressive. When we concluded that we’d have to send her away, we wanted somewhere close to home, but most places were out of our price range. We had her in a clinic on 145th for about a month. During my second visit, she was brought out to see me in a piss-stained hospital gown, smelling foul. She was more agitated than normal, wouldn’t let me plait her hair which she usually found soothing, twisted away when I tried to hold her hand.

Samuel found the place in Jersey, Rose View. His last good deed before he left. “It’s affordable and they care,” he told us. “And they have hospice care. When that time comes.”

One bridge and two hours of traffic on the Jersey Turnpike separate us from Rose View. Seline goes on weekends after work. I go during the week when I don’t have to bartend, so Alice has frequent visitors. It’s a pretty facility, near the shore. She can go out onto the patio with her attendant and smell the sharpness of salt and feel the breeze, which I imagine is still nice, no matter how far away her mind is. It is the best we can give her. I tell myself that very often.

The ride out to Alice after our visit with Mama Gold feels extra heavy. I check into the Motel 6 by the dumps where they know me as a regular and then head over to Rose View.

“Hi Auntie,” I greet Alice with an extended hand. Some days she takes my fingers and squeezes them. But other days—most days—she looks through me, out the window to the shoreline beyond it. The attendant talks about how Alice spent her week, painting it pretty for me—Alice watched her favorite movie, Purple Rain! Alice ate two meals yesterday, which was very good! Alice laid out on the enclosed patio with her friend Doris and watched the sunset and the rain! But I know it isn’t Alice, only this body that used to be my aunt, going through the motions.

I hold out for those days when she squeezes my fingers—sweet and rare like the times when we were kids and she’d allow us dessert before dinner. Or the nights she’d let us stay up late to sit in the kitchen and listen to the jazz music wafting in from the bar downstairs. Or when she hugged us on Thanksgiving and wrapped us up in the smell of flour and sweet potato pie. But sweeter, rarer still.

∙ ∙ ∙

“Listen to Alice,” Mama Gold had said, but listening to Alice is like listening to a record backwards or hearing someone speak in a dead language that you would never know. Yet here I am, sitting out on the patio, leaning in to hear my aunt babble. And this time, I ask her a question.

“Seline carries on and on about Samuel. I wonder if she’ll find someone new soon?”

Alice trains her empty eyes on the sea.

“Mississippi Mud Pie,” she says finally.

“Yeah. That’s about what I thought you’d say.”

I drive past the dilapidated outskirts of Atlantic City on my way back to the Motel 6. I eat McDonalds in bed, and do some uninspired sketches on the hotel’s stationary pad, then fall asleep thirty minutes into watching Waiting to Exhale, sometime around midnight.

And then, I wake up.

I’m lying on plush carpet in the hallway of a hotel much nicer than the one I fell asleep in. It radiates the kind of old glamour that doesn’t exist anymore, a beautiful perfume no longer sold. An open window blows back gauzy white curtains and I take in the breeze—no garbage debris from the Jersey dumps. I’m in a place where the air is sweetened by the June Plums blooming in trees. I blink.

When I open my eyes again, I am in a grand suite, sitting on a swan chaise the color of soft pearl. Across from me, Seline is sitting at a vanity, smiling at me in the mirror while her friend Valencia sets iridescent gems into her done-up locs. I catch site of my own reflection in the mirror—I am wearing a sea-blue gown and have little white flowers spiraling through my curls. Someone knocks at the door.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“It’s just Michael again.” Valencia shakes her head. “Trying to steal a peek.”

“Go tell him it’s bad luck, Marie,” my sister says. “He listens to you.”

“Who is Michael?”

“Exactly! As far as I’m concerned, he doesn’t exist from now until we walk down the aisle.”

“Marie, go tell him please. Otherwise, he’ll keep knocking,” Valencia adds.

“He just loves me too much.” My sister shrugs and giggles. I feel hazy, like I’m watching my own life play out on a projector. But I go to the door to see this man who always listens to me. This man who loves my sister too much. There he is through the peephole— broad-shouldered and caramel-colored and curly-haired. I have never seen this man a day in my life.

“Michael,” I say.

“Marie,” he calls out with enthusiasm, familiarity. “Look, just tell Seline to come out here a minute. I promise I’ll keep my eyes closed. I just wanna talk real quick.”

“You’re a whole ass lie, Michael!” Valencia yells back.

“Marie, tell him to leave,” Seline shakes her head, smiling.

“Michael, go,” I say. “You’ll see her soon.”

He sighs, defeated. “Only because big sis says.” Through the peephole, he turns to go.

