Sterling Notes Issue 3 by Sterling Notes

ISSUE 3 VOLUME 1 | SPRING 2021

STERLING NOTES

Sterling Notes

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In light of the hard year in which a global pandemic, multiple lynchings by police, and ensuing chaos has occurred, myself and the Sterling Notes editorial board chose Lucille Clifton’s poem “won’t you celebrate with me” as the theme for this spring semester issue. I am beyond proud of this issue and sincerely hope the collected contributions inspire joy, affirm the self, and prepare one for each day’s fresh mysteries as the poem does. I have worked on Sterling Notes for the past three years, since its reconception as a literary journal, and will miss it dearly as I depart from Howard University. When I look back upon my time at Howard University, I will be looking back at my time with the Sterling Allen Brown English Society; my peers, dear friends, professors, and advisors that have made each moment memorable and cherished. Though I will be saying goodbye to my time at

– Gabi Montgomery, Editor in Chief

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Howard and SABES I will always keep close what I have learned from those around me that have shaped many of the memories I have. To name only a few: Aidan Keys and Savannah Parker, the presidents before me who I think of always as examples in my own exercise of student leadership; Lauren Holley and Breara Hollis, who are very dear friends and have served on the SABES executive board alongside me and will be graduating alongside me as well; and Dr. DeGout, who I admire endlessly and am always thankful for to have had as SABES advisor and English professor during my years at Howard. I look forward to the future and eagerly await to see how Lacey Johnson will execute his own vision of Sterling Notes in the coming issues. This year’s issue is dedicated to the loving memory of our late professor Dr. Gregory J. Hampton whose homegoing occurred on November 29th, 2019. Dr. Hampton was a profound educator and academic; he left his scholarly books and articles as a lasting source and marker of his undeniable ingenuity. He stood as an impressive lecturer, embodying the true spirit of leadership to shepherd students through discussions of life and literature, lighting the path with knowledge, love, and hope. Dr. Hampton and his passion, his laughter, his jokes, his imagination, and his spirit are what we will cherish and miss the most; that we as a community of his students will mourn with the family as we continue Dr. Gregory J. Hampton’s legacy of change making. Dr. Hampton made a tremendous impact on my personal and academic life, so it is with sincere hopes that he rests now in peace and power.

THIS ISSUE OF STERLING NOTES IS DEDICATED TO THE LOVING MEMORY OF

DR. GREGORY J. HAMPTON

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Interview with Sidney Clifton Lacey Johnson

Boundlessly I Sail By on My Ship Made From... Daphne C.A. Dadzie

A Heart is Never Broken Kyndal Fletcher

Customer Service Takier George

Sugar From the Sun Nyah Hardmon

Running Acacia Hines

Intimacy Tommy Lawrence

Fly Takier George

1 Omari Foote

Defiance Kamala Kenny

Zephyr-Child Solomon Brooks

Kappa Ainghku Ashemu

Butta Ball Bare Carolyn Williams

A Sound of Thunder Kyrah Simon

Keep Going Nadira Rene

Father-God Zoë Shelton

My Moon Arielle Williams

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To the Friends I Have Lost or Left Behind Tommy Lawrence

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After 'Love Rain' Scott Nyah Hardmon

by Jill

Rage Mulu Baye

Woman of the Snow Ainghku Ashemu

Carrying Helium Balloons Up Stone Mountain... Michael McClure

Sun Rise Walking Solomon Brooks

Contributors

PASSION POEM (a goddess dies) Jana Ross

An Artist's Job, Dead or Alive Jana Ross

Editorial Board

In Loving Memory Of Nyareeta Gach

Running in the Face of History, Jamestown... Daphne C.A. Dadzie

2 Omari Foote

Stress Relief DáSean Clark

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WON'T YOU CELEBRATE WITH ME WHAT I HAVE SHAPED INTO A KIND OF LIFE? I HAD NO MODEL.

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BY TOMMY LAWRENCE To the friends I have lost or left behind, I’m sorry for leaving without a goodbye, Not a word was exchanged. Our ships did not crash and sink, there was no wreckage to search We simply lost sight of them. We each went a different course, Explored different seas. I didn't see you leave, Or, maybe, with my eyes locked to the horizon I didn’t notice. But the thought still lingers unspoken. Maybe we were temporary together Friends only in fair weather, But as long as it’s been, my friend, I remember. Our crescendo, A great orchestra tickling our ears, Instruments played with laughter until tears. I can still hear it ringing after all these years.

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I don’t think we were meant to be forever. And that’s okay. I just miss the days when we’d cruise the seven seas. Just you, just me. My voyage has led to many great discoveries. And maybe, Just maybe, At some port in some city I don’t yet know the name of We’ll meet again.

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BY KYNDAL FLETCHER A heart is never broken, Only expanded beyond the limits we know. It does not shatter in pieces on the floor,

As you thicken your shell so others cannot see Your unhealed wounds as well as you do?

We do not catch shards of it between our toes

As we walk barefoot into places we feel safe

This pain and its ugliness

And free from anyone doing us harm.

Are not yours to swallow like a pill with a shot!

In these moments we are vulnerable, and rightfully so, Never suspecting pain to accompany

But in those moments the pain whispers that it will break you,

another’s charm.

You owe it to yourself to prove that it will not.

There is no paste to plaster back together

So, do you say your heart is broken

What another has tried to ruin,

So others know it is not your fault,

No healer like time to allow you to focus

That it is not your responsibility to put back in motion

On what it is you are really doing.

What another has brought to a halt? There also seems to be no warmth

you from everyone you know. It encloses you in sleepless nights, freezing mornings, and empty days, Leaving you unable to yell out that you have

Do you say your heart is broken So you do not have to repair What another has eaten up, spat out, and stepped on, So you can comfortably wallow in the knowledge that it is just not fair?

never felt so alone. What are you doing then, trudging on?

Do you say your heart is broken?

As the pain incapacitates you!

Because that is how it feels inside,

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Within the invisible film which separates

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With fragments jutting out— poking you in the chest and back— Steadily bleeding you out as you wonder how long it is you have cried? Do you say your heart is broken

I already believe it And know my heart merely expanded, never broke. So, I can now accept and reciprocate even more love After these words I spoke:

Because that is what you really mean, That some pieces have ripped you open on their way down As they fall into your pancreas and your spleen? Do you say your heart is broken Because that is all they taught you to say,

A heart is never broken, Only expanded beyond the limits we were taught to know, So fill yours intentionally with love from yourself And see how immensely, how surely, how quickly you will grow.

Not how it is a muscle to be worked through pain and love, Or how it can both swell and deflate?

Do you dare stop saying your heart is broken And speaking fragmentation over your body and spirit? Instead venturing something like, “My heart is hurting but still beating,” So your words vibrate with truth and encouragement and your body hears it!

So possibilities seem more difficult to view, But the digging must be done within the recesses of our selves To prove all those sayings about having a light of inside us are true.

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You and I are not broken, but we have been enshrouded

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BY ACACIA HINES My thoughts about you are Runners. Every step turns into laps then They turn into a mile I’d ask you to stay But it would only be a while Bringing us back to this tragic track. You say it’s better if we remain friends Except we can’t pass back words like batons Now you have finished your final lap. You act like nothing was ever said In this lane you got me trapped in We have things that can’t be unspoken I’m here dazed and confused Truly unamused, I won’t keep running Now I know you

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BY OMARI FOOTE to be a black child is to know when the oven light is on every other light should be off black child know “i don’t have it” isn’t no, just wish i could and maybe christmas black child know hard head makes a soft butt but the mama’s boys don’t ever learn that fast enough black girl know squeezing in between mamas knees to get every hair down to her eyebrow brushed will be worth it when she running to the rhythm of barrettes clip clap clacking together like black folk on sunday morning black child know sunday mornings know mourning bout dead black children just a part of growing

to be a black kid sometimes feels like everything began falling apart the minute you escaped your mother’s womb and entered the doctor’s hands, black and daring to live

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being a black child is a slow death with lots of simple joys ruined by pigs with badges and pigs in suits either way, the black kids always lose

