https://plantinmag.com Plantin Sun, 07 Jul 2024 00:43:15 +0000 https://plantinmag.com en https://plantinmag.com/I-Pity-the-Fool Thu, 04 Jul 2024 23:28:16 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/I-Pity-the-Fool ︎ Next Story Previous Story I Pity the Fool For P. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Jessica Rowshandel&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Tosin Akinkunmi&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 1 min&nbsp; My bad posture – You held my dead snake body draped in your palm like old Speedos. The attitude of your gait, however -- a wrestler announced, the man who catapults another man over the ropes and takes the championship belt I took the mic and ranted You ranted with me. No one ever rants with me. You didn't cower, you rose my fist in yours, the championship was ours. I hummed the A-Team theme song I sang the A-Team theme song I shouted the A-Team theme song the more sure I got of you We got matching Mr. T's Mandinka-style haircut because we got free &amp; with good posture the snake tongued its body through the tall grass &nbsp; -- Published July 5, 2024 This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="780" height="779" width_o="780" height_o="779" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ccbd703053eda6918611f0ac94b61b5752e63af41d70d2121501bb4a2a0b56e8/Jessica-Rowshandel.png" data-mid="214193114" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/780/i/ccbd703053eda6918611f0ac94b61b5752e63af41d70d2121501bb4a2a0b56e8/Jessica-Rowshandel.png" /> Author’s Bio Jessica Rowshandel (they/them) is a queer Afro-Taíno Puerto Rican + Persian writer, visual artist, and musician. Their creative writing has been published in Fever Spores: The Queer Reclamation of William S. Burroughs, Mid-Level Management Literary Magazine, beestung, Bizarrchitecture, and others.&nbsp; ︎jessicarowshandel.com <img width="780" height="779" width_o="780" height_o="779" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/ae04fcecf75704a339efc2d3f259cd64e988bfffaeed6b1433a60658bf72ea01/Tosin-Akinkunmi.png" data-mid="214193109" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/780/i/ae04fcecf75704a339efc2d3f259cd64e988bfffaeed6b1433a60658bf72ea01/Tosin-Akinkunmi.png" /> Artist’s Bio Tosin is a Nigerian and Grenadian British illustrator based in London, England. They love creating bold and striking artwork using colour, contrast shape and texture. When they're not drawing, you can often find them scribbling away on my iPad in bed or in the depths of a video essay (probably both!). ︎ @artbytosin ︎azizaillustrates.com ︎ https://plantinmag.com/I-Don-t-Know-Why-I-Loved-Her Sun, 23 Jun 2024 17:22:09 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/I-Don-t-Know-Why-I-Loved-Her ︎ Next Story Previous Story I don’t know why I loved her. But I did. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Haja Kamara&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Amy Gajjar&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 4 min&nbsp; She’s sitting at a desk, the sort of standard-issue, yellowish-tan kind that appears in college bedrooms around the country, the type that’s made to last. She’s doing something on her laptop computer, I don’t know for sure that it’s newer than mine, but it seems so. I’m lying atop a twin bed, rather unsexily, trying not to make a sound, though I want her to see me and love me. I want her to love me forever, I think to myself, I want to love her forever. I sigh quietly, realizing there is no forever, and only maybe a tomorrow, looking down at the pages of a book that I was simply pretending to read. It was spring time and I was 19. Every morning I was greeted by the creaks of the bed a few feet away from me, my roommate rolling over, the sound of a cell phone alarm, hunger pangs, a bitter toothache. I had a secret to tell, I was in love. A bigger secret still-- I wanted her to love me forever. The tarot, and she herself, told me to be patient. I remember, a few months later, sitting on the dull wood floor, or perhaps on some futon, and asking for a kiss. Yes, of course. I ran, smiling, bursting, realizing that the woman I loved might just love me forever. I didn’t know why I loved her. But I did. It was spring time and I was 20. Every morning I was greeted by silence, humidity, a promise of May flowers, my own hope for something