Vol. 2, Issue 17

“It was the day before the shooting, and the people we’d met from Knoxville had left Charleston that morning—the city where hate was already hardened into bullets and waiting like ice in a freezer tray. We shrugged off Uncle Jimmy’s stories believing—wrongly, as white folks are prone to—that his ways of thinking were old.“

From Carrie Meadows’s Essay “A Few Hours From Charleston”

Dead Horse Point | Visual Art

Dead Horse Point | Visual Art

“I like edges and things that already exist. I like building things and I like composition, patterns, palettes, visual rhythms. The right combos make me happy. I make collages to take me out of my writerly head and sit me down in a new milieu. I try not to get...
A Few Hours from Charleston | Nonfiction

A Few Hours from Charleston | Nonfiction

The day before a white supremacist murdered members of the Emanuel A.M.E. Church in Charleston, my husband and I traveled to St. Helena Island, South Carolina. We sat on separate rows in the wooden chairs of Penn Center’s presentation room, chairs folks cleared of...
Black Demon | Fiction

Black Demon | Fiction

Baja believed in Megalodons like she believed in Jesus Christ; after all, one lurked in her pallid, Sapphic waters. She kept her head in the southern waters, a compulsion brought on by fear. The other cities sat, land-locked and said, “My love, you have nothing to...

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