My Inheritance: A Quilt I Must Stitch

“I’m sorry for your loss. Though the coroner’s report said your father departed on June…

“I Can Feel You”

“Mannn, the things I could say about my boy, Romeo.” Chuckles rippled through the great…

 Love, Peace, and Hair Grease

When I was surrounded by white people, knee-length plaid skirts, and crucifixes, I told my…

short stories & essays by Black women writers

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Were Fairytales Meant for Us?

Quickly and carefully, I crossed the street with my best friend at the time. Her…

midnight and indigo literary journal for black writers
Everything is Beautiful and Everything is Terrible

My mother’s eyes are bulging, glassy and wild, almost spinning in their sockets with fear.…

“Salvation”

Tierra sits, her hands folded demurely in her lap, as she waits for her father’s Cadillac to turn the corner. Yellow curtains flutter out of an open kitchen window. A stray cat…

SHORT STORIES

“I Can Feel You”

“Mannn, the things I could say about my boy, Romeo.” Chuckles rippled through the great hall; some tinged with nerves, others with anticipation. No one knew where this best man reception speech…

“Salvation”

Tierra sits, her hands folded demurely in her lap, as she waits for her father’s Cadillac to turn the corner. Yellow curtains flutter out of an open kitchen window. A stray cat…

“Für Naledi: The Piano Lesson”

“Again! And sit up straight! You’re slouching.” Naledi repositioned herself on the stool in front of the piano. Her legs, dangling, were starting to go numb. As best as she could, she…

“Parasite”

“Go back to Jamaica? You must be crazy! What would I do out there except pick-up bottles off de street and beg fe change?” Disbelief sharpens his Montego Bay accent. “But what…

“Akinyi”

“Akinyi, you are such a good girl! Eh! Did you make these mandazi’s yourself?” Akinyi watched as Aunty Ruth grabbed four mandazi’s at a time, and dropped them onto her red plastic…

“American Summer”

The summer Aneka’s leg is broken, her big sister Rima has a sleepover with all of her lacrosse friends. Aneka helps her set up the blow-up beds in the basement. She grabs…

NARRATIVE ESSAYS

Once A Mother

I watched from my seat in the sparsely populated bleachers as the swimmers began to assemble for the first race. Underlying the smell of chlorine was a sense of restrained excitement and…

I Used to Love Myself

I don’t remember how old I was when my parents bought the brown metallic closet with the mirror on the front, but its presence in our home goes back as far as…

Namesake

I climbed the stairs to Aunt Tee’s apartment. The hallway was dark but the semi-opened blinds let in a hint of sunlight on the second-floor landing. The burgundy carpet was clean, other…

The Black Woman Commandments I Cannot Keep

“I love your hair. You did it yourself?” “Aww, thank you. I wish. I can’t cornrow.” “Wait, you’re a little Black girl and you don’t know how to cornrow?” Correction: I’m a…

If We Could Talk

I remember the time you left your phone at home in our first apartment. It was an old loft close to campus. It was raggedy, the stove was too small, and mildew…

To quote Erykah Badu: “I am an artist and I’m sensitive about my ish…”

Virginia Woolf once said: Writing is like sex. First you do it for love, then you do it for your friends, and then you do it for money.   // In fifth…

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