“See? He always listens to Marie,” Seline says, and her reflection winks at me in the mirror.

∙ ∙ ∙

While awake, I have somehow stepped into a dream. That’s the only explanation, as I watch Seline marry a man named Michael, who always listens to me, who just loves her too much. We link arms to walk down the aisle together and I give my little sister away to a stranger. A reception follows at the resort’s event space, a large hall with French doors leading out to a palm tree grove and a clear, turquoise sea. Michael stands at the head of the long table where we’re seated and begins to speak.

“I met my wife four years ago in July of 2017,” Michael says, which makes no sense. When I went to sleep, it was July of 2017. How have I woken up four years later?

“We were both eyeing the last piece of dessert on the buffet table at Jacob’s and I told her she could have it. Y’all know how I feel about dessert—so trust I was already deep in love to make that offer.” Everyone laughs. I laugh a beat too late, still stuck in my confusion. “I want to think that Seline felt what I felt, but we all know her. She’s just sweet—so maybe that’s why she offered to split it with me. And we did. Who knew the last piece of Mississippi Mud Pie would lead me to the love of my life?”

My jaw drops as my sister beams up at Michael. I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them again, a loose spring from the Motel 6 mattress is digging into my back and Seline is calling me.

“Yo, I just wanted to check in before I go to work. How’s auntie?”

“The same,” I say.

“Hmm. And how are you?”

“The same. How was work yesterday?”

“So-so,” Seline says. “But—this is stupid—I did give someone my number yesterday.”

“Oh wow. Did you now?”

“He was cute,” Seline says, downplaying like she does when she doesn’t want to get too excited too soon. “It was nothing.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“During my lunch break. I went to Jacob’s Restaurant. We started talking on the buffet line.”

“What about?”

“Dessert. We ended up splitting the last slice of Mud Pie.”

I fall silent, my free hand going to my head, feeling for the flowers that I’d been wearing in my hair until Seline calls me back to the present.

“It’s stupid, I know. Too soon. I probably won’t text him.”

“I think you should.”

“Really? I’m surprised you’d say that.”

“I just have a feeling,” I say.

“Now you have feelings, huh? Thought you didn’t believe in that shit.”

“Text him. What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Hmm, okay,” Seline agrees. “Maybe I will.”

We hang up and I lie back down and close my eyes and open them again and again, waiting to see anything other than the blank screen of my own lids. No vision comes. So I shake off the lingering mist and drive back to New York, fighting off the feeling that I’ll nod off any minute, as if I haven’t slept at all.

Back home, I find it easy to dismiss the whole thing as a strange dream—life drags on, dull and mechanical, and magic seems too far away to be believed. Seline goes out to visit Alice over the weekend and reports nothing unusual. I serve FiDi suits at the bar and watch the Atlantic whip against the side of the seaport as the storm clouds brew. At four in the morning I take the train back uptown and settle into bed and dream of all the things I’ll paint on my days off, knowing instead I’ll use the free time to watch Judge Judy and drink Barefoot Moscato. Looking in the mirror every morning, my whole body sags under the weight of a life not really being lived—sunken purple under-eyes, slumped shoulders, soft pouch of stomach. The only change is that my sister no longer cries at night—but sometimes when I get home from work, she’ll still be awake, talking to Michael on the phone.

The next week when I drive out to visit Alice, I find her sitting on the patio, tearing the pages out of a coffee table quote book and ripping them into shreds. I reach out to take it, but she swats my hand away and I don’t have it in me to fight her.

“Auntie,” I say. “I don’t really care about anything anymore.” My aunt keeps ripping up the quote book and placing the shreds on the table between us. “I feel like I just go through the motions.”

“Damballah,” my aunt shakes her head, calling me—or the space between us—by some long-lost person’s name, something that sounds like it could be ancient or country or both. “There’s a snake in the sky.” She nods out the window. There’s nothing there—no snake, and in the heavy fog, barely any sky. Still, I push on.

“What can I do auntie…to be happy? To have a better life?” I feel foolish, desperate, asking this kind of thing of a woman who no longer even knows who she is. Looking for an answer anywhere, tired of every day coming and going like a muted heartbreak. But my aunt says nothing. She rips a page out of the quote book and leaves it on the table between us without bothering to shred it. Then she gets up and walks away. The attendant catches her at the door.

“I think I should put her to bed, Ms. Jackson,” she calls out to me, shuttling my aunt away. I’m cleaning up the remnants of the ruined book when a quote on the lone unshredded page catches my eye.

