Edited by Ruquayya Sajjida

Death. That sorry star.

I will not have it

tonight.

Bright as it is,

It does not lure me,

I can sit in an unlit hotel room

with a suitcase full

of pears and spider webs,

humming the same song.

Tirelessly.

Tirelessly.

A tiny ornament

hunt, turning

and sparkling

in my skull.

Like a circle

drawn in the sand,

There’s no touching it.

James Champion (he/him/his) is from Whitehall, Michigan. He graduated from Central Michigan University with an MA in Creative Writing in 2019. He currently works as a cashier at a home improvement store. He likes skiing, walking, travelling. In other words, he is frightened of stillness. However, he is also enthralled by it. This balance might well be an accurate summation of his writing.

Drawn was originally published in Raptor Lit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

A beat-sheet is a template that screenwriters use to outline the structure and characters of a screenplay. Today, I would like to breakdown the major beats of a little indie movie titled “Death of a Black Queer Boy.” Enjoy!

Act 1

1. Protagonist- Let’s call him Jamal, a young black gay boy who loves to dance, act, and write poetry. Typical for a flashy queer kid, right?

2. Objective- Like most queer black boys, Jamal wants to live and survive in a world that believes he’s dangerous for being black, but also a freak of nature for being queer; hatred on both ends of his identity. He wants to show the world that his character goes beyond his skin color and who he sleeps with by pursuing his art and telling his story. At the same time, he would also love to win the attention and love from another boy who isn’t “out” yet.

3. Antagonist- Who isn’t an enemy in this case??? When every story about a trans or queer getting brutalized or killed every day on the news appears, every day feels like a fight with the devil. We could blame the religious Grandparents for hating that their grandson is feminine. Or the mother who knows about his son’s sexuality but doesn’t defend him when he yells at him for “acting like a girl”; playing with dolls instead of playing football and not acting like the man he was named after. “No son of mine is gonna taint my name by acting like a bitch.” Homophobia is too abstract that permeates in the actions of all the supporting players such as teachers, parents, and classmates. For this piece, we’ll boil down the villain to the closeted, famous football player, Jamal’s crush, Eric. Eric is always down to get his nut in with Jamal in the boy’s locker room but will never associate with him outside of sex. Eric is aware of how Jamal is attracted to him and exploits on those feelings by telling him how pretty he is, or how he’ll promise to take him on a “secret date” that’ll never happen, but will always call him up when he wants his dick sucked.

4. Mentor- Who are the mentors for black and queer boys? Unfortunately, not many. If the mother weren’t under the bigoted thumb of the homophobic father, she would be great. Still, boys like Jamal often have to turn to social media: other queer celebrities and icons that have the confidence and privilege to express themselves and be themselves on display. An opportunity Jamal wished to have. English and art teachers tell him to ignore his bullies or notify the administrators about them, but Jamal knows they can only do so much. Perhaps if Jamal had a proper mentor, this story wouldn’t end so tragically.

5. Flaw- I suppose Jamal’s inner weakness is a lack of confidence in his ability to be seen, to perform, and share his perspectives with the world. Despite loving the arts, Jamal has a fear of performing in front of others because of what they’ll say or do.

6. Inner need- What Jamal needs is love from the people around him. Jamal needs validation for his identity. Jamal needs guidance for a stable social life and better coping mechanisms for when he feels depressed.

7. Setting/Normal world- Jamal lives in a world where gender norms are strictly enforced, determined at birth, and as a spectrum of many colors, but instead is seen as two binary colors: pink and blue.

Act 2

8. Enticing incident- Okay, the stage is all set, and the story begins. At age 15, Jamal decides it’s time to come out on FaceBook, and even though for some this merely a confirmation of something they already knew, some were still shocked and disgusted.

9. Response- Jamal by himself responds only in kind to the bullying and taunts he’s been receiving, even before coming out, from the dumb straight students and the judgemental eyes from some of the teachers.

10. Call to action- Jamal knows that if he can get Eric to come out with him. At the very least, he won’t feel like the lone gay kid in school, but he’s also aware of Eric’s reputation among their classmates.

11. Friends- Jamal has few friends, and most of them are girls and mostly supportive of his coming out. Jamal used to have more guy friends before they stopped talking to him as if a gay germ was going to spread onto them. Beyond dance, theatre, and school, Jamal doesn’t hang out with many. He would love to go to sleepovers if the parents didn’t freak out over “why this boy wants to be around so many girls” despite the inherent “gaydar” that everyone claims to have.

12. Obstacles- Everything is against this boy that wants to be an artist: A homophobic school environment, homophobic parents, and other friends straight or otherwise who step up to defend him. The fight for normalcy alone is enough for Jamal to think that maybe the Christians are right; maybe God does hate him.

Act 3

13. The Ultimate test- Jamal is going to tell Eric off for avoiding him in his time of need. When they finally meet-up, Eric leans in for a kiss.

14. Resolution- Jamal puts his foot down and tells Eric that he wants commitment and a steady relationship. Eric says, “I’m not a faggot like you. I want my dick sucked!” Jamal says, “You didn’t say that last week,” Eric says. “You’re a faggot! Not me” and runs off, leaving Jamal all alone.

15. Final fight- Eric blocked Jamal’s number. The few friends Jamal have don’t know what to do but believe he’ll be okay. His dad smacks him for being a “faggot,” his mom watches. Jamal tries to fight his feelings of worthlessness but feels so lonely, and the darkness closes in on him as blood streams from the veins on his wrist.

16. Rebirth- Normally, this is the part of the movie where we have our main character summarize what they’ve learned from all the previous events, but we’re going to subvert expectations by not showing any progress. Jamal didn’t learn anything, or he learned that the world wasn’t suited for him if he did. This lesson of discovering a world that hates him is assessed by his cold, bleeding, and lifeless body found on the bed. If a queer black kid feels as if the world doesn’t love him, to the point where they kill themselves without a note…that should tell you something. That should tell you enough.

Credits.

James Quinn is a Louisville native writing and teaching English to inspire others to express themselves, and tell stories. Mr. Quinn writes poems about genre fiction stories, and about his thoughts on the evolving and chaotic world around him. He discovered a knack and a need to write during his undergrad program at Spalding University, and strives to tell and write stories from multiple mediums. So far as a writer, he has published two chapbooks collections The Undergrad: The Mis-Education of James Quinn, and Time and Time Again.

James Quinn is also a massive nerd who reads comic books, genre fiction, and manga, and often writes about his thoughts on his blog site titled “Ebony Geek Thoughts”; a site where he discusses “geek culture” through his own lens as a queer African American.