new. Often on these days, she’d be close to me, and I’d sneak away across a courtyard to the shelter of my own loathing, still unsure how someone like me was supposed to greet their lover in the morning—with a kiss, or a playful shove? Somehow, she loved me, and I, greedy as I was, wanted that forever. It’s in this wistful reminisce, brought about by none other than the curse of memory, that I remember being newly in Love, stealing glances across a table at some café, wondering how she did It, never to find out. It was spring time and I was 21. Every morning I was greeted by the sound of running water, the slam of an external gate, squeals of delight from those surprised by the warmth, a pile of clothes on the floor. Months prior, things ended. Many mornings, I burrowed beneath my comforter, closing my eyes, wrapping my arms around the ghost of forever, only to wake up empty handed. There was still hope, however, that what went around could still come back around, that maybe I could get what I wanted and never ask for anything ever again. That I could get her to see me and love me— forever. It is spring time and I am 22. Every morning I am greeted by an inch of sun through blinds, the blare of an analog alarm clock, emails begging response, pills I need to become better at taking, an unwavering sense of urgency. Things have happened. I am trying to remember them. I’m dying to remember where people’s birthmarks are, the first time I heard a certain song, the way looks, touches, smells make me feel. The first time I woke up and knew I’d have to put on my winter coat. I say now that I’m going to remember this forever, how it felt to watch you read, to feel your hand in my hand. To feel my hand in anyone’s hand. To walk places that felt so far away, but were in actuality so close. I want to remember being on the precipice of adulthood with you, sitting silently, waving to people as they go by, realizing after, that we should have said goodbye. I want to remember looking at you, lingering, our hands not quite touching, wanting so badly to ask for a kiss. Wanting to ask you to love me forever. I’m still standing there, looking out over a ledge waiting for the most horribly perfect moment to crumble and drop me into the rest of forever, bruised and bloodied from battle. I’m crying now and the rain is washing everything away. Ready to lay there one last time, one final night before the start of forever. I see faces that aren’t yours, and I’m sure they’re beautiful. I can’t make out the reasons—for hurt, for fear, for pain, for any of this, any of us—but I’m sure they’re beautiful. I don’t know why I loved you. But I did. I’m waiting for the moment when I find out, when the weight of a hand in mine isn’t heavy at all, when the sharp inhale of my own recognition is matched by a deep sigh of relief. I remember why I love you. I do. &nbsp; -- Published July 5, 2024This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="750" height="750" width_o="750" height_o="750" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/7458ca0f4741e1c0710b2fd3133b42f774ff27157cb124e4faa552539103edda/Haja-Kamara.png" data-mid="214193718" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/7458ca0f4741e1c0710b2fd3133b42f774ff27157cb124e4faa552539103edda/Haja-Kamara.png" /> Author’s BioHaja is a writer and psychologist in training who is inspired by clouds in the sky, guitar riffs, the rumbling of the subway, and all the ways we can say “I love you.” Haja’s work has been previously featured in Autofocus, DEAR Poetry Journal, and Arcanum Magazine. ︎superficialsimilarities.substack.com <img width="780" height="779" width_o="780" height_o="779" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/677844c8eb0da0c6213d9f9ad7196f12dbb6bca92bc0a2bcf75ef739eff46a04/Amy-Gajjar.png" data-mid="214193764" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/780/i/677844c8eb0da0c6213d9f9ad7196f12dbb6bca92bc0a2bcf75ef739eff46a04/Amy-Gajjar.png" /> Artist’s Bio Amy Gajjar is an eclectic award-winning multidisciplinary creative with an eye for aesthetics and a love for concept creation. Their work has been featured in many digital publications such as The Dieline, World Photography Organisation, etc. Design to for them is more than meeting targets but creating stories that last for generations. ︎behance.net/amygajjar1 ︎ https://plantinmag.com/June Thu, 