“I know that I am mortal by nature, and ephemeral; but when I trace at my pleasure the windings to and fro of the heavenly bodies, I no longer touch the earth with my feet: I stand in the presence of Zeus himself and take my fill of ambrosia” – Ptolemy

I fold it up and put it in my pocket, sweeping the rest of book into the garbage can. Later that night, I fall asleep back in the Motel 6. When I wake up, I’m back home in Harlem and there’s a man on my fire escape.

I draw the covers up around me and gasp, but he just smiles at me, sitting there casually, swinging his legs over the edge. An inky black sky blankets the city and he blends in with it seamlessly, dark-skinned and dressed in all black. He whistles a song I know but can’t name. Finally, I work up the nerve to walk over to my window and press my ear to the glass.

“Come out,” he says, his voice lacing around me, a smooth satin ribbon. “I have something to show you, Marie.”

“Are you real?” I ask him. “Is this real?”

“Come.”

He beckons and I oblige, opening the window and crawling through. He helps me down the fire escape, steady and confident. Still in my pajamas and slippers, I silently follow him uptown. There are more stars in the sky than I can ever recall seeing in the city, all burning radiantly, all calling out to me—Marie, Marie, Marie. When did I last hear my name spoken so tenderly? It makes me ache. We walk until we reach the George Washington Bridge, its lights shimmering until they blur. When we get closer, I see that the bridge is lined with stars.

“Where are we going?” I ask my guide.

“Up,” he says. We walk the pathway to the bridge and then he reaches for my hand. I give it and suddenly, we are floating upwards, past the beams of the bridge and up into the clouds. We finally stop, sitting on a beam of silver that could have been part of the bridge but is impossibly high—above the atmosphere.

“What is this place?” I ask him. “Heaven?”

“No, heaven is not a place,” he says. “This is the sky.”

“What am I supposed to do in the sky?”

He smiles, as if it’s obvious. “Paint it.”

I look around and notice a canvas and paints next to me on the beam, along with the smock I used to wear as a teenager, painting murals on the walls of my room that my aunt declared so beautiful, she’d battle the landlord to keep them. And there, all around me, are constellations of figure eights and big dippers, a serpent of stars twisting through soft gray clouds. I put on my smock and dip my brush into indigo. I start with the undertones—the blues—and I paint until the sun breaks through. Blinded by the light, I squeeze my eyes shut.

I wake up in the Motel 6 in the wee hours of the morning—an infomercial playing on the TV casts the room in a soft glow and cold drool cakes my cheek. I get up to open and close the blinds, wondering if the Harlem from my dream will appear again, but all I see is an agitated trucker kicking the broken vending machine for stealing his quarters.

That night, back home, I sit at the table sorting through our bills when my sister appears at the kitchen door, grinning widely and clutching a fat, glossy envelope to her chest.

“Looking for this?”

“What’s that?” I ask her.

“Okay Marie, play that game,” Seline rolls her eyes. “But why don’t you open it now? A stuffed envelope can only be good news.”

The envelope is addressed to me, sent from the School of Visual Arts—a prestigious arts college downtown where I have never even dared to apply. I read the letter over and over until my eyes blur and I feel dizzy. It says I’ve been accepted for the fall semester, based on a portfolio I’m sure I had never sent. I try to speak but all the words get caught in my throat.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Seline coos her congratulations, already opening up a bottle of champagne.

“Because I didn’t—”

“What? Think you were good enough? Well, I guess you were wrong,” she says, holding out the fizzling bottle. “Hurry and get the flutes, they’re in the top cabinet.” Instead I go to my computer to look up the application portal and view my submitted material online. As soon as I open it, my screen turns the blue-black color of a longing sky, jeweled with stars. It’s entitled “Ambrosia” and it has my signature in the corner.

“Oh Marie,” my sister’s voice cleaves. “It’s beautiful.”

“I dreamt it,” I tell her. I want to explain more but don’t know how. The next day, I take the 2 train back out to Flatbush looking for answers, but when I get to Mama Gold’s home, I find it empty and blocked off by yellow police tape. Her neighbor on the other side of the two-family home is out on the porch, smoking a cigarette.

“She was laundering money,” the neighbor smirks. “Guess she couldn’t see the future good enough to predict getting raided.”

“Do you know where she is now?” I ask, and the neighbor’s eyes narrow in suspicion.

“You a cop or something?”

“No, I just need to talk to her.”

“Well she’s gone,” the neighbor says, and nothing more.