Beat-sheet: Death of a Black Queer Boy was originally published in Raptor Lit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Written by David McConico

Edited by Aniria Williams, Ruquayya Sajjida, and Kaleb Knowles

When I tell you this story you’re probably not going to believe me at first. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if you thought I were crazy, however I swear on everything I love that this story is true. Just please to listen ok? My name is Blaze Smith, not the most original name I know, thanks mom for that one. I’m an archeologist of some renown and it’s a modest occupation, but that’s beside the point. Every year I usually have to take a trip to some god forsaken dig site or ruin in order to uncover pieces of lost history left behind by our ancestors. Please don’t misunderstand me. I absolutely love my work, it’s just after staring at dirt or a decaying wall for more than 72 hours you start to miss the comforts of your home.

My last trip, however was… special to say the least which is why I’m telling you this now. I was traversing the wilds of Havana forest in Cuba, on an expedition with about thirty other people. We were looking for the bones of a rare species of dinosaur and so far the dig site was bearing no fruit. I decided to go on a nature walk to take a break from the hours of sifting through dirt. I didn’t go far, I was following a trail not far from the campsite we had erected. I was eating grapes and had just turned down a path I thought would lead to a creek we’d seen earlier when I discovered it. A ruin of a magnificent castle just sitting in the middle of a meadow as though it had been there the whole time we’d been digging.

I had to rub my eyes a few times just to make sure the grapes weren’t spiked with something and I was on some sort of acid trip. The outside was vined and decayed with tendrils of foliage wrapping around its walls and yet I felt a mysterious pull towards it. I hesitated at first surely I shouldn’t go investigating this place on my own without any back up, however my curiosity got the better of me and before I knew it I was standing right in front of the castle doors.

I pushed on the behemoths thinking they wouldn’t open, but with a loud creak and a dust cloud that nearly killed me they moved aside only just barely for a person to squeeze through. I entered into the great hall expecting a broken down building, but when I looked around that’s when I truly believed I must be high. The inside was completely intact, as though people still lived there and if someone suddenly came down the grand staircase that lay before me I wouldn’t have been surprised or so I thought.

I hesitated at first, but then began to cross the marble floor when a breeze suddenly ruffled my hair from nowhere, and then she appeared in front of me. Just for a moment I was frozen unable to move, then I found myself running towards the door, my voice locked in my throat and smacking my head against its frame a second later. I hadn’t noticed the doors had closed behind me when I squeezed through just moments ago. Breath Blaze you got this is, is all I could think as I turned back to the woman who looked like she was holding back a laugh and doing a poor job of hiding it.

After a few seconds of deep breathing and re-centering myself I began to notice the woman more clearly. She was an anomaly to say the least, she was old and yet looked so young at the same time. Her silver hair was vibrant like a sparkling meadow and her eyes were the brightest shade of green I’d ever seen. Not to mention she was one of, (if not in fact) the most beautiful woman I’d ever laid eyes on. She smiled at me and after regaining my composure I croaked out “Who… who are you?” She chuckled softly and said in a sweet voice “It’s been some time since anyone alive would know who I am.”

I swallowed hard and said “If that’s the case then go on then. Tell me.” She paused in thought for a moment as I gazed nervously at her then she chuckled again and said “I suppose it’s about time…” I waited with baited breath as she waved her hand and suddenly I found myself in a chair. I stiffened and looked down, it was made of vines so finely laced no crafter in the modern world could copy it. I noticed then a chair had been conjured for herself as well and she sat facing me with intrigue.

“Tell me… who are you?” she asked. “The name’s Blaze” is all I could muster. Silence followed as she continued to stare at me as though examining my soul. Then she cracked a grin that nearly broke me with how beautiful she seemed surely I was starting to go mad. “Yes, you’re the one I’ve been waiting for. I’ll tell you about this place and myself if you’ll listen?” I nodded and averted my gaze not being able to look her in the eyes. “My name is Ezmera, and a long time ago I was the queen of this entire island. The world was a much different place back then, and well… peace was always a fleeting thing.” “I’m sorry, but that’s kinda hard to believe given I’ve never heard of you and no history books of Cuba I know of mention a Queen Ezmera.” I said.

“It’s alright, they call this island Cuba now? Well it’s a nice name, though I assure you I’m telling the truth. The people here wouldn’t know of me anyway… I made sure of that.” Ezmera sighed looking sad. “Say I do believe this, how’d you make people forget you existed and why for that matter?” She smiled softly at me and said “Well… It kinda started the day I was born…”

******

BOOM! “You dirty dogs won’t even know what hit you when I’m through with you!” The sound of battle could be heard raging around a village along the coast of an island. In a gray hut about 60 yards from one of the outer battles a woman lay in bed, next to a healer having just given birth to a baby girl. “If you think I’ll die like some animal then your wron-! Gah!” A man fell, throat slit open by an assailant who was charging toward their next victim. “She’s so calm, wait until your father sees you I…I think it will be alright” said the woman wearily.

“The baby’s from strong stock miss, but given the circumstances…” the male healer trailed off coughing. “Corrin, thank you for all you’ve done.” the woman clasped Corrin’s shoulder smiling. BOOM! The floor below them shook slightly as the battle waged on outside. The door to the hut suddenly burst open and a man carrying a sword with blood on his shoes, came in wheezing from exhaustion. “Honey! Are you alright?” exclaimed the woman. “I’m…fine, damn those bastards!” the man said, regaining some breath.

“Do you need some water sir?” Corrin asked while walking over to the man. “Ah Corrin, no no I’m alright. How was the birth of my son?” At this both Corrin and the woman exchanged looks. “Honey your…daughter Ezmera is healthy and strong!” The woman gave a strained smile and the man froze. Then he grinned dropping his sword and rushed over to his wife and daughter hugging them both. “Well… that’s certainly unexpected,” said Corrin laughing. “I’ve always wanted a daughter. This…complicates things a bit, but this is a joyous occasion.” The woman seeming worried asked, “What are we going to do?”

The man got up and looked from Corrin to his wife then said “Things are changing out there and…It’s time to send you to your people. I’ll stay here and try to fix this mess. Corrin there’s a horse out back. Go take both of them and get the hell out of this village.” “As you wish sir.” said Corrin with a bow. The man picked up his sword and ran out the open door calling back “Be safe, and live!”

On the other side of the village, closest to the bloodiest of combat another baby had just been born around the same time as Ezmera and the mother of the infant was overjoyed with the precious boy. “He’s So Cute!” the woman exclaimed holding the baby close who looked on confused. The healer, a young woman giggled beside them. “But he is! Come now Alice, Suirad is adorable, oh wait until your father sees you!” The woman sighed in contempt as Alice patted the woman’s hand saying “Will you calm down please so I can cut the cord.”

She moved to do so when they heard a shout from outside. “Alice, get my wife and son out of here quickly, there isn’t much time!” Alice froze and looked at the woman whose color seemed to go whiter than it already was. “Please hurry! Haaaa, who’s next?!” “We… must go, Alice!” Alice swiftly cut the two ends of the cord as the woman got to her feet and they both made their way to the back of the hut where a man stood waiting for them.