04 Jul 2024 23:43:17 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/June ︎ Next Story Previous Story June &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Jonifah Richard&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Ky Lawrence&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 1 min&nbsp; In June I was obsessed with tea steepers. The kind found in Chinese restaurants in Meguro, mostly blue and white with three sections. But whenever I’d settle at the wheel to pull the clay up into something worthy of confession, the walls would buckle and fold like cloth. Every thought of pulling up walls to what felt like heaven, every attempt an admission to the darkness waiting outside or afternoon passers-by. Every thought of the offhand, half joking request that led me by the hand to the point of obsession, an acknowledgement that the person behind it was becoming more and more dear to me. I hadn’t the skill to make a single tea steeper, no matter how often I let the clay push and pull at me but no matter how well I folded my walls, you could unfold, unmake, and reduce me to clay. Even then. &nbsp; -- Published July 5, 2024This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="750" height="750" width_o="750" height_o="750" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/adcc933e8cc526093d4f4f852c3b4de4ea4f0a4cbb83d4e62702eff98a41a5cf/Jonifah-Richard.png" data-mid="214194179" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/adcc933e8cc526093d4f4f852c3b4de4ea4f0a4cbb83d4e62702eff98a41a5cf/Jonifah-Richard.png" /> Author’s BioJonifah is an Anguillian-born creator who uses writing and art to make sense of and explore their reality. ︎ @boiledplantain <img width="750" height="750" width_o="750" height_o="750" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/7ba8ab72527b784b3a0b34b38b69e6c18fc8c33455c84c73adac995cc3c02b0b/Ky-Lawrence.png" data-mid="214194006" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/7ba8ab72527b784b3a0b34b38b69e6c18fc8c33455c84c73adac995cc3c02b0b/Ky-Lawrence.png" /> Artist’s Bio Ky Lawrence is an illustrator &amp; comics artist from the UK.︎ @moelosser ︎ https://plantinmag.com/Falling-Apart Fri, 05 Jul 2024 00:58:48 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Falling-Apart ︎ Next Story Previous Story Falling Apart &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by L’au&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Temishi Onnekikami&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 1 min&nbsp; maybe I rushed into it. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; this gravity between us. I forgot that water will always fall through air towards a million ends, it’s possible that I rushed into them. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; your arms. I forgot that I hold myself more than well, not every sun will pull steam from the ground. I will rise. I will rise. breath into my lungs and take up the entirety of my form because&nbsp; I know that I rushed to offer it. &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; my grace. you forget that some raindrops fall into the arms of the ocean &nbsp; -- Published July 5, 2024This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="750" height="750" width_o="750" height_o="750" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/38b745f52ae640573f2ff750aacec39857f2932b453688bdbb0ff2048f418cd3/L-au_Zami.png" data-mid="214194613" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/38b745f52ae640573f2ff750aacec39857f2932b453688bdbb0ff2048f418cd3/L-au_Zami.png" /> Author’s BioL'au / zamí (they/them) is a Haitian-made, African-grown, non-binary writer and oral historian. Their ancestors protegee, zamí is leaning into the role of memory worker: the work of diasporic historian, record keeper of deaths and rebirths, preserver of queer genealogies, and witness to stories. Based in Brooklyn, NY, they can be found in conversation with other trans and gender deviant, second-generation immigrants in the spaces between gender x culture, and on the 2NDGENders Podcast. <img width="780" height="779" width_o="780" height_o="779" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/bfd4caaf9caa2b3b35a50ab65e92e68b434d97278eb3c2ebc24d7946e21d3c6a/Temishi-Onnekikami.png" data-mid="214194614" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/780/i/bfd4caaf9caa2b3b35a50ab65e92e68b434d97278eb3c2ebc24d7946e21d3c6a/Temishi-Onnekikami.png" /> Artist’s Bio Temishi is a multidisciplinary artist and designer based out of Los Angeles, CA. Her favorite color is purple, and she's probably daydreaming as we speak.