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BY AINGHKU ASHEMU There was once a boy born of earth and salt, with glittering eyes and emerald skin. He lived at the bottom of a glass lake where people would come to confess their sins to their reflections. Lonely at the lake's floor, the boy befriended these orphans: fragments of people's souls, unwanted and cast into the lake's depths like river stones. As he listened to these Sins he began to crave life beyond the boundaries of his lake. He turned to the Sins to find a way to leave the lake and walk among those above. First, he went to Greed, banished to the lake from the soul of a miser, and asked what to do. “So, you want to leave this lake, and give up all this water?” asked Greed. “You are bound to this lake so if you want to leave it you must take some of it with you wherever you go.” And so the boy then carved a bowl upon his crown to carry the lake's water wherever he went. But as he went to leave he was stopped by the Sin of killers, Bloodlust. “So, you want to leave your home?” grinned Bloodlust. “There must be balance in nature: if a person is born, another must die, and before an answer can be reached another question must arise. If you want to go, you must leave someone in your place.” And so, the boy gathered the prettiest and smoothest stones from the depths of the lake, of all shapes and sizes, and used them to lure children close enough to the water's edge to be snatched and dragged to the bottom. Finally, he was ready to leave. But before he could break to water’s surface he was halted by Hunger, the insatiable Sin of Cannibals. “Hello boy, are you trying to leave the lake looking like that?” Hunger asked, licking his lips. “If you want to walk among the humans you must look like them as well.” “How?” the boy asked. “You must consume their flesh.” Hunger replied. And so the next day the boy waited for the day's first fisherman to cast his line.

When they had finished the boy saw that his skin was still green, and asked Hunger why he hadn't changed. “The Lake will not let you leave. You belong here,” Hunger laughed. “What do you mean?” the boy screamed. “You have stolen water from the river, drowned children in its depths, and eaten the flesh of man in its body.” Hunger replied. “This lake is the home for sins. It is where you belong.”

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Pretending to be a fish, he grasped the line and began to thrash it, ensuring the man would hold on tighter to the rod. Then with a mighty pull, he launched the man into the lake and pulled him below, further and further until the man’s body grew still. He brought the body to Hunger and they began to feast on it.

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BY NADIRA RENE Across the country I found myself, for the first time, looking back on the events which played out over my childhood. I developed my family members in my mind as characters in a sort of play. My mom ceased to be just my mom and became the woman who allowed this to happen and also the person who saved me from that other thing. I saw my sister clearly for the first time this way, insecure and afraid to be herself. I grew an insatiable need to apologize to her for always thinking she was so strong and resilient in the past. My father grew a sinister face and horns where once his ears had been. I began to imagine him as a monster, in part for the horrible things he had done, and in part because he was the easiest to blame for all of the horrible things I had done. I thought about my brother the least before remembering that just because he was hiding, it did not mean he did not deserve to be seen. When I developed the character of my brother I wished I had always thought of him more. I started to have flashbacks to memories that I had been unable to process before. Memories of abuse at the hands of illusive ghosts. Maybe my father, or maybe an uncle, or maybe no one at all. I spent my summer abroad puzzling together fragmented bits of the time that made me into the person I am today. A person who is at once so meek that she cannot say a thing, yet so bold that she writes despite no one ever listening. Back home, my sister called my memories stories. It was a story that he touched me there. It was a story that made me scared. It was all in my mind. I decided that I never wanted to go home again. I lost my best friend, too, during my departure from home. Our relationship was tumultuous from the start, but I loved her. I don’t know why I gave her up. Maybe she knew me too long, and therefore reminded me of the home and past I was trying to escape. Maybe I was desperately trying to become someone outside of the pain of my former self that I could not stand to be near anyone who knew how to speak to that child self. All I know is that I ran from her and she did not chase me. So I left. Now, I am in a foreign city where I thought that I would enjoy being nameless. In reality, I have simply switched being smothered by the presence of my family for being totally adrift in a place where I am but one woman who is still not ready to take up any space outside of herself.

The other thing that keeps me going is my fantasy. The fantasy is this: I have an apartment with a huge window that overlooks the city. I don’t know which city. But I do know that I live in the apartment alone. And I have all of my hair products on the counter, all of my favorite foods in the fridge, and the softest sheets on my bed.

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It is hard to try to keep going, especially when you are, for the first time, only trying for yourself. I put all my energy into writing a book. Writing has been the only thing to keep me going through all of this. I believe writing is my purpose, so I try to think that if I just keep writing I can always find at least one reason to stay here. Alive. Trying.

BORN IN BABYLON BOTH NONWHITE AND WOMAN WHAT DID I SEE TO BE EXCEPT MYSELF?

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INTERVIEWED BY LACEY JOHNSON STERLING NOTES EDITOR

Ms. Sidney Clifton sat at her desk for the duration of the interview, a striking painting hanging in the background. I forgot to look for echoes of either of her prolific parents in her appearance or personality; she had a fascinating presence and verbosity all her own, though doubtlessly influenced by those who raised her. I sat in a bedroom, all of the lights on to offset the dark winter night. It was bright on the west coast, where Ms. Clifton was calling from. With Sterling Notes’ theme this semester built around Lucille Clifton’s poem “won’t you celebrate with me”, the timely 2021 opening of the Clifton House in Baltimore brought us together. Being able to have a dialogue with Ms. Clifton about herself, the life of her mother and her ambitions regarding the Clifton House was instrumental in bringing the voice of our magazine to life. Lacey Johnson: Thank you, Ms. Clifton for agreeing to do this. It means a lot to me and also to Sterling Notes. First, I'll start with my introduction. My name is Lacey Johnson. I am a junior studying sociology and English at Howard and I am from Baltimore, Maryland. If you would please introduce yourself. Sidney Clifton: Absolutely. My name is Sidney Clifton. I’m the president of the Clifton House. I'm the daughter of Lucille Clifton. I grew up in Baltimore, Maryland, and I was born in Buffalo, New York. I grew up in Baltimore, and I consider that my home. Currently, I'm the senior vice president of animation and mixed media at the Jim Henson Company here in Los Angeles.

SC: As the daughter of the poet, it means so much, it represents many of the struggles that I saw my mom go through and triumph over. Anything from financial issues, family issues, relationship issues, health issues, and even in the midst of those being able to see

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LJ: Great, thank you. First, I'm going to start with some questions centering around the poem, "won't you celebrate with me." Our issue of Sterling Notes is in fact centered around that poem, and I want to ask you, what does the poem mean to you as not only the daughter of the poet but also as an individual?

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SC (continued): her triumph over those often very challenging things. And it was because I witnessed that in her, as both her daughter and as an individual, it's almost like a call to action. Reminding me that on a daily basis, you will be faced with some things that may seem insurmountable. And you can decide that they are, or you can decide that they are not. When you decide that they are not, that's a reason to celebrate, that's a reason to show gratitude. It's a reason to keep on keeping on, and it’s celebratory and life affirming to have that sort of mindset over the challenges that come so that you're not overwhelmed by them, not defeated by them. LJ: I wanted to ask you how you think this poem's message fits into the current social and political landscape. SC: I think it fits into almost any social and political landscape, honestly, especially for Black people and people of color. It reminds me tonally of the same things that Negro spirituals have done, how Black people's poetries and songs and lives have often been. I think reminding us that surviving what might seem unsurvivable—it's no small order to do such, and for us to be able to find that celebration in our ability to do that I think is healing in a way that is necessary. It also reminds us that "we shall overcome,'' that we're not to be defeated by these things that constantly come, that are a part of our lives on a minute by minute basis almost. We are here, in many cases historically, under duress and the duress continues and the duress has been much more visible lately. It reminds me of some of the old sayings growing up, like, "not today devil, not today." It feels like a necessary prayer these days, absolutely. And a reminder for all of us that we will not be defeated. LJ: I definitely have thought about this poem a lot, just rereading it and thinking a lot about how, as you were saying, it does fit into so many different political landscapes and social landscapes. Of course, as Black people we've faced so much for our entire history here. It's almost like there is no time where I can say that it is more or less relevant because in any decade, even before the poem was written, it resonates with history. It's a very powerful piece. I also wanted to ask, how do you think the themes of celebration and defiance factor into her ethos as a creator overall?

LJ: Next I wanted to move into talking to you about the Clifton House, which is a phenomenal project that has been really great to watch. I'm in awe of what you've done

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SC: I'm not sure this is going to answer your question, but I think that they walk hand in hand in her celebrations of things, of Black bodies and her Black woman body and definitely being herself. I think about the poem "miss rosie" and about our relatives. Almost a celebration in defiance of actually staying alive. Both of those could be celebratory and defiant for Black people in this country. How it weaves into the ethos of her as a person, as much as a poet, weaves into yours and mine and pretty much each Black person I know who's still standing and still has hope and still rises and still perseveres. Particularly having had no model, as the poem says. I think it's just the nature of who she was as a person, and it showed up in the poems.