“Thank the gods! There’s no time quickly you must go.” “What’s happened?” is all the woman could muster as fear crept inside her. BOOM! A burst of flames erupted 30 yards away engulfing everything around it. “I have to stay and fight, but I will survive and meet up with you later. Alice, please get the woman I love and my son to the Doku tribe, the chief owes me one so you’ll be safe.” The man walked over and hugged all three of them. He let go quickly and rushed away saying “Be safe, I swear we’ll meet again!” “The horse must have ran away in fear from this bloodshed. We have no choice but to proceed on foot. We… must go, Alice, before someone notices us.” The woman began the swiftest pace she could away from the village as Alice followed, supporting the woman when need be.

They walked as quickly as they could and were about 2 miles away from the village when there was a rustle in the trees and emerged a man grinning menacingly, licking a dagger. “Well hello there my pretties… now where do two young lasses such as yourselves, think you’re going this late at night?” Before either woman could react there was a rustle in the trees and a second later Corrin sprang from the shadows knocking the assailant out with the hilt of a sword. “Corrin!” they exclaimed happily. “Sorry ladies, I was returning to the village to retrieve something when I saw him skulking around. Are you two alright?” They nodded. “You’re leaving aren’t you? Well, it’ll be best if I accompany you. I just helped someone else escape this hell hole.”

“It would be appreciated.” said the woman. Suirad slumbered soundlessly in her arms and Alice smiled reassuringly. They continued along the path and about an hour later the fiery glow of the village was a pinprick to them. They were passing a meadow when a bird swooped down on them carrying a letter. The woman untied it and the bird soared off back into the air. “It’s from my husband, oh I do hope he’s alright.” Upon opening the scroll a white mist erupted from within enveloping the woman and Suirad. The woman fell back as Alice caught her and the baby shocked.

“From the looks of it… it’s a forget mist” said Corrin, picking up the note that had fallen from the woman’s grasp. Corrin read aloud “I’m sorry to do this my love, but it’s better this way in order for you and our son to live a better life. Know that I will always love you both and wish you the best.” “Oh no… I hate that this is happening.” said Alice with tears in her eyes. Corrin sighed saying “Thus is the life of those controlled by fate.” “Well Spoken.” Came a voice from behind them.

They turned to find a short old woman had appeared with a smile on her face. She looked young and yet for some reason old as well, both Corrin and Alice were astonished at her presence. “The poor dears that spell is an incomplete one, but I can fix that.” The old woman waved her hands and the mist left both the baby and the woman’s pours, then re-entered as a clearer substance. “There, now they’ll know nothing of the true village where they came from. Go on get them to the Doku tribe.” The woman turned and began to walk away.

“Wait! Who are you?” asked Corrin. The old woman chuckled and said “Oh I’m sure you can figure that out, however Corrin know that your daughter Alloura is interlocked with the destiny of a young boy.” “But she’s only 2, and how do you know me?” “Ah and so is he. In time, young one the years will bring this boy forth and he will change the life of your young fledgling healer forever. The boy’s name is Dev by the way.” Corrin made to speak again, but the old woman had vanished into thin air. “I…could that have been Madam Pola? We should keep moving” said Alice. Corrin walked over without a word and picked up the unconscious woman, as Alice held Suirad close and they continued on to the Doku tribe.

Laws- The Beginning! Written by David McConico, Edited by Raptor Lit. was originally published in Raptor Lit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Written by: Taylor Yuen

Edited by: Callie Rowland, Savasia Thompson and Taylor Yuen

Laying down

Flat on my back, staring at the cream colored ceiling

I turn my head to the left and my

Bright blue eyes meet his

When I look into his eyes I see a bright blue sky

On a sunny day and I never want to look away

It can be blinding after a while, but I can’t stop

When I look into his eyes I see a bright blue ocean that shines

Like the cross necklace he gave me on our first date

I remember that day

I never thought that day would’ve led us here

When I look into his eyes I see the bright blue butterflies

Fluttering from inside my stomach

In the beginning I felt nervous, but eventually I broke through

When I look into his eyes I see bright blue stars we gazed at

When we were laying on the dark green grass

That night

My legs were as dry as sandpaper and the

Grass was scratching them

But I couldn’t bring myself to get up

Both of us laid flat on our backs looking up at the sky

Without looking at each other our hands moved

Closer and closer towards each other

Our fingertips touched and I felt chills all over my body

Goosebumps everywhere

As our fingers interlocked the feeling intensified

Was it the brisk air? Or was it him?

He lightly squeezed my hand

I started to squeeze his back

In this moment I felt peace, there was no other place

I’d rather be

In this moment, nothing else existed

It was just us

Hours and hours passed

No words were exchanged, we just laid there

It was so quiet, we could hear the crickets chirp

And hear flies buzz past our ears

At the same time we lifted our heads up

I turned my head left, he turned his head right

“I love you”

Our bright blue eyes locked and at that moment

“I love you too”

I felt like we were the only two people that existed

It’s been almost a year since then and

I still have that feeling every time

He enters a room

And every time say we say “I love you”

It feels like the first time

Taylor Yuen (She/Her) is a young undergraduate writer who attends Spalding University, in the process of getting her Bachelors Degree in Creative Writing. In her free time she enjoys writing poetry and learning about astrology.

When I Look Into His Eyes was originally published in Raptor Lit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

By: Hayden Thompson

Edited by: Stuart Walker, Brandon Cochran, Terry Wilkerson Jr

As I turned into my neighborhood, every hair on my body stood up. My stomach was dropping at record speeds. The ambient music blaring in my car was just turning into white noise as my car began crawling below five mph. My mind was the furthest it ever could be from slowing down, moving from one extreme to the next, allowing me to breathe. The drive to the end of the neighborhood was painfully slow.

I pulled into the driveway, took out the keys, opened the door, and sat there in the cold air. I was shaking, and the rapid thoughts came to a screeching halt, as if the whole world came to look at me, waiting to see how this night would end. Would it be a tearful reconciliation with my family, or will I have to worry about finding a place to sleep for the night?

Slowly I pulled out my phone, and read through my now-muted family group chat.

Me!

Please read.

Confession.pdf

6:37 AM

Mom

We will talk about it when you get home honey.

11:16 AM

Big Sis

We love you bud!

12:45 PM

It’s harrowing just pulling up the family chat. In actuality there was little to be scared of, but the mere act of it, which only had two responses, is enough to put me on edge. Plus the idea of having to talk about it shook me to my core.

Talking has never been my strongpoint. As a kid with ADHD and crippling anxiety, I’ve avoided talking unless forced to. Whenever I begin talking, my mind moves too fast and my words merely can’t keep up, which leads to an ultimately terrible way to come out to a family. I didn’t have the willpower to be physically present in the same room as them, heavens no, so I did what any sane person would do, send the letter to the family group chat before any of them were awake while I hid at my job for a nine hour shift.