&nbsp;︎temishi.com ︎ https://plantinmag.com/Tension Thu, 04 Jul 2024 23:10:16 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Tension ︎ Next Story Previous Story Tension &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Ebo Kye&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Janaya Nyala Josephs&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 13 min&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; Kojo is sitting on their grandmother’s bush-green carpet with its print of crushed cream flowers and errant petals, legs criss-crossed, eyes on an antennaed tv. Grandma Beatrice, like many other Ghanaians of her era, has turned her wall into a gallery of wooden hangings of the Akan Madonna – a representation of an afroed mother and child. Kojo’s eyes dart between the majestic Madonna and the paste-white clown in his exaggerated red afro and overdone lips gracing the bug-tv. The clown stomps around a foreign city with lush green spaces that contrast the red clay of Accra. &nbsp; &nbsp; Beatrice is fast at work weaving the soft wool of Kojo’s hair into many little braids. She loves to tend to her grandchild’s hair the way she tends to the lush yard that brings life to the entrance of her concrete home. Beatrice does not have a soft hand at the start of their informal appointment; she pulls at the strands like they are weeds but as she continues her touch becomes more yielding. Kojo doesn’t mind her technique; the push and pull keeps him alert to the goings-on of the spirited clown. He is happy to sit and watch the world reveal itself through the noisy screen and the piercing eyes of the Madonna. He sees himself in both – a future of feminine strength and of free movement. &nbsp; &nbsp; On the last braid, a loud kɔkɔkɔ is heard at the door. The hand that raps the wooden entranceway is defiant, determined, and self-assured. It wakes Kojo from his daydreaming – or rather their worldbuilding. Beatrice rises from her green velvet sofa, ensures that the cloth wrapper tied around her waist is secure, and shuffles her strong calloused feet to the door. &nbsp; &nbsp; She is met with the blank, then stunned face of Kojo’s mother. She is dressed in her church garb – handmade blouse and ankle-length skirt of stiff wax print fabric. She is returning from the women’s meeting at Grace Biblical Apostolic. Before she greets her mother, her eyes laser in on where 10-year-old Kojo sits – with his carefully adorned hair. &nbsp; &nbsp; “Mama…why do you insist on turning my son into a Rasta?” &nbsp; &nbsp; “He likes it. It’s our bonding time. When you were like him you loved when I braided your hair too!” &nbsp; &nbsp; “And I was a girl.” &nbsp; &nbsp; “Okay okay! Well, what’s done is done.” &nbsp; &nbsp; “Kojo, bra ha! Yɛnkɔ fie.” &nbsp; &nbsp; A pit forms in Kojo’s stomach, but he steels himself and walks over to his mother. Like magnets repelling each other, the closer he gets to her, the farther she seems to go. Kojo trails her and stumbles into the backseat of their vehicle, no words spoken but so many thoughts, feelings, and prejudices exchanged. The heavy dry season air that occupies the small sedan’s cabin is forgotten as the tension, so thick it could be cut with a knife, rises to the fore. — &nbsp; &nbsp; I was raised by my grandfather, a military hero and a very matter-of-fact kind of man. I would sit at his feet and take in his stories and his way of speaking and make it my own. Life was usually peaceful, but Sunday’s meant war. Some days, the events were mundane, and the sermons and interactions innocuous. Other days, every stray glance or deepened tone felt like a targeted pelting of ammunition. The day I met Kojo, I was placed at the vanguard of battle in polished black loafers and a shiny lavender vest. &nbsp; &nbsp; As our teacher neared the end of the Sunday School lesson – something about pearls, maybe needles or camels too – I started to run through my master plan to make the new boy my friend. The large room with the beige carpet, wheeled white board, television set and carts of A/V equipment and craft materials was becoming an informal watering hole. The children moved around and