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LJ (continued): for the project, for your mother and for artists, it has a very large scope. First, I want to talk to you about what I've read of you saying in interviews about the community of writers, artists, and activists that gathered in your childhood home, the place that will become the Clifton House. I wanted to ask you what it was like for you to be growing up in this space. SC: It was exciting because what it said to me was that—it's interesting because you know, my parents were who they were, I knew nothing different. The fact that all of these interesting people would come to the house was just, "Those are mom and dad's friends." When you're a kid, that's what you think. But also, I have been someone who has been a listener my whole life, an observer. I think that for me, it laid a foundation of courage and of defiance and celebration actually, but also being able to not deify people who are iconic, to see their humanity, and their courage in their humanity led me to believe that I could be that courageous. That that sort of path was available to me. That's one of the things that's super important to me about the Clifton House; to be able to show young people and emerging artists, activists, et cetera, that you could be that too. This is not above you, this is not beyond you, but this is available to you. These are human beings who have stories, and you may know a piece of the story, not the whole one, and yours is as valid as theirs. I think that people coming into the house taught me that in some form or fashion. I'm probably only now able to articulate that, in retrospect. LJ: Do you feel that this creative community impacted your decision to be involved in creative work as an adult as your career? SC: I think they fed what was naturally there. It did help form my, I don't know if it's fearlessness, but I think it's a little bit of defiance, a little bit of fearlessness, a little bit of audacity, a little bit of not giving up. My parents were not people who gave up. I think it just stoked that fire that may have been sort of just a seedling at the time. Also because my parents and their friends and the people who would come through the house would tell stories about their past and their histories and to hear sort of what it took. I thought, well, if they can do that, I can do it. And I also felt a responsibility, knowing what people went through and being reminded of what our history was and being a family who was not afraid to talk about the past and to look at the past and really dig into it and tell the full story, good, bad, ugly, whatever, and the lessons that came from those.

C: I think the biggest part for me is access and community, because it's a relatively sizable house. Just in terms of the nature of this space, we would have spaces for artist residencies or artists who just—"I need a place where I can write for a week and not be bothered. The place is beautiful and I have access to the Internet, but I also look outside and see something beautiful." It'd be that kind of space where people don't have to travel far to find just a room of their own to practice their craft in, a quiet space that still has my mom's and my dad's vibes in there. The other part is that the space also has a gallery

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LJ: What is your vision of the space that the Clifton House will provide now, in the 21st century, in this day and age, in this world that is different but also the same?

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SC (continued): space. Young visual artists will be able to hang their work there and to see the work of others and to get a sense of themselves as developing artists to see what that really feels like. To get some—not notoriety necessarily, but perhaps, and respect as an artist to feel themselves legitimized. Also in terms of community, there will be gathering spaces. We will have poetry salons and workshops, but also other kinds of writing. Biography workshops, autobiography workshops, prose workshops, speculative fiction workshops. All kinds of writing workshops, and visual artwork too, because my dad was a painter. My dad actually painted this one behind me. In what was our family's family room at the time will be a workshop space where we can have lots of chairs and a big screen. What's important to me is cultural exchange; we could do what we're doing right now. We can do virtual workshops with people worldwide. I've most recently been speaking to multiple people who want to participate in some form or fashion, but if someone is not available or able to be there in person, we can give people access to Ishmael Reed. He introduced my parents to each other, and he reminds me that he's the reason I'm here. There's also a gallery owner in Senegal who has been talking about doing workshops from Dakar, I believe, for visual artists from here. The possibility of connecting artists throughout the diaspora is really exciting to me. We want to let emerging artists not only network but to see people worldwide who look like them. Part of it for us is providing resources and workshops on preparing for the life of an artist. We're talking about craft workshops, but we're also talking about life workshops. I've found when I've gone to art schools to talk to young artists that they are asking, "How do you do this? How do you book your next gig? How do you slot your time, negotiate contacts?" There will be information about the business of being an artist as well. LJ: You touched on this, but I wanted to know specifically how you see the relationship between the house and the surrounding Baltimore area? I know you said that you see Baltimore as home. I live there, I grew up there, and it's a very unique city. It has issues like any city, but also issues that are specific to the city. But there is also such a vibrant culture outside of the negativity. So all of that together, where do you see the house?

LJ: The last set of questions I have for you are more about your mother's legacy specifically. I'm sure it's been surreal in the years since your mother's passing to have examined the way her legacy has been forming and changing over the years. What do you see as something that is connecting people to Lucille Clifton's poetry today?

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SC: As a sanctuary, honestly. It's in Windsor Hills, which is in West Baltimore. I do want to see it as that sort of a space, a sanctuary space that is accessible to all. It is not going to be the kind of place that is open from nine to five. It's not going to be that kind of space because we want it to feel more intimate than that. That's a conversation that frankly, our board of directors and advisory board are still having. We will have some suggestions by the National Trust for Historic Places. It's also important that we maintain the integrity of it as a historic place. It needs to feel like the sanctuary it felt like when I was a kid, and how we then translate that to the public at large is still in conversation. But more than anything, it's a sanctuary for young people. It should not feel elitist or inaccessible. That's not what we're going for. It will strike a balance of some sort so that everyone feels welcome, because that is absolutely the goal.

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SC: Well, first of all, she continues to publish, which is interesting. There is Selected Poems of Lucille Clifton that was published back in September. Her work continues to be at the forefront in this space because of the generations and because of new poets coming onto the scene. She's become one of the people who people learn about in school, so that's been interesting. It's like, "Oh, I've studied your mom's work back in school," and I think "Wow." She's becoming part of the academic curriculum, which is really interesting. That's been comforting, in a way. Her work is not forgotten. The respect and love that up and coming poets have for her has been fairly encouraging. She still speaks to people on a very deeply human level that is accessible and real. People talk about her poetry being spare, but her poetry is powerful, that’s all that means. The power of her words continues to resonate worldwide; she's been translated into multiple languages. As long as her words keep meaning something to communities—I don't know if I know how her legacy has changed. What it feels like to me is that it has expanded, and that it gets wider and deeper just on a daily basis. When people can connect what's happening in the world at any time with some of her words, because she was so deeply connected on a human level to other folks and to stories and to herself and to you know, a spiritual world—It's a gift, honestly. LJ: The last question I have for you is a big question. As best as you can answer, how would you want your mother to be remembered as a poet, as an artist, as a person, and as your mom?

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SC: It's interesting because she was asked that question once and one of the times she was asked the question, her answer was that she was someone who tried. As a poet, I would like her to be remembered as someone who spoke the truth, however that was, whatever that truth was. She was courageous, she was brave. At my mother’s memorial service at St. Mary’s College, poet Evie Shockley said that someone once described my mother as fearless. Evie said that she wasn't fearless, she was brave. And I completely agree because she told the truth even when she was afraid. As a poet, I like to quote her. She liked to give comfort to people who were uncomfortable, and to make those who were comfortable uncomfortable. I'm completely paraphrasing, but that just goes back to the truth telling. She was someone who told the truth, who was brave. This may sound dramatic, but she almost had the voice of God in her ear, and she could translate that. That was the purity of her creative instrument. As an artist, I think it is the same. I think she was brave, I think she tried, I think she would get knocked down and get up. She taught me the power and perseverance and celebration of being a Black woman. As a person, I think of other parts of her; she was hilarious. My mom was so funny. I don't even know if I have anecdotes for that that I could tell and share because she would be mad if she knew I was telling those stories. But she was hysterically funny. Some people I think know that. She loved to laugh, and she could make you laugh. She loved her family, she was a mama bear. I think I get that from her. You could do whatever, but do not mess with her kids or her family because there would be words. As a mom—I think it's interesting because there were six of us. I think the mom she was for me was a different mom than she was for my other