Not the best, I know.

Still, the time had come. I put my phone back in my pocket, closed the car door, and marched to the front door of the house I’ve lived in for the last twenty years of my life.

Only to hit my head on a locked door, forced to wait awkwardly for my mom to open it for me. The pressure was overwhelming, my mind was working overtime. While waiting to be let in I couldn’t think of any possible outcome, so I prepared to either dive deeper, or float to the surface and finally breathe again.

___________________________________________________________________

“Just one more question,” my mom had asked the third time in our conversation. I looked up to make what little eye contact I could muster.

“Who is ___?”

I tilted my head in confusion, already lost eye contact. They did read the letter, right, I thought to myself. “Well, ___ is me.” I explained.

“Why do you want to change your name?” My head lowers, eyes obscured by my hair. “You already have a gender neutral name,”

There’s no need to change it.

___________________________________________________________________

I’ve done a lot of thinking since this day, no need no need no need replaying in my mind on a constant loop. I had to ask myself, what does a name mean? What weight does a name carry, is there a reason for changing it? I was lost, constantly waging war in my mind over something as simple as what people call me by. However, after many, many late nights battling my own brain, I’ve come to a conclusion.

To me, a name is everything. A name is the first thing you put forward, a name is your identity, a name is what defines you. It’s not a sign of disrespect to the parents, it’s not simply to defy the norm nor is it just what you do as a trans person, choosing whatever name just because it sounds cool.

To me, my name is superfluous. It is merely a placeholder, a title that I had worn all too long, a weight that causes me to sink further into the abyss. With each and every use of That name, the weight grows ever heavier, and the hurt that runs through my body intensifies. How long, have I carried this name? How much longer must I carry it? When did I notice it was a burden?

To me, my name is like this weight that wraps around my being, constantly stopping me from reaching the surface, only prolonging my stay in this pit of the darkness. Gender neutral or not, that old accursed only serves to remind myself of the painful times, times in which I was alone, times where I cursed myself for not living a “normal” life. Gender neutral or not, the memories associated with that name will never fade, try as I might. There can’t be a me with this name anymore, any memory I try to recall just ends up doing more harm than good, because there’s this voice in my head that won’t stop whispering that’s not you.

That’s not you they’re laughing with, it whispers to me, that’s not the real you. And try as I might, I can’t dispute the voice.

A name is everything. A name is the forefront of one’s identity, it’s what people refer to you as. It’s what allows us to develop memories, for if we were without names, we are nothing more than strangers. Waking up everyday harboring this secret that I locked away deep into the recesses of my heart, trying to tell myself this will be the day, I’m sure of it, only to be bombarded with

“Hey bro”

“That’s a chore for the guys to do”

“It’ll be a guys night out, whatta’ say,”

“You could try being happier ______”

“______, What’s your deal today?”

“Man, grow up.”

I was a stranger to myself at this point. The me whom others referred to me as, and the me that I told myself I was. Who was right, and who was wrong, I asked myself. The restless nights spent buried in my pillow, desperately clawing for a form of answer as to who I was supposed to be , only to realize I was alone.

I was alone only for as long as I harbored both of these names. It was thanks to another sleepless night and a whim that I told one of my friends this secret. They were very sweet about it, and were happy for me for coming out to them. Then they also touched on how stupid I’d been treating it, acting as if this was some sort of “dark secret” I needed to bear, rather then being my life. Then, they finally asked;

“BTW, what is your name?”

“Oh, uh, ___”

“That’s not weird, is it?”

“Nah, think it suits you perfectly.”

A name is so much more than just a title, it’s more than what you call other people. A name is something we carry with us, the second we are brought into this world we are given a name. We carry our memories, our personalities with our names. Our names are associated with our life stories, we carry all our baggage in our name. And that’s what makes it so pivotal for people like me to change our names; to leave this baggage behind. I can barely think of my time as _____ without some feelings of hatred or despair boiling over. Any memory associated with ______ is just me recalling putting on this false front, parading around these two names as if they’re both me.

The chance to discard that name in its entirety is me reaching the surface and taking my first breath of relief after years of drowning. Some may look at it as me running away, but to me, it’s me finally achieving something I’ve wanted to for years, to have an identity. I want to be able to look in the mirror and say, “this is me.” I want my family to say my name and for me to be happy to hear them. I want to be able to be comfortable with myself and not be cloaked in dread every waking second of my life.

So with all due respect, there is absolutely a reason to change my name. And for once, I can say it with full, unbridled confidence.

From, Val Thompson

Val Thompson is an aspiring writer at Spalding University. She writes primarily creative non-fiction pieces and memoirs, though she enjoys just about every genre there is to writing. When she finds herself not stuck behind the screen or battling with her own identity, Val likes to escape with some games or long walks around her quiet neighborhood.

What’s In A Name was originally published in Raptor Lit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

By Ruquayya Sajjida

A woman stands tall in an office. Her lips are spread wide in a snarl of insubordination, her eyes narrowed into small slits, a dash of sweat upon her blackened brow. She raises one hand, each finger folded in except the one in the middle. She’s raising her revolution, raising a fist to say — no, not that she’s giving in — but that she will never submit, giving all new meaning to pièce de resistance. And Scott’s pale white face folds in fear.

At this moment, she is at her most dangerous.

At this moment, she is a storm, a hurricane, a force of nature.

And damn anybody who stands in her way.

Scott lowers his arm, a tendril of her curly, wispy black hair still in his hand.

“Don’t,” she snarls, “touch my hair.” And after observing another black coworker’s outward signs of humiliation, adds, “Fuck you, Scott!”

She is removed from the office. She is sent home, unpaid, for a week. While there, she stirs, brewing up all new plans. At first, she thinks up apologies, a way to tell her boss that she truly ‘did not mean to frighten him.’ But then she wakes from a night of restless sleep and mutters two words, “The fuck?!” That very next morning, she marches down to the office to give him a piece of her damn mind.

Why should she apologize?

Why should she submit?

She remembers each second as if it were happening to her that very moment:

Scott faced her that day, a smirk on his face, one brow raised, a faint dusting of pink to his pale cheeks. And she fumbles. How is she to emerge victorious in the face of this white man’s oppression? He touched her hair, and when his ring got caught in it, he yanked, pulling a few sky-black tendrils free. She snapped and he remarked that her hair wasn’t even truly appropriate for the office setting in the first place, said it was she who should apologize to him.