re-established their crews and cliques as they waited for the snack table to be assembled and teachers to break open the refreshments. &nbsp; &nbsp; Naturally, the teacher would explain to the new student how the snack session was conducted. I would have to time everything flawlessly to happen close by this interaction. He would choose me to walk Kojo over to the designated area, and I would be the first to talk to him, hopefully securing his loyalty quickly. &nbsp; &nbsp; I kept my eyes open during the ending prayer. Then, I stood around and stared blankly, sneaking glances at both the teacher and Kojo as I waited for an opening. I dragged my feet, which suddenly felt tight and heavy in their shoes, over to where the teacher had started talking to the new student. I didn’t hear his words at my approach, but I saw him point towards me then to Kojo. I had succeeded, but instead of relief I was overcome with anxiety. I looked at Kojo and stumbled out a hello. &nbsp; &nbsp; I silently led him to the provisions line, stood beside him staring at the tops of my shoes, and made a beeline for a solo open seat quickly after he had begun to gather his treats. I didn’t look back to see where Kojo ended up – to see which one of my bullies had adopted him into their fold. I was kicking myself, staving off tears I didn’t fully understand. Then, I felt a tap at the back of my shoulder. My head swiveled around to see Kojo. He didn’t motion over to a chair for himself. Instead, he ventured towards the open door while glancing back at me every so often, as if to get me out of my seat. &nbsp; &nbsp; I looked around to see that everyone was engrossed in the melee that surrounded the snack session. I followed the new boy out the main church doors and over to a corner of the sprawling front steps. &nbsp; &nbsp; Before I could introduce myself, the new boy shyly asked, “Did you see me looking at you?” &nbsp; &nbsp; “No.” &nbsp; &nbsp; “Well, I don’t know. I thought you might be like me.” He blushed. &nbsp; &nbsp; “Like you?” There was a giddiness in my voice that I tried to muffle. This new boy had a voice that was gentle, so different from the harsh inflections of the other kids. It made me feel warm inside and dried the saliva at the back of my throat. I coughed to clear my airways. &nbsp; &nbsp; “Yes.” He met my eyes with a sheepish glance. So much ran through my mind. There was fear; there was joy; there was a growing sense of danger as I came to face something that felt new and unacceptable. I worried that I didn’t have the right shields for this battle. There was also a hunger I felt that I can now place as desire. I wanted him to be closer, even though his breath had a sour edge from the cheese crackers and apple juice. My feet were firmly planted but I wished they would move me nearer. &nbsp; &nbsp; Kojo held out a hand, but I just gawked at it for what was only seconds but felt like an eternity. All I could think to do was retreat, so I turned towards the top of the stairs and began my sprint. As I arrived at the summit, the heavy wooden doors to the sanctuary swung open and the sheep flooded out. I bobbed and weaved through the throng until I was back in the colorful room with the beige carpet. No one seemed to witness my return as I stumbled toward my seat. &nbsp; &nbsp; I heard a voice not far behind. &nbsp; &nbsp; “What’s your name?” &nbsp; &nbsp; “Roman.” &nbsp; &nbsp; “Nice to meet you. Let’s be friends.” &nbsp; &nbsp; It all started so simply. Kojo became my friend first in that holy space, then in the school hallways, and finally out in the city. We laughed and smiled and hoped the friendship would be enough. And it was for a long time, but lingering glances and quickening heartbeats started to reveal the weaknesses in my defenses. I tried to reinforce my barricades and blockades at every opportunity, but ultimately love signed a truce. — &nbsp; &nbsp; Hands twisted in my lover’s tresses, I trace a map through his scalp back to Accra and Saturday afternoons sitting on a hand sewn pillow on the floor of my grandmother’s house. &nbsp; &nbsp; “Babe, why are you always in my hair?” Roman asks playfully. Light dapples through the linen-curtained window of the sunroom. &nbsp; &nbsp; “I just love it.” Behind those words is a layered history. One that I have shared with Roman on heavy rainy days hiding behind his grandfather’s