That weekend, Seline calls from her visit in Jersey with news. “Alice is sick,” she tells me. “She has pneumonia. But she might be okay. They’re saying, you don’t have to rush to get here or anything, but—”

I drive out early the next morning. What does it mean if my aunt is dying when that has been the case for the better half of the past decade? We’ve lost her in many ways, many times over. But still, I feel something aching, a wound picked at over and over, ripped open again. Her room in Rose View’s hospice wing faces out towards the ocean, an endless sapphire horizon—the beginning of the sky indistinguishable from the end of the sea.

“Is that how you see the world now, with the lines all blurred?” I ask my aunt. She’s lying in bed, sweating out a fever with her eyes fixed on a ceiling crack. “Do you know me, auntie?” I plead, but she says nothing at all. “I wish I could know what you’re thinking. I wish you were still in there so I could say goodbye.” My aunt’s head lolls in my direction, but her stare, as always, does not meet mine.

“Beanie,” she says. And then her eyes wander around the room, finding every spot but my face. The nurses enter a little bit afterwards to bathe her, and I go back to the motel, waiting for sleep.

I wake up in a crib, cozy, swathed in a blanket. My aunt leans over and looks at me. She must be around forty, gentler and younger than I’ve ever remembered her. Her afro curls out in golden brown spirals and the fake beauty mark she’s drawn onto her cheek spreads out with her smile.

“Hello,” she says to me, extending a finger into the crib. I grab it and squeeze it. My hands are soft and small—those of a toddler. “I’m going home now, I just wanted to stay goodbye.” The door opens and another woman enters—my mother, though it takes me a moment to recognize her. She’s young and doe-eyed, with the same quick grin as Seline, and a radiant glow. She’s not sick yet, not frail and delicate the way I always think of her.

“Alice! Damn, you woke her.”

“I wanted to say goodbye,” my aunt says. My mother clucks her tongue.

“When you have your own kids, you’re gonna see how hard it is to put them back down once they’re up.”

“This is my kid,” my aunt teases, swinging my hand back and forth on her finger.

“Oh shush,” my mom laughs, coming up next to my aunt by the crib and reaching down to smooth back my curls. She smiles at me and a warmth breaks through my chest. “Go back to bed, Beanie.”

I close my eyes, lulled to sleep by the long-lost feeling of my mom circling my curls, my hand still wrapped around my aunt’s finger, the forgotten nickname a lullaby in my ear. But when I open my eyes, I’m not back in the hotel. I’m sitting next to my aunt’s empty hospice bed. She stands by the window, eyes trained upward, focused on the moon.

“Auntie,” I call out softly, but she doesn’t respond. Slowly, I stand up next to her, careful not to startle her. I put my hand on her shoulder, surprised when she doesn’t whip away. Instead, she reaches across her chest and puts her own hand on top of mine. Then she reaches for one of my fingers and squeezes. She turns her head and looks at me, her eyes sharp for the first time in recent memory.

“Are you happy?” my aunt asks me.

“Yes,” I promise. “I am.” Somewhere outside of this other reality, I can hear a cardiac machine flatlining and the sound of orthopedic shoes running across Rose View’s linoleum floors. But my aunt is calm and clear, squeezing my fingers firmly, so I don’t move, I don’t even blink lest I lose the moment with her.

Before she leaves, she calls me by my name. “Okay Marie,” she says. “Then I’m happy too.” I feel the pressure of her squeezing my finger and then a release, an emptiness all around me.

Somewhere in the waking world, they call the time of death at 2:04 a.m. I refuse to leave my dream. I look to my side and my aunt is gone, but my guide stands next to me and holds my hand in her place. “Remember, Marie,” he says. “Heaven’s not a place.”

The stars go dark and nighttime falls around us, heavy as a curtain, and my aunt is nowhere and everywhere, all at once.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT MARGARET SAUNDERS

Margaret Saunders is a native New Yorker born and raised in Jamaica, Queens. She graduated from NYU with a BA in Journalism and Spanish and is currently based out of NYC. When not on pandemic-induced lockdown, she works as a bartender, a tour guide, and, primarily, as a research assistant to a real-world author while moonlighting as a wannabe-author.