And as she remembered those minutes of humiliation, which stretched on for hours, days, years, an endless eternity, she felt that rage bubbling up again, a fire-breathing dragon in her belly, gripping her words in her chest and pushing them up and out her mouth like a crashing wave of embers. One of her white coworkers, jollily sneered, “Watch out, she’s rearin’ up!” While another coworker, this one also black, shook their head, raising their hands to calm her, already beaten by the system that called women like Keisha too outspoken, too brazen, too extra. Seeing the dulled submission in her coworker’s eyes was what caused her fist to raise, for the curse to spew from her mouth like bubbling acid.

Today, when she faced him, Scott must have seen that same look in her eyes, for he recoiled as if burned, the twist of his lips untwisting, falling. Her back straightened, her brown eyes burning like flames buried in the core of the earth, a part of her, a part of this earth, a part of the universe — a part of everything. She opened her mouth but no sound arose. She paused for a moment, wondering if it was worth it, if all these years of being beaten, of being brought to this fight without a dog, of her ancestors being forced upon a ship and dragged here, was truly worth it. She was flabbergasted by her own hesitation.

“Yes, Keisha?”

The words left her in a rush, “Have a nice life.”

By now, everyone had gathered into the lobby to see the spectacle, because that’s all a black woman facing down her white oppressor was to them — a spectacle. Scott paused, one brow raising, a hum thrumming from his throat, his mouth a confused line. [In her mind] she raised her hand, brought it towards his face, gripped his long tendrils of wispy blonde hair, and pulled. Pulled as if to drag each follicle out by the root. Pulled as if to yank each racist coil out of his body. Pulled as if to drag his very soul out the planks of his husk, leaving a dry, shriveled, grey pile of slush, exposing the weak, pathetic creature that was S-C-O-T-T.

And she saw the headlines:

ANGRY BLACK WOMAN VIOLENTLY ASSAULTS COWORKER. IS FORCIBLY HAULED AWAY IN CUFFS.

Her mother would cry, would visit her in prison, bringing her hot soup in the wintertime and sweet iced tea in the summer. She would waste her days away, fighting off charges of assault, pleading her innocence in front of a white judge in front of an all-white jury under the penetrating gaze of a white-favoring system. And she could see Scott’s pale white self shivering in the witness stand, whimpering about how he felt violated, assaulted, taken advantage of when he hired her to ‘diversify’ his staff, which really just meant that they didn’t have enough color in the office. Her pleas of innocence (and then — god no — mercy) would fall on deaf ears. She would be a forgotten criminal in a system meant to trap and abuse her.

Inwardly cursing her own cowardice, she extended an arm, holding out her hand in an offering of peace. Scott blinked. She raised a brow.

He extended his arm — and slapped her hand away. “Yeah, and don’t let it happen again or you’ll be out of a job.”

She fixed a smile on her face — you know, that fake, plastic smile, hard as nails — the customer service smile. She needed her job. Meager as it was, that $12.25 temp job was what she lived off of. So she turned away (her ‘week off’ wasn’t over yet) and went home. On the drive home, she played Solange’s Don’t Touch My Hair and cried. No, not cried — sobbed. And when she got home, she sobbed some more. She even cried out in her sleep.

Her neighbors, hearing the wails through the floorboards of their tiny one-bedroom apartment, filed a complaint with the landlord. Things like this happened every day. “It be like that,” her best friend (light-skinned, so without some of the hardships, but still struggling nonetheless) had muttered in response. “There’s nothing you can do about it.” And she fixed that same smile that her friend wore on her face, but you couldn’t see that over the phone.

They were both tired. Tired of playing the perfect black girl — cause, let’s face it, we never earn grown woman-status to them. This same tiredness had come from years of oppression, from slavery to segregation to the 21st century. So many other colored women felt this same wear and tear on their souls. One day, they told themselves, we’ll see change.

But when? In 2030? A hundred years from now? After World War 3? Nah. I’m tired. Lemme take a seat.

And you, Scott? The Keishas of the world think. You take several.

Keisha vs Scott by Ruquayya Sajjida was originally published in Raptor Lit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Edited by Ruquayya Sajjida

My reactions are evil, I admit

your family is a host of cloud

complexioned statues.

Their smiles are both present and gone.

And that luxurious living

room window, massive in its grey display

of open space — I’ve believed

your house is all sky, all November.

Now and then, some blurred bird

passes, disproves

the still-life. The frame dissolves

shimmeringly. The clouds gives, give

like a whited-out hand

offering a communion wafer: even when

you appear, smiling in the doorway,

I keep looking for you.

James Champion (he/him/his) is from Whitehall, Michigan. He graduated from Central Michigan University with an MA in Creative Writing in 2019. He currently works as a cashier at a home improvement store. He likes skiing, walking, travelling. In other words, he is frightened of stillness. However, he is also enthralled by it. This balance might well be an accurate summation of his writing.

Strange Communion was originally published in Raptor Lit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

By Aniria Williams

Edited by: David McConico, Kaleb Knowles, Ruquayya Sajjida

Never would I have thought to be here

Surrounded by the claws of my own expectations

Taught nerves bring tangible fears showing a twisted reality

The shadows of these four walls constrict with each day

From one hug to the next kiss, life has forever changed

Towards the future, my hope wanes

Three moments full of screaming walls

The weekend ebbs as my anxiety crawls

Life filled with tense confessions and direct avoidance

Never would I have felt the emotions coming

Brain riddled with anxiety

My feet trudge across the tan tiles, each step dragging on for miles

Body tipsy from exhaustion

Heartbeat racing, levels beyond sobriety

Tears fall on cotton fabric, knees bend, my mind dances about

Disappointment hugs the curves of my plush prison now

Never would I have embraced the consequences

Tone switches around new company

Golden sparkles surround me to protect my energy

Hands softly trace along my body hair to make a barrier

Denied access to my new carrier

Cut ties that bind for they’re toxic

Cause unwarranted soul ties just make me sick

Never would I have found a new perspective

Envelope new conversations that flow through my sanctuary

These four walls glow with remembered lessons

Stay consistent, to live is to build anew

Flip the script, you now know what you must do

Break the walls around your subconscious

Bring down the barriers that restrict you

Because without sacrifice, your insecurities will surely destroy you

Aniria Williams currently attends Spalding University as a Creative Writing Major. She is the host of a podcast titled WTF Is Life and is an affiliate streamer on Twitch. Nestled in the city of Louisville, Kentucky she can be found trying out the local foodies and discovering the hidden gems of the city.

From Where I Stand was originally published in Raptor Lit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Edited by Raptor Lit.

Destination: Louisville, Kentucky. Month: October, Year: 2015

Terry started to walk up to his grandmother’s house. Earlier that day she had informed him that she needed help to move their personal belongings due to them getting an eviction notice two days ago. He looked at the house. The lower part of the house was now repainted into a new clean ocean blue that when the sun hit the right angle, it sparkled like a diamond and a new chimney that stood as long as a funnel of a steam engine. The upper bricks for the rest of the house whereas white as snow.