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SC (continued): siblings. The mom she was for me was someone who encouraged me, always, in the authenticity of my walk [and] the way I walk my walk. She would challenge me as an artist. I remember once, at the time, I was fancying myself a screenwriter. She said, "Well, if you want to be a screenwriter, I'm going to critique you like I would any writer." And she critiqued my script. I got my feelings hurt for a minute, but I knew that she gave me good notes. I was 13 years old. It was like, "If you're serious about your art, I will treat it seriously." Never cruel, but she was always like, "This is critique and get used to it." Which she absolutely trained me for, with the career that I have. As a mom, she was also honest about what womanhood was about and like. I could ask her anything and she would answer it, and sometimes I was like, "I didn't need to know that answer," but it was the truth. That level of honesty is rare with mothers and daughters. When I look back at that, I aspire to [be like] that with my daughters. She always encouraged me to pay attention as a mom. I hope that I do the same with my children. Even now, I know what Mom would say about something. I will go into my head and ask her questions, like I know what Mom would think or say about that. The fact that we could laugh together and talk about boys. The girl stuff I could do with my mom was just so precious, it really was. LJ: Thank you so much. SC: I hope I answered your questions appropriately. LJ: This was very illuminating. It's great to just be in conversation with someone who is a creative in their own right and has such an interesting family and such a great legacy of their own. It's hard to be in charge of your mother's legacy like this, I can't imagine the pressure, but at the same time, I'm sure it's an honor. Someone has to do it and you are doing it, and that's a really great thing. I just hope I have the chance to visit the House sometime soon. If not soon, at least, over the years, I'm sure I'll have a chance to come down. SC: We would love to have you. Thank you.

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This interview was conducted on January 21, 2021 over Zoom

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BY TAKIER GEORGE Hello, I’d like to return this This lonely be two time too big for anyone to bare Swallows me up Drags on the ground everywhere I go Have to pull it down just to prove that I’m human That I’m worthy of wearing something other than this same old lonely Hello, I’d like to donate this There’s a string loose That lets anyone in, but only long enough for them to see that that’s not the only thing that’s damaged To see the imperfects that have been crocheted into my skin like scratchy silk People can’t stand to feel my presence Hello, I’d like to exchange this This lonely be a broken mirror With shards that guard the perimeter of my body Like solitary confinement I’ll take anything but this Even a smile in my direction be a drier cycle Shrinking my lonely long enough for my tears to reach the surface of somebody else’s eyes And all I ask for is a reaction Proof that you see me beyond this barrier That I’m not just existing to be forgotten

This lonely be grounded in subliminal thoughts So, I can’t tell you where it came from It’s exclusive, Unforgettable My mom wants me to stop wearing it, too! If I could take it off, I would I have no use for it So, I’d like to return this

STERLING NOTES

Hello, I’d like to forget this This lonely be a passion abyss A first love Between a side character and her thoughts I’ve been falling for myself my whole life And I have yet to reach the ground

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BY TOMMY LAWRENCE My stomach rumbles like it is empty. Not yet filled and everything is tempting. I find myself scrounging for scraps here. There. Nothing that lasts long enough, to be fair. Heavy lips, bitter tongue. It’s not the same. A weightless hand glides along my rib cage. New hands don’t touch the way I want them to. New hands, new hands, new hands until they do.

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BY KAMALA KENNY

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BY CAROLYN WILLIAMS 5 foot 7 inches 300 something pounds Nappy ass dark brown hair Deep chocolate eyes Fat ass nose Even fatter lips Uneven and acne-filled brown skin A stomach that has stretch marks On every inch Breasts that have Brown areolas and Brown nipples Thighs that are heavily bruised And ruin every pair of pants They come in contact with An ass that came Straight from the ancestors Built by collard greens And cornbread (word to Fantasia) And when she strips down And gets naked for her lover She wonders if that’s what they see

When they see her lips Do they hear the passion That passes through them? When they look into her eyes Do they see her soul Full of fire and intensity?

STERLING NOTES

Do they see inside Where her brain resides Do they see how deep her mind is?

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Do they see how warm it is Inside of her? Do they realize that every time She gets naked She is exposing So much more Beyond the flesh?

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CON TEST WIN NER

BY ZOË SHELTON

porcelain glows in my tar eyes glistening reflections of: me and my Father though his back is turned (a halo engulfing him) I was younger, then I saw an angel, then my house has glass pains inward I search to see the Son they told me, he dwelled here that my being was a cotton heaven plucked by the black hands of God when peering inside my window; I saw: faceless visions, hovering my rage, digging into itself happiness, brimming on umber spinning aimlessly, perception distorted I was young then

O Lord (this I prayed) I did not see the pressed metamorphosis it twisted his core

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head bowed hung low knees flushed begging for your aura O Father, your daughter cries out to you my soul is cleansed from impurity see the welts, raised sin see inside me with meticulous aim

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it delivered the word bloody and pure birthed the havoc when my fragile flesh tore from my heart wailing being too loud, pounding, and cottonmouth numb the wind rushed in and brought: galavanting leaves, graceful and dead prickly air, cutting with exhale in/in/in roots, spiny agile wood

I tried to clean my wretched house; I collected my wooden vessels I give them to you Father pray thee for holy stature, carved empty delicate ethereal ivory God said to: lay my conflict, prostrate with you make a bed of sharp bark splinter my hands separate my nails to offer myself a sacrifice

then I saw: the smoke above white pillow clouds (and my eyes blazed) if I knew you wanted my soul my altar would be adorned

where hath your radiance fled I no longer see you father

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the ember is warm (and he turns, facing me) melting with his child's sorrow my marrowless smile, elated I thought his diamond fangs were forged of sand

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a verse never forsaken combustion and white noise a holy covenant your angel My God! shield my eyes from the flames let me pass over, firm on joy (strike him down with lightning so that my spirit may be resurrected) My father, God! I was young—

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BY DAPHNE C.A. DADZIE Boundlessly I sail by on my ship made from teeth, Made from lips, made from tongues, made from mouths, made from heat Of breaths on my neck, breathing out through sweat Trailing down my spine, a Nile of regret. I try to forget the reason for such disrespect, I own my space. I do, but yet This breath keeps breathing down my neck, This breath of blue and white and red, This breath, the remains of past neglect. I crawl from under the foot on my neck, The foot breathing down, to challenges unmet, Unfaced as of yet, no more a Marquette. I become who I was, who I am, a duet Of the faces with which I played this roulette.

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BY NYAH HARDMON Somedays, on sundays, i be sugar from the sun. breath warm and sweet and young girls before they learned how to hold a secret. on these days i be young girl.

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i be soft. melting. close your eyes smell me. scent like summer heat and sticky skin and so much alive. and the bees. they come like hives. like burnt pot of lust. like circle bud like prey kiss knee to pollen and pray. like this be our hallelujah. this be our dinnertime. let us be what bees be- let's eat. suck on my sweet til i’m stuck in they teeth, til my sunshine stuck on they wings. how silly it is. to see your beauty laid up on someone else’s ugly. i watch as they paint themselves with my pretty. i watch myself fly away. they never stay. they be what bees be- they eat. like they ain’t have no home training. they eat. like they ain’t know they mamas sweet too. they eat. like they bout to consume all of me. they eat. like they ain’t know sugar is everything anywaysmy sugar be sun, tree, earth, wind, life, life, life. i made you. built this from the bottom up so bottoms up, drink. drain me til i’m empty- eat. don’t spit out my seed- eat. watch me rise again anyways. forget three days I’ll be back in one- eat. sweet, i be sugar from the sun. i be i brought u here. i be i can take u back too.

I MADE IT UP HERE ON THIS BRIDGE BETWEEN STARSHINE AND CLAY,

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BY TAKIER GEORGE

STERLING NOTES

Waited so long for Someone Anyone To kiss away these natural disaster tears That I’ve developed this blurred vision of life Where I hug hurricanes Knowing that they have the power to blow everything out of proportion. But nonetheless, My arms are opened so wide Like an invitation Or To say, ‘I love you this much’ Or To fly. Little girls like me never dreamt of flying We just did. Our first trip: leaving our bedrooms So When we grew up Endured a jetlag type of love We thought this normal. Romanticized the feeling of pain. Called it free falling. Loved the Earth-shattering impact. Called it gravity. But some of us never made it to the ground Ever heard of fallen angels? Well, some of us are still falling. For the sake of control We call this flying Or ‘I love you’. We call it everything But the wind Still hoping that by time we reach our final destination But the wind Still hoping that by time we reach our final destination Someone Anyone Will be waiting Arms opened so wide...