plastic-covered couch with paper plates holding hefty slices of pecan pie and vanilla ice cream. But on this light sunny day, all I want is to sit and enjoy this man I get to call mine. Take in his thick eyebrows, stubble, his burnt butterscotch skin, and husky voice. My teddy bear – my earliest friend. We grew up as two gay boys sweating under the Savannah sun. And developed a love slow as a treacle spill. Through denial, angst, butter-toast-colored girlfriends and into honesty, acceptance, and love. &nbsp; &nbsp; I moved to Savannah towards the end of my tenth year. Maame Poku, my mother, had won the immigration lottery. As a devotee of the Reverend Joe Wilkins, a prosperity preacher with a persistent tan that helped him trick his way into the African community, it was her dream to relocate our little family to the city of his church. &nbsp; &nbsp; The day before we were meant to fly to our new home, my mother called me into her bathroom and asked that I bring “my hair things.” This shocked me on two levels. First – my mother never had any interest in doing my hair. Out of respect for her mother’s wishes she let me keep my hair long but made it clear that she would not be an active participant in my corruption. Grandma Beatrice is the one who taught me how to detangle my thick coarse strands – to mediate the fighting amongst my locks, tame lion-mane fierce hair, and mother my follicles and scalp to strengthen my natural crown. However, I still wished for my mother’s touch. Second – her bathroom was a sacred space, always under lock and key. Perhaps she feared the sort of alchemy I might be involved in – if she let me near her sheens, shadows, and acetates. Perhaps she feared I might become more beautiful than her. I walked into the bathroom with yearning and hesitation. &nbsp; &nbsp; Her actions were swift. She opened her arms as if to caress, wrapped them around me and started the clippers I hadn’t seen perched on the closed toilet seat behind her. As the whir of the machine became louder in my ears, I began to notice the clear signs of my demise. Old newspapers strewn everywhere – to protect her precious tiled floor from the hairy debris, a coarse boar bristle brush balancing on the edge of the porcelain sink, a large orange tub of pomade adorned with the image of a man with short-cropped hair and mellow waves. &nbsp; &nbsp; She sheared me down to my scalp on a summer day some time before my first day of American fifth grade. Exposed, raw, and constantly in fear – those first years were agonizing. &nbsp; &nbsp; “Is it weird to say, your hair reminds me of my grandmother’s garden.” &nbsp; &nbsp; “It had a lot of snakes or something?” &nbsp; &nbsp; “God – can you just let me be cute and compliment you?” I held Roman close, smiling from cheek to cheek, feeling a happiness and a joy that I never thought I could. &nbsp; &nbsp; “It reminds me of the vines she used to tend to in her garden. They were plant species that are known to be stubborn, yet she knew how to work them. And when I see your locs, I see determination and co-existence. How many hands have been in this hair that now goes past your ass?” &nbsp; &nbsp; “A few…a lot…a village.” I get up from the white-painted wire-wrought chair in our sunroom and move towards the rattan couch with the ocean-blue throws. &nbsp; &nbsp; I toss one of the pillows toward the front of my seat, and gesture wordlessly to Ro. It’s a ritual we have enacted so many times before. &nbsp; &nbsp; He sits on the ocean, and I ease into the couch cushion behind him. First, I take in the view of long mossy deep-brown vines almost fully obscuring his lighter brown scalp. I can’t help but breathe in – earthy and sweet like a budding flower – a scent that holds the severity and the lightness of our years together. 