The new colors were indeed beautiful as if they jumped out from nature itself but he preferred the original look that his family was most familiar with. He sighed as his heart started to beat slowly. He couldn’t stand seeing or thinking about his grandparents being evicted. It wasn’t fair. He lives with them but for the time being, he stayed with his aunt so he could spend more time with her.

He stopped at the left side of the house. Something else was bothering him. Humanity that year had turned their backs against superheroes due to all of the damage that was dealt from their battles that left many people in bad positions. He felt like humanity no longer needed him. Like he was a God that became powerless because what is a God or Gods to non-believers? He remembered that some of the supervillains he battled mentioned that despite everything you have done for them, they will eventually hate you. What people love more than a hero is to see them fail and even see them die trying, regardless if one has powers or not.

Being wise himself, Terry never ignored any signs of wisdom. Not even if it was relayed from a foe. For the first time in his life, he felt like he was nothing. He was no longer Volcano Boy Wolf Prime. He felt like he was a broken toy with no one in the world having a care to repair him and make him brand new again as if had just came off the assembly line. He turned the corner to meet his loving grandmother.

“Hey, granny. Are you and grandad okay?” Terry asked as he approached his grandmother to hug her while taking notice of all of the boxes that laid on the grass and concrete.

His grandmother nodded as she returned her grandson’s warm hug. “They gave us a week to pack up our things but I decided the hell with it and thought it would be best if I started packing now,” she replied.

“Where is grandad?” he asked as his cat, Buttercup, came out of the house to greet him. “Hey, what’s up, sis! I missed you. You didn’t think I would forget about you did yea, my cute little baby.” he laughed as he picked her up gently and rubbed his chocolate nose against her cute little cold coal button nose as she started to lick him and purr loudly.

“He went somewhere downtown to get fresh air. He didn’t respond well to that of course.” Terry’s grandmother replied. “And your aunt said she is looking for a house for us. One that doesn’t require a landlord.”

He sighed as his heart started to beat slowly again. He couldn’t stand seeing or thinking about his grandparents being evicted. It just wasn’t fair for them.

“I thought that lottery ticket you won two weeks ago had the house payments covered?” Terry asked as his voice became even softer as he kept rubbing Buttercup’s head.

“It did. But people can be cruel in this world if not all. You know that better than anyone with you saving the world all the time,” she sighed.

Terry’s golden eyes started to tear up. He thought about giving them more money from his superhero adventures so they wouldn’t have to leave but he knew that they were too proud to do that. Even if they did take it, they would only find some way to return it to him.

“Well, at least you guys still have tons of money to help you guys get settled.”

She smiled. Thinking of the new possibilities of having a new home. One of many of her dreams.

“You shouldn’t be lifting those by yourself, granny. Regardless we’re werewolves.” He said as he took the boxes from here and placed them with the others. More tears started to fall from his eyes like meteors falling from space into the Earth’s atmosphere.

“We’re okay, Terry. Don’t worry about us. Plus, I have our neighbor’s eleven-year-old son, Stuart Jones, also helping me move all of this.” she mentioned as her voice cracked as she hugged him.

“I thought I smelled him here while I was in Washington thinking about you guys,” he replied. “Even though I have been around before time itself and so on he is a year older than me. And I do nothing but worry. After all of the people I have saved on this planet and beyond, you, Buttercup, Lisa, grandad, and the rest of my family I care for the most. The very ones I love in life.”

Terry became silent. His grandmother didn’t know that he took away his powers for the year to be more like humans.

“The thing though that people and heroes must realize about life is that life is as strong and dense as glass but just as fragile to break.” He paused. “Now, I feel like not being here with you guys makes me feel like I am glass.” He attempted to laugh,

His grandmother continued to listen. She has never heard him sound remotely sad.

“I have been a fool, granny. I protect those who cannot defend themselves and they treat others like they are a lifeless piece of trash. I try my best to take care of you and grandad and things always get in the way. Why do I protect life, specifically human life when the lot of them care nothing for what others do for them?” Terry pouted as he kicked a hole into the ground. “I will never understand when you do good people always want greater things. Always wanting to take no matter what you give.”

“While this is true about some people you, my grandson, do these things because you are a kind and loving boy. You see that there is a light in every single person even if they choose to look the other way. Even your villains. You show them that hope never fades away like a feather in the wind. That there is someone who cares when others turn their backs.”

Terry had a little smile come across his face for that mention. He looked up to the sky and closed his eyes to daydream. The wind flew into his hair, it flowing like a flag in the wind, his hair just being one of the colors of the wind. He returned his gaze with his grandmothers’ caramel eyes.

“This also ties in with our situation, granny. It is not fair that we have to be evicted. In the times of the world needing people more than ever, you would think compassion would be common sense.”

“Heroes, like other people, unfortunately, don’t always have the perfect lives that they seek, Terry. It’s what makes them human and connect to what it means to be human. To be a sentient being. And besides, your grandfather and I are being evicted. Not you.”

Terry’s heart skipped a beat as he raised his eyebrow. He was wondering what she meant by that. He hoped it wasn’t what he was thinking it was.

“Granny,” he said as his voice cracked and his finger on his lip, “They aren’t evicting you and grandad because you two are old and I am not, are they?” He asked as he held onto his chest and his yellow eyes began to glow brighter. He could feel his heartbeat racing hoping that the answer was not yes.

“The landlord is indeed evicting us because of that very thing. He said that elderly people are a burden.”

Terry feared the worst. His face combined with anger and sadness as he kept himself from breaking something. What in the world is wrong with people? Have they learned nothing about what history has taught and repeated? He thought to himself. It felt like a boomerang. They make mistakes and then troubleshoot them, learning from past mistakes, and then it comes back and repeats from the previous mistake or a new one arises.

“I have succumbed to my heart, granny. It has been broken into a million pieces. A shattered vase just as much as yours.”

Buttercup looked up at Terry and tried to lick him knowing that he was sad and frustrated. Terry placed her onto a box that was already stationed and continued to help his grandmother pack the rest of her items such as lamps, couches, and even parts of a bed. He looked at all of the things that she was packing up and this made him think even more negatively of humans.

“Humans do nothing more than kill, hate, discriminate. They will not even concede with all the history that has been forged. Barely learning from the lessons from the past. Hating and killing each another because of the color of their skin, the language they speak in that they were born with, prejudice someone’s sexuality and gender and this is one of many problems of what is happening to you and grandad this instance.”

He paused as he started to pace, “I wish I could have been here to prevent this from happening to you guys.” He said as Buttercup jumped down and started to rub her body against his leg with him almost not taking notice.

“This isn’t your fault, Terry. This is not something that is in your control. There was nothing you could have done. Most things when I think about are not any of our control. That is how you have always capitalized on that.” His grandmother mentioned as she put red China plates into a box.