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BY SOLOMON BROOKS I was wind-born, soft and tumbling the spurious offspring of hope fell into arms that held little love for me tried to drown me in the Chesapeake but nameless mahogany souls gave me breath tried to steal my pen but Oludah was my ink all the while hope did not claim his bastard I have seen unspoken doubts vapor-curl from the lips of adders poised to make me vole i have seen red black and green banners burn and reveal bold dollar signs the bodies of revolutionaries gutted and filled with state sanctioned speakerboxxes and cowards loved below yet i pray hope to claim his bastard

message ate of bitter fruit for sustenance and loved in pits of refuse holding steadfast to air i believed in until i hit the earth that embraced me so that hope would claim his bastard.

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I have chased angels, blurring the clock and counters of digital

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BY KYRAH SIMON Seren heard herself say yes before what she was agreeing to fully registered. As her tongue met the roof of her mouth to voice the opposite, Aniyah broke out into a toothy grin. Every facial feature stretched itself to support the display. It had been a rarity in the past week, the guest appearance in an ensemble of swollen eyelids and snot-stained sleeves. Her despair just as contagious as her joy, Seren found herself nursing a sniffle of her own despite never particularly caring for Skittles—the Yorkshire Terrier would bare his teeth and growl any time she was in a five-foot radius. But the past week felt like a mere memory in the face of the warm rays of light that escaped through the spaces in between Aniyah’s teeth, coaxing a smile out of Seren. There was no way she could say no to her. So as they traced their signatures at the bottom of identical waivers, she forced her tongue down from the roof of her mouth and steadied her hand. She swallowed a chuckle that arose at the thought of an illegal business maintaining paperwork for their transactions, particularly one that involved two minors—though they had written themselves down as being twenty-one. She had suggested to Aniyah that they use fake names as well. She always liked the name Shirley. Aniyah responded in guffaws. The voice of their guide broke the stream of Seren’s thoughts. “That will be a charge of 500 dollars, ladies,” she said, the stick of gum she massaged with her molars caught between each word. Aniyah lifted the hand she had lodged into her purse the very moment they walked through the door. Tucked in the fold of her palm was a neat wad of bills held together with a pink scrunchie. She handed it to the guide with the confidence of a Wall Street businessman, her expression an attempt to disguise her youth.

It was when she turned to do so that Seren felt as if her feet were glued to the floor, her body resisting what she knew had an overwhelming potential to go wrong. Aniyah turned to her and released a soft beam of sunlight. “Everything is going to be fine. I have it all planned out—to the minute,” she reassured with a tap of the face of her watch. Seren looked down at her own. The watches were synced in preparation for their trip. Aniyah took Seren’s hand and locked their fingers together before continuing down the path the guide had made for them.

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The guide unwrapped the scrunchie from the collection of bills, letting it fall to the tiled floor. Her lips took a variety of shapes as she counted to herself. She held each Benjamin Franklin to the light for dramatic effect before locking the payment in a drawer and stretching out a smile for the two girls that stood before her. “Perfect. Follow me,” she said, raising a tablet off of the countertop and holding it an inch from her chest.

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Seren’s body complied. Over a decade ago, they walked this hallway with their respective parents for their annual checkup, emerging from one of the adjacent rooms to collect a sticker from the front counter for not letting the prick of a needle evoke a tear. Now they walked the hallway hand in hand, to emerge from one of the adjacent rooms having paid half of the balance of Aniyah’s savings account to commit a felony.

The guide shouldered open a door and held it with a manicured hand. The girls shuffled in. They came face to face with a stout, steel chamber that dominated the space. They were forced almost shoulder to shoulder with the guide. Seren could smell the cinnamon sprinkled in the guide’s gum. The layer of cocoa butter on Aniyah’s brown skin. The guide peered at the screen of her tablet before pressing buttons in rapid succession. “Alright. I have the machine set for Monday, October 4, 2055, at 5:40 p.m. You will be dropped on the corner of Northview Drive and 67TH Street. You have approximately 15 minutes to make it back to the chamber before it will be pulled from the location.” Seren took a sharp inhale. The guide continued, “We are not liable for any deaths, injuries, or the inability of the customer to return to the chamber in the allotted time frame. Got it?” “Got it,” Aniyah responded. “May I ask the reason for your trip?” “We’re saving my dog. He was hit by a car.” “Awh.” The guide faked a pout. With the selection of a button the doors of the chamber spread. The girls squeezed in, fingers still intertwined. The doors closed around them. Seren could not help but get goosebumps.

The rhythm of their breathing was disrupted by a low hum that spread from the soles of their feet to the crown of their skulls. They held onto each other, now in an embrace. They felt a sharp jolt

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“We are going to be okay,” Aniyah said to Seren and herself. She could almost hear her father, never shy to share his opinion, going on about how stupid people were for continuing to time travel despite its outlaw. He saw her generation as the culprits, too selfish to put anyone before themselves. He never failed to mention just how much he resented the group cited as having caused a shift in the time-space continuum so severe that his generation could not remember their childhoods. How he could not see his dead father in the flesh because five pretentious college students thought they could put an end to slavery. Still, she waited until she heard his light snore reach a crescendo and peeled out of their driveway in his Honda Civic. If everything went as planned he would never know what she and Seren were doing that night.

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before the doors of the chamber opened to the interior of a white sprinter. The girls exited the chamber and popped open the backdoors of the van. They stepped out onto the street in front of Aniyah’s house, yards away from where Skittles would take his last breath in a matter of minutes. Inside, Aniyah sucked marinara sauce from the tips of her fingers, devouring the remains of the box of pizza she shared with her father. She was oblivious to the scene steps away from her front door.

They looked down at their watches. 5:41 p.m. “Are you sure you know what time Skittles died?” Seren asked. “The fucker that hit him rang our doorbell at six o’clock. I gave it maybe five to ten minutes for him to have collected himself before walking to our doorstep.” “So we need to move quickly.” “You already know the plan. You stay here and catch Skittles if you see him run out into the street. I’ll check the perimeter of the house for any open doors or cracked windows. Our job will be so much easier if he is never able to leave the house. Failure or success we meet back here at 5:53 p.m. and get into the chamber.” Seren’s face dropped. “What is it?” “Your dog hates me. He’s not going to jump into my arms for a loving embrace.” “Seren, he is harmless. All you need to do is grab him, place him on the porch, and lock the gate." Seren’s face did not brighten. “If I make good time with securing the house you may not even be the one that has to pick him up.” Aniyah paused and let out a flash of bright light, “So you’re good?”

“Great.” She looked down at her watch. 5:45 p.m. Aniyah raced to the back of her house. 5:46 p.m. Seren wrung her hands as she peered along the street for the small black smear that was Skittles. She thought it best not to move from her position behind the van before she saw him, fearful of

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“I’m good.”

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killing an ant in her haste and causing a ripple effect. She raised the back of her hand to her forehead and wiped the beads of sweat birthed by the humidity. The breeze that spread the strands of the palm trees sprinkled between each house did nothing to relieve her discomfort. She looked up at the sky. A mass of gray clouds looked back at her, the sun’s shape hidden. Dragonflies circled the air above her and gnats said their greetings in anticipation of rainfall. Seren swatted wildly, letting out sputters of spit as gnats wandered into her mouth. It was when she looked up that she saw a black smear make its way across Aniyah’s front yard. 5:47 p.m. Aniyah approached her backyard with the agility of a feline. She methodically tested every exit for vulnerability. Shut. She thought back to the utter confusion she and her dad felt after having a dripping wet teenage boy tell them that their dog lay dead in the street, his distraction by an incoming notification what allowed his red Mercedes to merge with black. There was no way Skittles could have gotten out. He had a habit of panicking as he heard the opening notes of a thunderstorm, so they kept every door closed. But he died that day. She ransacked her mind for an idea of what detail she could have missed, what Skittles sized hole he could have slipped through unbeknownst to her. “Oh my god!” she exclaimed, “The guest room window.” Her dad had left it cracked after applying a fresh coat of seafoam green to the walls that evening. It was on the ground floor, with a weak hop Skittles could have come out the other side. She kept her head down and made her way to the left side of the house, facing her neighbors’ swimming pool. She reached the guest room window before shutting it emphatically, her body washed with such a wave of relief that she did not make note of the noise. The symptoms of her trip around the house caught up with her. She took a moment to catch her breath, placing her palms on her knees and letting the sweat that collected at her forehead run down the bridge of her nose and fall into the grass. She felt a drop of rain kiss the root of a boxed braid. 5:48 p.m.

