Jesse arrives home an hour late. The humidity grips him as he climbs the four floors to his apartment. He remembers when he could take the steps two at a time. Now he pauses on every landing. The old building smells like the collective dinner of its eight tenants, which isn’t very appealing under the oppressive heat. He comes to
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It’s coming on August 10th – midnight & indigo issue no.5! In this collection, we meet characters across continents in various stages of becoming. From women redefining their definitions of love, and Black girls finding their place in world
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The clock on the kitchen wall said 8:45 pm. Fifteen more minutes and Trysten would be in bed. I stood in front of the sink
Part I: Just For Me I look forward to the tri-annual ritual. My mother prepares to sacrifice her firstborn to the white man’s god. The
Part I: Just For Me I look forward to the tri-annual ritual. My mother prepares to sacrifice her firstborn to the white man’s god.
My grandma’s house was always full. The hinges on the front door were almost invisible. In the heart of Cleveland, Ohio, not a side
The Traveling Refugee. She watched her ancestors burn and hang. In the land of the free. In the land of the brave. They have
It is 2014. You are a Nigerian living in the United States. You are the parent of a U.S.-born child. The immigration authorities have
I. Places that I am terrified of returning to: Shitty $49-a-night motels with dingy sheets and showers overrun with mildew smelling of sweat, cigarettes,
It’s coming on August 10th – midnight & indigo issue no.5! In this collection, we meet characters across continents in various stages of becoming. From women redefining their definitions of love, and Black girls finding their place in world and family, to narrators discovering self…and sometimes, sacrifice, we are proud to present 15 new short stories written by Black
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The tap is leaking. I know this is not the first words I should say to you. ‘The tap is leaking’ is not a conversation opener anywhere. I wouldn’t say
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“If y’all weren’t so difficult, maybe it’ll be easier to get a man.” “Y‘all? Difficult?” I repeat the triggering words as if they can somehow mean something else. They sting
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The day Chiamaka disappeared, her father left the house in precisely three pieces. The first piece left at sunset, when the world, consumed by endless night, became his sworn enemy.
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1. The day my sister disappeared, the uncomfortable red hue of the evening sky and the vibrancy of the grass complemented each other. The oddity of the scene cast an
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The leaves on the two maple trees in the yard beamed a spectacular fiery red as the blue bottles that hung from them shimmered
“Curse this damned place. I don’t want anything to do with here.” Holson, my best childhood friend, slammed the door and headed off on
I’m not good at being a witch. To say that I’m incompetent wouldn’t even cover it. My witchcraft is an amateur cocktail of earnest
The fireflies hovered in front of me, their green bodies emitting a radio buzz with their wings. Crickets hummed and perched themselves in trees
The winds bouncing off the gulf swaddle Fleur’s bare head as she stands at its fringes, and almost with the same delicacy her brother
The Traveling Refugee. She watched her ancestors burn and hang. In the land of the free. In the land of the brave. They have known many graves. Unwilling to be 6 ft. under. She travels 6,000 miles abroad. I was fully prepared
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It is 2014. You are a Nigerian living in the United States. You are the parent of a U.S.-born child. The immigration authorities have given people like you the label of resident alien. This is the third country outside of the land of
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1. The day my sister disappeared, the uncomfortable red hue of the evening sky and the vibrancy of the grass complemented each other. The oddity of the scene cast an uneasy shadow on the house. My mom kept glancing out the chipped
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I. Places that I am terrified of returning to: Shitty $49-a-night motels with dingy sheets and showers overrun with mildew smelling of sweat, cigarettes, and desperation; the backseat of a 1979 Cutlass parked in the dark alley between the corner store and
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At the produce markets that populated Church Avenue, if someone cut in line or pushed her while trying to squeeze past, my mother would hurl the harshest obscenity that came to mind, “Fuck!” It was in fact one of her favorites because
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Once, a former co-worker of mine stopped me in the middle of working, calling my name. I turned to him, with no malice or annoyance, planting my hands on my hips, eyes wide, preparing either for work-related rumors, or a request for
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