The wind now became cool and quiet. His grandmother’s face had turned confidence to sadness. She didn’t want to see her grandson like this and this was the first time she has ever even seen him sound and act like someone he is not. Buttercup kept turning her head each time Terry or his grandmother would talk.

“I give my love and they throw it back. I throw my heart they go on attack. All I want for this world is peace, even if it is just for a day. Normally I would not take heed to negativity but this time this is different. I ponder if this is how other people feel all the time when people bring them down. Freedom is the right of all sentient beings. Do I dare think differently about that?”

He continued to stare at the ground. His grandmother never once taking her eyes off him, never closing her ears off.

“I’m not a symbol of hope. I never was. I can’t even take care of you and grandad. Why do I, a ten-year-old kid, have to care for these people only for it to seem like a burden to me. For me to be a crutch to help them stand when they no longer have the ability to walk and mobilize. Why do I do it?” He cried harder as he buried his face into his grandmother’s arms.

She patted him on his back.

Before she could utter another word, Stuart came out with some more boxes. He noticed Terry and remembered that not only that this was one of his best friends but that he wrote stories for Volcano Boy. He went and tugged onto Terry’s sunflower colored hoodie.

“You write stories about Volcano Boy, right?” Stuart asked curiously but happily.

“I used to,” Terry replied.

“Where is he?”

Terry paused. He didn’t have an answer. He wasn’t Volcano Boy Wolf Prime anymore.

“He quit.” He uttered the first words that came to his mind.

“Why?” Stuart asked with a puzzled face as he accidentally dropped one of the boxes hard to the ground.

“He felt like he wasn’t needed anymore.”

“He will be back, right?

Terry shrugged his shoulders and let his silence be sound. His body tensing within every second.

“He is my hero. He makes me believe that anything is possible. If you could, could you ask him to please come back? I miss him and so do a whole lot of other people.” Stuart mentioned as he walked back into the house to get another box while having a tear come across his face.

Terry was left shocked. His face almost not being phased.

“Stuart knows a hero when he sees one, Terry.” His grandmother mentioned as she grabbed a chair and a towel to wipe off the sweat from her face and the tears off her grandson as Buttercup jumped into her lap. “And so, do others. God knows that kids like Stuart and other people need a hero. And, you, my grandson, are that very thing. I couldn’t be prouder. To name a few, you are compassionate, wise, courageous, selfless, kind, and gentle. Setting examples for all of us. Everybody loves a hero. People will do anything for them.”

Terry took a moment to take everything in. All of this was hitting him hard.

“Heroes give people hope. They teach and tell people to hold on to hope. It doesn’t matter if something is true or what wrong they have done to you, the real thing that matters is the story that people tell about you when you are gone. You did all of that for them, Terry. They need you. They will always need you.”

A slow smile came across Terry’s face as he continued to cry. His tail started to wag very fast as he started to brighten up some more. Stuart returned and he gently tapped him on his shoulder.

“You know, Stuart,” Terry said as his smile grew as big as the sun above. “I do believe that Volcano Boy will return soon. You can bet on it.”

“Really?” said Stuart as his face started to boom with joy. Terry nodded.

“However, for that to come to fruition you must promise me something.”

“What is that?”

“You must promise me that you will never lose hope in anything. A friend of mine once said, “Hang on to your dreams. The future is built on dreams. Hang on.” And from me, “You must dare to keep all of your dreams alive. Because somewhere out there, there is a place where dreams do survive.”

Stuart’s face lit up like a Christmas tree as he stuck out his pinkie to do a pinkie swear with his friend. Terry picked him up and hugged him.

“I have just regained something that I lost that shall never again disperse. I must never lose sight that where there is hope, there is life and neither should anyone else. “Look up to the sky, Stuart. Think of the sky as the beginning of our dreams to come true.”

Terry left after helping them finish up their work and load them in the car when grandad arrived. He kissed his grandmother and Buttercup goodbye and thanked her and fist-bumped with Stuart. He was now someone new. He realized now that no matter how dire something may look, there is and always will be a little light that shines in the darkness. That you cannot let what others say get to you. Turn that negativity into the light that lives inside of you, that lives in all of us. We all are one and we all can be heroes. I know we can be. We just need the courage to try.

Never lose sight of hope when you think it is extinguished like a lit candle in the wind. There will be days when we lose faith and you feel that you have failed in life. Days it feels like people have turned against us and that you feel like you are all alone. Remember: No matter what comes your way, no matter how buried and lost you and your soul feels, hope is always alive. It’s just waiting for you. Believe in it. Keep kindness and compassion alive. Who knows who you might be healing? Throw those bad days away and let them burn. Throw them into a fire. Be the light. It is never too late to dream of a better world that still has yet to come. Heaven is within you and Heaven is here. Hear the whispers of love call you home and live like you are free. Reach out to that little light that outshines the darkness. Once you found it cherish it and embrace it and know that beautiful and magical little light you find, is nothing other than you.

Volcano Boy’s Hope is always Here. You just have to keep looking for it. was originally published in Raptor Lit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

By Kaleb Knowles

Edited by Aniria Williams, Ruquayya Sajjida, David McConico

Knock knock knock, I awoke from my sleep to the sound of pounding on my hotel door. Remaining silent, I stared at the ceiling hoping whoever it was would just go away. However The knocking did not stop and finally I leaned up and screamed “stop knocking I’ll have the money for the room later damn.” Finally the banging ended.

I sighed and made my way over to the bathroom mirror. I looked like shit, My eye liner was running and my lipstick was smeared across my lips. I splashed water in my face, then looked down at the marks on my arm. Undoing the band on my biceps, I began to cough.

The knocking then started again. I screamed frustrated trying to stop my coughing “stop knocking on the damn door. I said I will pay rent later.” But it was silent outside. I then heard a deep male voice in my bedroom say “I don’t think they can hear you.” I turned to see a tall dark man sitting on my bed. I asked “who the fuck are you and why are you in my room?”

The man stood up and took off his trench coat and said “Oh you know me, you blame me for everything Sarah.”

I asked “what the hell are you talking about? Get out of my room now before I call the cops.”

He smiled and said “Look I would love to leave but neither of us are going anywhere until my boss lady shows up.” The man then flashed a pistol on his waist line as pulled out a cigar and lit it.

Nervously I asked “who is she and what does she want with me? Are you with Rico because I will pay him back on Wednesday I’ve got two guys coming by my room tomorrow.”

He said “sit down I am not here for all that and you definitely never met her so don’t worry. She will explain when she gets here. I’m just here to make sure you do not leave, whatever she chooses to do with you is on her.” He then pointed at a chess board I had on the ground and said “care to play a game until she gets here?”

If he was going to hurt me he would have already and plus it is not like I could run away from him if I wanted, he would just shoot me if I ran anyway. I made my way over to the board and picked up the pieces and placed it on the bed. The knocking continued and the both of us looked at the door.