5:50 p.m. Aniyah needed to make her way back to the van. If she had not just saved Skittles, then he was in Seren’s arms. She wiped the moisture from her palms onto her jeans and took a step forward before a rap on the guest room window made her instinctually turn. She met the wide eyes of herself. 5:51 p.m.

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Seren had never run so fast in her life. She was breathless. They had five minutes left to save Skittles and she could not bear to endure another week of Aniyah’s despair. She scooped at the spot she last saw the black smear and came back with empty arms. He was now to her left. She lunged and fell to the ground chest first, the pain in her breasts dismissed by the intensity of her frustration. Skittles stood in front of her. His teeth bared in the most menacing expression he could muster, every part of his eight-inch stature positioned to intimidate her. With little thought, she snatched him up. He responded by clamping his jaw on the space between her thumb and forefinger. She released him from her hold, in shock. A trail of red licked her forearm as the black smear made its escape.

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Seren was running around like a headless chicken, drops of blood marking her every step. She tripped on her shoelaces, scraping the skin of her knee on the concrete sidewalk before picking herself back up and making chase again. She could not let Skittles out of her sight. Now she was running on tarred pavement, desperate to catch Skittles before he was gone for good. 5:53 p.m. Aniyah returned to the front of her house crazed. She had just committed what she imagined to be the cardinal sin of time travel. She scanned the corner for Seren before seeing her spindly brown figure running full-speed after what looked to be Skittles, a stream of kinky curls following her every move. She watched as Seren dived for Skittles, straightening up with him pressed to her chest, a growl his only means of resistance. Seren did a victory dance in the street. Aniyah could not help but be amused, but time was running out. She had begun to make her way to her friend when a red Mercedes beat her there. A scream died in the back of her throat as a sound of thunder cracked above, the downpour finally making landfall.

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BY ARIELLE WILLIAMS I awoke to the moon To the shining heat of white light And her hazy glow She looks like a dream Far away, distant, captivating To her I will go With hurried steps that trail behind her image The tears are hot as they prick my tired eyes But there is no question No hesitation in my weary shadow Moonlight drips from star filled beams And milky ways seem to follow Like the rest of us My scratched throat bears no more words of your eminence Simply, I cannot live without the cool touch of your vision Blinding yet guiding me to where I need to be My moon, my moon I gaze upon your facade and I cannot return my regard How have you encapsulated me? Stolen me from my mother planet with only a simple glance? My tongue goes dry My stance sways weak You inch further from me with each waking second But these tired eyes succumb to your pull And you lull me to sleep once more Again the twilight swift with her daily heist

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BY NYAH HARDMON Caught me caught up in catching caught stuff I had already let go, sis. Caught up. As in caught up. Caught up in this haze of love. This dizzying daze of love. This thing he says is love. Caught up like sunny skies, degrees 95, careful baby this heat can burn you alive. Caught up like heat stuck on fabric stuck on skin stuck on bench. Caught up like instead of getting out I just get deeper in. This be that dangerous love. Contagious love. Love warm. Summer nights. And warm. Love bites. He was warm. Being round baby felt like spring. His palms, I bloomed. Warm love burn quick. Burn warm. Suffocation warm. Self deprecation warm. Burn deep. Burn warm. Warm like love rain turned into hurricane. Like caught up in the pain of love. This dizzying daze of love. Weathered, tethered nothin like the forecast predicted love—You sure you call this love?

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MY ONE HAND HOLDING TIGHT MY OTHER HAND;

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BY MICHAEL MCCLURE Who were you? I want to demand. Who are you? In sepia my father, my mother smile out from the Boardwalk, Atlantic City, on their honeymoon in 1946. His caption fades. He wears his Lieutenant Commander’s uniform, my mother a mid-thigh-length fur coat. His face says, “I am” and hers, “I am beautiful.” How could he answer, striding in an unknown, unknowable world? In my mind, father, you say, “You’re smart. Figure it out.” My mother just smiles.

STERLING NOTES

Rain on a Connecticut pond, Sunday, dawn, I am five, you and I fish, launching yellow-belly lures. You tied one on my line for me. I like watching the pattern of craters the heavy drops carve in the surface of the water. Your knees crackle. You say, “The rain will hide us from the fish.”

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Your pride I knew, your fear I can only begin to imagine. You sat at the head of the table and poured wine, very good wine, with all the right wine talk. I was allowed a taste; I got to feel electricity radiating from your “I am.” Under a steam tent, when I had bronchitis at age three, you invented stories– they felt the same as the hot moist medicated vapor we both breathed– about feeling the forest, building barriers against the wilderness, against lions, elephants, against your unshaven kisses that hurt so perfectly, against the fear of disappearing.

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BY JANA ROSS

This is a selective dying

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His body is a magnificence to me His face I crave His beauty is a mountain I could never scale I want to enter him like Jonah did the whale The curve of his thigh no carved marble could resemble I am at the mercy of his fingers His protruding hills as arms are brown like Mother Earth I think I’m beginning to understand why worshippers go to church The beauty of his lips I tremble before He does not believe me when I say I am water before him Swelling, spilling over Feeling weak with lust and sick with desire I feel powerful when I kiss him Like a giant emerges from the cave of my chest and is ravenous And I grow bigger in my climax I forget about the past His eyes hold me and grip me by the shoulders The warmth he leaves inside of me Outwits the sun I rock back and forth on his body, That motion alone could kill boulders This mount Zion stretches my ego over the sky Until I am the goddess of beauty returned to die And with this body twisting over him I tugged from his spine those three words And laughed loudly at his tenderness But what escaped from my mouth was not just my gaiety My heart fluttered away like a flock of birds

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BY NYAREETA GACH Tell me beloved Have you been weeping silently? Hoping you catch a teardrop As each cascades down the mounds of your cheeks to your chapped lips, Waterfalls slipping under your pressed chin Where can you go to hide this mourning? Swallowing and Crushing So heavy you lay on your side Half-faced down on a pillow you hold tightly Gripping on with hopes of smothering this pain, this wickedness Your cheeks feel dewy and wet You been weeping for hours beloved Nesting in agony By day you mercy on with grace Strength dost not lay Your shoulders are swollen from this rock A pebble of their memory could trip you Yet you refuse to fall Weep beloved, tears wash, tears cleanse Weep and call for me, for us, for family This rock will take many to lift Love did not leave you.

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BY OMARI FOOTE i am left floating under the surface with all my troubles to keep me company as if God is punishing me for daring to attempt survival without him for refusing to drown in holy water but taking a bite of what the devil threw out for breakfast but even though this be punishment i still float, in an ocean that i should’ve drowned in so, i guess this is all to say that me and God are on the same page just in different books he’s moved on to new testaments while i’m stuck on old habits i guess this is to say i need to see the burning bush i guess this is to say i could never be daniel when i’m too much like david i guess this is to say God blessed them both so i guess this is to say thank God

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BY MULU BAYE Rage is a beautiful thing In spite of the harshest cold it keeps me toasty I think it is beginning to reign over me Some see that as a burden, but don’t you see? Rage is my only company

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COME CELEBRATE WITH ME THAT EVERYDAY SOMETHING HAS TRIED TO KILL ME AND HAS FAILED.

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BY SOLOMON BROOKS i was sunrise walking and i was not otherwise. Or where i would be But among the trees and passing the liquor store and passing the man who had dimes of the diesel When i was passing the liquor store among the trees and passing the man who had dimes of the diesel and i won’t make a hedonic judgement on the badness Or goodness of it all But damn it! i was there. I am— there.