IN RETROGRADE

By Billimarie Lubiano Robinson

we rode galaxies, once

our brakes: faulty

that did not stop us

crash-

ing into each other,

entering a tri-dimensional vortex

the tumble through stardust

through fire

and ice, and atmosphere’s garden

(plants rooted

in fertile astral planes)

—who knew vines

could twine

beyond asymmetrical skies—

the spiral,

nature’s favorite shape,

offers fragile stems stability

then asteroids fall

away, those celestial beauties

systematic empty orbit

two small planets without stars

a dry black backdrop

that stellar explosion

the bright passing through us

sound, sounds, sounding—

what happened to our bodies

that magnetic motion

that axial tilt

our changing seasons

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT BILLIMARIE LUBIANO ROBINSON

Billimarie Lubiano Robinson is a wandering artist and writer. Her work has appeared in the Eastern Iowa Review, the Newer York, and the Northridge Review. From 2011 to 2015, she traveled around the U.S. with her pink 1950’s Royal typewriter and typed hundreds of poems for strangers on the spot. Well-versed in the art of reckless wandering, Billimarie has backpacked Hawaii, hitchhiked the West, lived in a Parisian bookstore, and survived a Swedish winter alone in the woods. While self-isolating during the pandemic, she curates Poetry Care Packages for people around the world. Find out more at TypewriterPoetry.com.

PARADISE

By Jarred Thompson

Does anything ever happen in heaven or do those good enoughs up there

lounge about, sipping mojitos, fanning themselves, while God sits in eternal adoration?

Are there minorities bringing MANIFESTOS OF GRIEVANCES to the Almighty:

marching, chanting, burning halos in the pearly streets.

Halos for Everyone!

Bring back our Bodies!

Halos for Everyone!

They stomp and sing for God to flick His fingers and toes and do something.

Of course, they never get to see him. Instead are met by a troop of Arch Angels

reminding them they’re better off than those others down there.

Perhaps, they’re building a place for us up there, with prayer bringing them closer

to that magnanimous Ear. I imagine the children—bored from all that cloud hopping—

taking up lightning bolts and waging war upon each other, just for the drama.

If heaven is an exclusive place, with security guards at every gate,

then I think I prefer the casual dress code of purgatory: where pain and pleasure dance

arm in arm like ninety-year-old lovers who don’t know how to live on without each other.

If nothing ever happens in heaven

then maybe heaven is the fulfilment of boredom: a watching and waiting

amidst the cinematic chaos of the cosmos. A silent rejoicing above

the screaming and boiling.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT JARRED THOMPSON

Jarred Thompson is a 27 year old, queer, male, Johannesburg-based, South African writer whose poetry has been published in Type House Literary Magazine, Sky Island Journal, New Contrast Journal and the 2017 Sol Plaatje Award and Anthology. His chapbook, Universes and Paradoxes was shortlisted for the Kingdom in the Wild Poetry Prize and his digital chapbook (Twilight People) was published by the Praxis Magazine Chapbook Series. His fiction publications include The Johannesburg Review of Books, ImageOutWrite (2018), and The Heart of The Matter (2019) among others.. When he is not writing he is practising his chaturangas, walking in nature or binge watching series.

Tiny instances of Black girl magick

By Nia June

We were always

dancing towards the

music of mango

season or blood moons or

fat fields of

red clover slapping

their stalks against

pesky winds.

We swam in the space

between grapefruit and

plum skies and sprinkled

sapphire spoors for

fistfuls of lost men with

obsidian skin and satin

skulls. And yes, a few

with Ankh tattoos.

We shoved our hips to the

east and knocked into

Oshun’s brass tits. Bowed

at the banks of her and

waited for her to give us

back to the country,

glazed in shredded desert

rose. But when we

returned, y’all just called it

black?

magic? magick?!

This ain’t magick, it’s just in

the blood. It just is.

We laughed with comets

crumpling behind our eyes and

kept dancing with enough gust

to confuse an amerikan’s

compass.

We were everywhere and

everything of the living; a real

laying on of the hands.

∙ ∙ ∙

ABOUT NIA JUNE

Nia June is a multidisciplinary creative from Baltimore, MD. Specializing in spoken-word, June has been the featured performer and guest speaker at events throughout the east coast. She received her B.S. in Writing from Towson University, where she was awarded a full scholarship for ‘Excellence in Poetry.’ In 2020, June was recognized as ‘Best Poet of Baltimore’ by the Baltimore Magazine. But June’s talents transcend poetry. June’s directorial debut, “A Black Girl’s Country,” featured in film festivals in Baltimore, MD, Washington D.C., Houston, TX, and Savannah, GA. She has articles published in several local magazines of the DMV tri-state area. And when June is not performing, she is teaching Dance and Creative Writing to Baltimore City youth. June’s most recent project is a collaborative collection of poetry and photography with photographer, Kirby Griffin. Their book “Paper Trails of the Undying” is an illustration of Baltimore’s tenacious beauty. To purchase a copy, visit Niajune.com.