He said in his mellow voice “ignore them it will stop you ready to play”

I wanted to scream for help but instead I asked “what if it’s your boss?”

He smiled and said “she has a special knock; we just have to listen for it.”

We then started playing and we really did not say much. I looked around the room trying to avoid eye contact with my captor. My eyes kept dancing around the room always finding its way down at the pistol on his waist. I was the first to lose a piece. He frowned and said “you lost a piece.”

“It’s just a pawn,” I said, trying to bluff with confidence, considering the situation.

He looked at me with a confused look and said “so you the type who has no problem throwing away something that’s not of much use to you.”

He had no Idea I had sat him in a trap and I took his piece. I then said “I will give up a pawn to take a bishop any day, it’s how you win.”

He looked up from the board and took a deep tug on his cigar. He then said calmly “I hate people like that.”

I raised an eyebrow and said to him “it’s just a game man.”

He then pointed to a picture on my wall and asked “is that your daughter?”

I didn’t want to answer him but I didn’t really have much of a choice, I said “yes that’s my daughter Mariah.”

He said “she is beautiful, how old is she?”

“Five” I said with a shaky voice.

He tugged on his cigar and asked “does she live here with you?”

I chuckled “do you honestly think someone like me would be allowed to raise a kid? They took her when she was 3 months old.”

He said keeping his eyes on the gameboard "I’m sorry, do you ever get to see her?”

“Every once and awhile my sister gained custody of her and she wont let me see her because she hates me.”

“She sounds like a bitch,” he said exhaling with a straight face. It was weird I could not help but grin when he said that.

I asked “do you have any children Mr.….?”

“World, just call me World.” He moved a piece and took my queen. He said “ and no I don’t have any children, I’m to busy.”

His phone then started to ring and he stood up and made his way over to the mirror. I noticed that he had his back turned to me. Knock Knock Knock, the knocking started again. I looked over at World, he was busy on his phone and did not seem to notice the pounding. I slowly made my way over to the door quietly, thinking finally this is my chance and I started to reach my hand out to the knob. Suddenly I felt a warmth on my arm and World threw me back. He said in an angry voice “do not open that door.” The look in his eyes was terrifying. I was sure I was about to die.

I pulled my hand back and started to rub it. The knocking then stopped, World sighed and lit another cigarette and moved over to the bed. He sat back down and said calmly “Sarah let’s finish our game. She is on her way.” I nervously made my way over to him and sat down. We played for what felt like forever not really saying much. Until finally after a while he stood up and said “she is here.”

I thought to myself, is he hearing something I didn’t even hear a knock. He made his way over to the door and opened it. A beautiful black woman walked in. Her eyes shined like amber and her lipstick was a fiery color of red. She walked over beside my bed and sat on a chair.

She reached out her hand and said “I am Reality Jones it’s so finally nice to meet you Sarah.” I looked at her hand and said nothing. I thought to myself I’m not shaking your damn hand. She continued to smile and withdrew her hand and said “I apologize I’m so late I was caught up with work I am a busy woman I’m sure you can imagine. Thank you World go wait for me in the car please.” The man nodded and put on his coat. He then walked over to me and said “checkmate” and moved his piece on my king’s spot and made his way out the room.

I thought to myself that jerk couldn’t just leave it as a tie but I didn’t say anything. I mean I could care less about that dumb game. I was more focused on this woman. I knew her from somewhere I just could not place it.

She interrupted my thoughts and said all nonchalant like “don’t feel bad he is really good at chess. I’m actually the only one who he has ever lost to, then again I’m undefeated”

I looked at her and finally lost it. I Screamed at her, “Are you going to kill me or what, why are y’all messing with me?”

She smiled and said “well not really I’m actually trying to help you.”

“Help me?” I asked, confused, “you hold me hostage in my room all day, that’s not the kind of help I need.”

She was quiet and looked down at my arm. She then said “I don’t think you know exactly what kind of help you need.”

Angered I said “I get it now y’all are with the church, y'all trying to make me go back to rehab or something?”

She chuckled and said “we are not with a church but I would highly recommend you looking into a treatment.”

I looked down avoiding eye contact and said “why should I, nobody care about me.”

She looked at me and said “Sarah you know that ain’t true what about your Daughter?”

“ It doesn’t even matter my sister won’t even let me see her.”

“Why is that Sarah?”

“I don’t know because she hates me or something.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because Mariah is mine and she can’t handle it that’s why.”

Reality gave me a funny look and said “Or maybe because she does not want Mariah to see you in this kind of state you are in. Trembling with anger I thought to myself this bitch over here acting like she knows me.

She then grabbed my hand and walked me over to the bathroom counter and said angrily look do you see that? This is the cause of all your pain, not nobody else stop blaming your sister. You are the one who chose to do drugs, You choose that drugs are more important than your daughter and most sadly of all you chose that drugs are more important than yourself. So stop looking for someone else to cast the blame on and take ownership of your own problems.”

I looked at her and gritted and screamed until my throat hurt. “bitch you don't know me and don’t sit here like you do I’ve had a harder life than anything you can imagine, the things I’ve had to do to survive you could not even dream of so you can shut your mouth.

The woman sighed and said “look Sarah, life sucks sometimes people are dealt bad terrible hands but we have to make the best out of those cards. You have no control over anything in life except your reaction to everything. Now there is a clinic that I can take you to, do you want help or not? I’m not going to sit here and hold your hand, It’s time for your reaction.”

I looked at her for a second and heard the knocking on my door again. This time I could hear voices on the other side. They screamed “Clayton County police open up.” The woman said what is your choice Sarah? I turned from her and walked over to the door I screamed as I swung open the door. I said ‘help, this woman is holding me hostage.”

Four cops ran right through me as if they did not see me. “I said hey did you not hear me?” The cops said nothing, they just looked around the room and then I saw it. My body laying on my bed with the syringe still in my arm. I heard one of the officers say to another she overdosed this morning from the looks of it sir.

I turned and looked at reality leaned up against my counter. I asked “what is this?” She said “I think y'all call it a health and welfare check up. It seems Your sister called them because you were not answering your phone, you know the one who hates you.”

It was as if Ice went up my spine when I heard what she said next.

“Looks like you’re dead Sarah.”

“Did y'all do this to me,” I screamed?

She pulled out a cigarette calmly and lit it. She then said “No, the reality of it is fault always falls on those who never accept it. It’s too late to accept it now.

Kaleb Knowles is an emerging writer from Atlanta, GA. He is currently enrolled in Spalding University's creative writing. His preferred genres are Fiction and Creative non Fiction and paints in his free time. To see more of his work check out his Instagram at @kalebknowlesart.

Its My Fault was originally published in Raptor Lit on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.