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BY JANA ROSS His passions burn on a low kitchen flame He showed me his heart again and again And I rolled over in my grave And was resurrected with joy I heard the sound of his heartbeat guide me to the city I stopped amongst Spanish moss and southern humidity We were drawn from our birthplace To meet in what used to be a mass cemetery And my broken bones know this And the pain in his flesh knows this We are collecting paintbrushes and memories To patch together this city, To make sure it can never repeat what it used to be With his life And my death We draw circles in the sky Rewind time Find its old pain And apply the salve of our colors, Mend the wounds with our words The brewing of our healing permeates the streets For years he’s been cooking a feast for us to eat

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BY DAPHNE C.A. DADZIE

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BY DÁSEAN CLARK

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CON TEST WIN NER

BY AINGHKU ASHEMU

The firewood hissed and crackled, scattering bright, glowing embers against the cave walls. Kiv unpacked what few supplies he had onto the stone floor: a dagger, bow and arrow, a bed sack, flint, steel, and a torch. Traveling through the Yuki’Onna mountains, one had to make sure to pack lightly or run the risk of dying from exhaustion in the midst of the snowy wasteland. Most people avoided the land altogether, preferring the month-long trip around it than to hazard its perilous terrain. Many claimed the land to be cursed, full of man-eating creatures and evil spirits that sought to devour the souls of travelers. Kiv didn’t believe these tales—silly stories crafted by mothers to scare children. He was no longer a child frightened by false spirits. There were only men and beasts, and both could bleed. He pulled closer to the fire, wrapping his wolf's pelt tighter around himself and taking out the little dried fruit that marked the last of his food rations. The year’s harvest had been a failure. Most of the crops were struck with a mysterious blight that made them fatal to any creature who consumed them. Only the rice and animals who had not eaten the poisoned crops were spared, and with winter fast approaching, the village was quickly thrust into a state of famine. Not willing to slowly die of starvation like the rest, Kiv ignored the warnings made by the villagers and entered the mountains in search of food. Three sunrises had come and gone since he left and entered the mountains, and he had still yet to find anything, man, beast, or spirit. In fact, he had seen no animals whatsoever, finding the mountain to be an endless stretch of dead trees, snow, and silence. He saw no dirt, no leaves; just stone and ice. And though always cold, he never felt a breeze on the mountain. In the midst of nature he hadn’t seen or felt any movement, any life. It was as if the very land had long ago ceased to breathe.

Springing up, it took a second for his eyes to adjust. The fire had died down significantly, with only a few glowing pieces left to struggle against the wind that blew in. Kiv looked to the entrance to see that it was now snowing heavily, the world outside shielded behind a veil of white. He felt his stomach groan and wondered how long he had been resting; there was no way to tell the time through the thick clouds that now blotted the sky. The wailing began again as the wind picked up, the ancient trees bending under its force. As

STERLINGNOTESHU

He gazed at the faint orange glow of the setting sun through the skeletal arms of the trees, slowly nibbling on the dried fruit as if it would make it more filling. Despite being his reason for entering the mountains in the first place, he found no food and was likely to starve if he didn’t find any food before the sun set tomorrow. Pushing the thought from his mind, Kiv spread the bed sack beside the fire and climbed inside; he would catch something come morning. He had to. –––––– He awoke to the sound of wailing. It was low, agonized, and unlike any sound a living creature was capable of—like that of thousands of souls drowning beneath icy white water. It awoke a fear from deep within him, ancient and primal; those felt by prey in the final moments of being cornered.

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hungry as he was, Kiv decided there was little chance of catching anything in such weather and decided to rekindle the fire and return to sleep. Placing new wood unto the fireplace, he set a new blaze. As he lay down, a large shadow glided past the cave’s entrance, beyond the curtain of snow. Kiv leaped to his feet, crouched on his haunches, ready to run or fight. “What was that?” he wondered, “a monster? A demon?” before quickly chastising himself for his juvenile thoughts. It was probably just a deer. He had no right to call himself a man if all it took was a little bit of wind and shadow to shake him. If what he saw was a beast, then like all creatures it was made of blood and flesh. Food. He placed his torch into the fire, the oil-soaked rag catching quickly. Placing his dagger into his belt, he grabbed his bow and quiver and stepped into the howling wind to search for signs of the animal. –––––– Reaching the spot where he spotted the creature, Kiv was unable to spot any tracks in the snow. The snowfall had somehow gotten heavier in the short time he had left the cave. Perhaps it covered the beast’s tracks? Kiv glanced up at the faint orange glow that signified the entrance to his cave and considered returning. No. It had taken him three days to find any animals and if there was indeed a blizzard starting, his only chance was to find the beast was now, before the snow-covered all signs of its existence. Pulling his cloak tightly against himself, he quickly made his way towards where he saw the beast run. Always making sure that he was in sight of the cave’s entrance, his eyes strained to find any sign of the beast in the darkness, the wind’s eerie wailing shutting out all other sounds. Just like the last three days, the land seemed bereft of life. The cave’s glow getting fainter the further he traveled, Kiv considered turning back. Then the shadow appeared in front of him! A dark blur in the bright snow, it seemed to glide atop the surface, darting between trees with ease and grace. Kiv’s instincts screamed to flee, to run to the cave without looking back. Gripping his bow tightly, he followed the figure, hoping the howling tempest would mask the sounds of his pursuit. He chased the creature, struggling to get in range to shoot it, but it proved too fast, too nimble. It paused periodically, waiting till just before he caught up before setting off again. As though it were aware of his presence, leading him somewhere. The chase began to drag on, the muscles of his arms and legs burning from the strain of keeping up. Suddenly the figure paused again, turning around to face him. And charged.

Drawing his dagger, he turned to face the figure’s charging form. As the shadow reached him, he desperately struck out at the creature, hoping to at least wound it before it killed him. His dagger met empty air as the shadow vanished, its form simply melted into the swirling blizzard winds. Kiv stood still for a moment, chest heaving as he struggled to breathe again, amazed that he was still alive, yet uncomprehending as to how. His stomach gave a deep groan, waking him from

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Forgetting the beast had been his objective, instinct seized Kiv’s body. Dropping his torch, he turned to flee from the charging creature, the deep snow making it nearly impossible for him to move. Though the creature made no sound, he could feel its presence behind him, gaining ground. Realizing he couldn’t outrun it, he was left with only one other choice. Fight.

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his stunned state and reminding him that his last hope of food had just blown away into the wind. Kiv sank to his knees and let out a cry of frustration. Defeated, he turned to head back and found that he could no longer spot the fire’s glow from the cave. He must have lost track of the cave’s entrance during the chase with the beast! Looking down, Kiv was astonished to find the snowstorm had covered both his and the beast’s tracks. The wind picked up once again, blowing snow and ice into his face and filling the air with its tortured howl. Kiv felt himself being erased, swallowed by the white noise. Using his best sense, Kiv picked the direction he believed to be the way to the cave and began running. The heavy blizzard made it so he could hardly see two yards ahead of him—the gale winds slamming into his body, willing him to submit. He continued to push on, determined not to die in a place so cold and desolate as this. Suddenly his foot caught something and he found himself hurtling face-first into the snow. Rising up, he searched for the source of his fall. At first, he saw nothing but snow, but upon looking closer he discovered a small body curled up on the ground. A woman. Her skin was pure white and smooth, and yet somehow cracked underneath, like eggshells beneath ice, and freezing to the touch. A pale blue kimono hung loosely off her shoulders, her face hidden behind a curtain of long midnight hair. Her chest slowly rose and fell with her breath, the only sign that she was still alive. Who was this woman? What was she even doing here? Kiv didn’t know what to do. Should he take her with him? He was already overburdened as it was, and with no food what could he possibly do for her? He didn’t even know the way back to his ca– He spotted it. A faint light beyond the swirling chaos that had swallowed the world. The cave! It had to be. Taking it as a sign, he picked up the woman and placed her on his back, before making his way towards the light. The trek seemed to take an eternity, as he stumbled blindly through the trees, making his way towards the steady light. On a couple of occasions he could swear he felt the woman’s cold arms tighten around his neck, but when he would call out to her, she never responded. Finally reaching the cave, he quickly threw the woman onto his bed sack and fell down beside the fire. Now that he stopped, he felt the ache of his exhausted muscles and wondered if he would be able to rise again. He used up the last of his energy to reach the cave, and with no food, he was likely to perish soon. He heard something shift across the fire.

Her pale blue lips twisting up into a sinister smile as she turned to face him. Her eyes were two hollow pools of obsidian watching him from behind her veil of hair; Kiv’s body froze as when he realized what he had carried into the cave with him. This was no woman. It was the one said to prey upon souls of travelers, summoning blizzard and snowstorms to lead them astray. A beautiful being made of ice and malice that could freeze any man in his tracks with her gaze. The demon that gave these mountains their name. The Woman of the Snow. The Yuki-Onna.

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Looking up he saw the woman’s hunched form slowly rise up, her frost-covered kimono slipping from her shoulders and pooling at her feet. Where the light of the fire hit her skin it seemed to refract as if it were made of crystal. Was he hallucinating? Was she even real?

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Kiv attempted to escape but only made it a few feet away before collapsing again, finding that his tired body no longer responded to him. Gliding around the fire, Yuki-Onna's eyes seemed to swallow the warmth and light from the air. Looking at her, Kiv knew that there had been no beast. That the sudden blizzard had not started by chance, nor was his finding her in the snow. He had been hunted. Kiv’s panic climbed as he struggled to move, his body numbing the longer he gazed into her eyes, losing the feeling in his arms, legs, face, heart. A strong gust of air blew in through the cave’s entrance, extinguishing the fire and casting the cave into darkness. Freezing tears fell down Kiv’s cheeks as he waited helplessly in the dark for the demon to reach him. He felt its delicate hands press lightly against his chest, gliding across till it rested above his heart, before sharply plunging in. Bright spots filled his vision as the demon’s cold hand wrapped around his heart, sucking the warmth from it. An iciness he had never felt spread throughout his body, and a scream of agony wrenched itself from his throat as he felt his soul being forcibly ripped away. He continued to scream as his whole body was consumed by the burning cold sensation as if the Yuki-Onna was pouring ice water through his veins. He felt its flesh begin to crystallize, starting at his feet and moving up over his legs, abdomen, chest, neck. His voice finally choked off as the cold spread over his head, his final cries echoing faintly through the hollow tunnels of his throat before finally being snatched away by the wind.

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Mulu Baye SHE/HER/HERS

Mulu Baye was born and raised in Colorado. She transferred to Howard University in fall of 2020.

Nyah Hardmon SHE/HER/HERS

Nyah Hardmon is a sophomore journalism major at Howard University. In addition to her journalistic pursuits, she is also an award-winning spoken word poet. She explores storytelling in both written and audio forms.

Omari Foote SHE/HER/HERS

Omari Foote is a freshman Communications major at Howard University from Atlanta, GA. They enjoy writing poetry in their free time.

Kyrah Simon SHE/HER/HERS

Nadira Rene SHE/HER/HERS

Nadira Rene is a poet, short story writer and essayist from Pasadena, California. Personal memories and horror stories are amongst her favorite genres, and she recently finished her first horror novel which is set to release in 2021.

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Kyrah Simon is a writer hailing from arguably the worst state in the country, Florida. She is currently in her second year of studying Afro-American Studies and Creative Writing at Howard University. From childhood, Kyrah has had a passion for reading and writing. She primarily writes fiction with an interest in screenwriting for television and film.

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Takier George SHE/HER/HERS

Takier George, or Tak, is a freshman English major at Howard University. She has been a poet for most of her life. She is currently on the D.C. Youth Slam Team and has been a member since 2019.

Acacia Hines SHE/HER/HERS

Acacia Hines is an alumna of Howard University holding a Bachelors degree in psychology from Southern California. Hines has always enjoyed poetry and this will be her first publication.

Solomon Brooks HE/HIM/HIS

Solomon Brooks is a freshman biology major at Howard University. He enjoys making music and writing poetry in his spare time.

Arielle Williams SHE/HER/HERS

Arielle Williams is an aspiring poet and fiction writer who explores black queer love through vivid imagery and authentic portrayals. She hopes to empower black queer youth to find their own voices so that they too can share with the world.

HE/HIM/HIS

DáSean Clark holds a MA degree in Animation from SCAD and a BFA in animation from East Carolina University. He enjoys animating and drawing in and outside the classroom. His artwork can be seen on the instagram page @Daseanimation.

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DáSean Clark

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Jana Ross Jana Ross is a sophomore English major at Howard University. They are interested in poetry, sewing, and yoga.

Kyndal Fletcher SHE/HER/HERS

Kyndal Fletcher is a graduating senior English major, Spanish and Secondary Education double minor at Howard University.

Zoë Shelton SHE/HER/HERS

Zoë Shelton is a high school senior committed to Howard University.

Daphne C. A. Dadzie SHE/HER/HERS

Daphne C. A. Dadzie is a third-year architecture major at Howard University from Accra, Ghana. She not only sees herself as a future architect, but as a photographer, poet, and playwright as well.

HE/HIM/HIS

Michael McClure teaches writing and literature at Virginia State University and lives with his wife Rebecca and their Yorkipoo Furgus in Petersburg, Virginia. He is the co-author of a textbook on world mythology, Myth and Knowing (McGraw Hill), and, under the pseudonym Frank McArthur, a post-apocalyptic novel, 2020: A Novel (Kindle). A core belief in his writing (and his life) is that stories are the cause and the result of all human activity. In the end, all we get are stories, strange as they may (must) be.

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Michael McClure

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Nyareeta Gach SHE/HER/HERS

Nyareeta Gach is a South Sudanese contemporary painter and poet. Her work reflects repressed trauma and personal experiences of war culture. The Artist resides and is based in Brooklyn, New York.

Kamala Kenny SHE/HER/HERS

Kamala Kenny is a first-year Human Performance major, chemistry minor at Howard University from Daegu, South Korea. She currently lives in Warner, Robins Georgia. She wants to become a pediatrician and enjoys making art in her free time.

Aingkhu Ashemu HE/HIM/HIS

Aingkhu Ashemu is a 21-year-old English Major at Howard University. He is enamored with storytelling and mythology, which first expressed itself to him in short stories, but over time has expanded to audio dramas, poetry, and podcasts. He currently resides in Denver, Colorado.

Carolyn Williams SHE/HER/HERS

Carolyn Williams is from Glen Burnie, Maryland and has been writing poetry since she was young. Carolyn is the captain of the Howard University Women’s Bowling Team.

HE/HIM/HIS

Tommy Lawrence is a senior political science major, secondary education minor at Howard University from Adelanto, California. He has been writing poetry and short fiction for several years. Tommy finds writing to be the perfect medium to create worlds, explore his feelings, and have a great time.

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Tommy Lawrence

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Gabi Montgomery SHE/HER/HERS

Gabi Montgomery was born and raised in Dallas, Texas. She is a now graduate of Howard University with a bachelors degree in English. She served as the President of the Sterling Allen Brown English Society and Editor in Chief of Sterling Notes for two years. She is a past UC-HBCU research fellow and current Plympton literary fellow. Gabi is a lover of literary fiction and poetry that investigates community and self within black and queer spaces. She especially appreciates literature that holds a speculative lens. She also enjoys silly reality TV, walking her dog, and riding bikes in California. She has spent her pandemic year interning with Grove Atlantic as an editorial intern.

Breara Hollis SHE/HER/HERS

Lauren Simone Holley SHE/HER/HERS

Lauren Simone Holley is a Washington, DC-based writer and editor. As an undergraduate, she studied English with a creative writing concentration at Howard University. At Howard, she served as a co-editor of the university's literary magazine Sterling Notes and Vice President of the Sterling Allen Brown English Society for two years. She is a fiction writer and her work has appeared in Emerge Literary Journal, Litbreak Magazine, and elsewhere.

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Breara Hollis graduated from Howard University with a bachelors degree in English: Creative Writing. Breara served as the Treasurer of the Sterling Allen Brown English Society and co-editor of Sterling Notes for two years. She is a fiction and poetry writer who enjoys writing in nature. In her free time she enjoys crocheting for her shop, The Crochet District. Some of Breara's areas of interests include: astrology, music, cognitive and developmental psychology, as well as yoga and meditation.

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Lacey Johnson THEY/THEM/THIERS HE/HIM/HIS

Lacey Johnson is a junior pursuing a degree in sociology with a minor in English. He is primarily a writer of short fiction and nonfiction personal essays with an interest in telling stories about and for people who share his intersections. They have work published in Dead Fern Press and Miniskirt Magazine. They are based out of Baltimore, Maryland.

Esther Okossi SHE/HER/HERS

Esther Okossi is a graduating senior at Howard University majoring in English and double minoring in secondary education and history. She was born and raised in the suburbs of Chicago before moving to Teaneck, New Jersey with her family. In her free time she enjoys reading, writing short stories, spending time with her family, trying out new cooking recipes, and dancing. She is currently working on a book set to release in Summer 2021.

Dr. Sean Pears HE/HIM/HIS

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Sean Pears is a Lecturer in the Howard English Department. His academic research focuses on literature and rhetoric in the United States, with a focus on poetry during the Reconstruction era. He has published articles in The Arizona Quarterly, The Emily Dickinson Journal, and elsewhere.

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