10 years in, Roman is my greatest love. &nbsp; &nbsp; “Do you remember the first time you retwisted my hair?” he breathes unsteadily, an edge of giddiness against his usual calm. &nbsp; &nbsp; “I was so scared…my fingers were shaking.” &nbsp; &nbsp; “I thought it was because you didn’t have any experience. I was honestly a little scared for my scalp. Then you got in there and gave me the best retwist of my life. It was the gay audacity for me. And then you told me you had never retwisted hair in your life! I was sure you had some trade on the side you didn’t want me to know about.” &nbsp; &nbsp; “Please…the only trade I know is you.” &nbsp; &nbsp; “Stop that. You know I’ve been effeminate all my life.” He flicks his fingers downward to show off his manicured, yet unadorned nails. &nbsp; &nbsp; That elicits a hearty, squeaky laugh from my chest. &nbsp; &nbsp; “I know that’s right. We really grew into this together. It’s crazy because so much of this went unspoken.” &nbsp; &nbsp; “I can’t tell you how many times I thought about telling you.” &nbsp; &nbsp; “You mean…how many times you thought about kissing me?” &nbsp; &nbsp; “I want to argue…but it is true.” &nbsp; &nbsp; Roman twists his head around abruptly, undoing my work on one of the vines. His hair whips through the air spectacularly. I catch his head in my hands, the sun’s rays smelter his irises into liquid gold. Even in the heat, I shudder. He pushes himself up to reach my lips and my head lowers instinctively. &nbsp; &nbsp; The kiss leaves my throat burning, and I am compelled to speak to cool it down. I must try, even though I might fail, to put words to all of what our experience has been. &nbsp; &nbsp; “But everything fell in line at the right time. Glad to have been ready for this journey exactly when you were.” I breathe. &nbsp; &nbsp; “We learned together silently, grew into this quietly, so that we could love this loud.” He says this as I weave new growth into a mature loc. &nbsp; &nbsp; “Rasta-man, I love you.” &nbsp; &nbsp; “And I, you, my love.” &nbsp; &nbsp; I can’t help but think to myself – hair and love require a balance of slack and tension. &nbsp; -- Published July 5, 2024This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="780" height="779" width_o="780" height_o="779" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e5d7c2de9a695abd127d166be8b0a4cdc68bed82c87522a1fd004bd0c55b866f/Abena-Oworae.png" data-mid="214195161" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/780/i/e5d7c2de9a695abd127d166be8b0a4cdc68bed82c87522a1fd004bd0c55b866f/Abena-Oworae.png" /> Author’s BioEbo was born in Ghana, grew up in Worcester, Massachusetts and now calls Akron, Ohio home. They are a 26-Year Old trans/nonbinary Queer, a writer (of short stories, long stories, poetry, and essays), a reader, and a peace-lover. ︎ @ebo.kye <img width="639" height="639" width_o="639" height_o="639" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/62c2300a2cbe3327e50b2d9e7dd1cf42974bbb696f7e5ab3fb44a5f3a8f900e7/File_001---Janaya-Nyala.png" data-mid="214195174" border="0" data-scale="86" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/639/i/62c2300a2cbe3327e50b2d9e7dd1cf42974bbb696f7e5ab3fb44a5f3a8f900e7/File_001---Janaya-Nyala.png" /> Artist’s Bio Janaya Nyala is an emerging artist and occasional poet from the lower NY area with Panamanian heritage. Her goal is to highlight Black love, mental health and sanctify the freedom for Black people, especially Black men, to be delicate, vulnerable and speak their truth. Janaya finds her inspiration through black photography, poetry, music, and her own experiences.︎ @nyala.blue ︎ https://plantinmag.com/Demen Fri, 05 Jul 2024 00:14:03 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Demen ︎ Next Story Previous Story Demen (Tomorrow) &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Junior (Jinyò) Duplessis&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Nomntu Thobeka&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 1 min&nbsp; M renmen yon gason Sijè nan bouch li se revolisyon Men si w ta wè l Li dou kou on myèl Lè nou manyen se rèl Li s on dife tou limen Yon nonm gwo nen Ki respire pou mwen Lè l kenbe men m Lanmou nou pran donnen Fwi ki byen gonmen Tout lanbi sonnen Istwa nou konplike Men demen masisi libere Nan Ginen tande Tomorrow I am in love with a guy His favorite subject is revolution But if you could see him He’s as sweet as a bee Screams when we touch He’s like a hearth to me A fella with a big nose Who only breathes for me When he holds my hand Our love bears the stickiest of fruits And all the conchs sing! Though our history is complicated Tomorrow men who love men are liberated The Ancestors will see to it &nbsp; -- Published July 5, 2024This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="780" height="779" width_o="780" height_o="779" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/5fd16f0b61fa74bc5e24425c71b886ff6a85e0f5a02d200c7dd7476024674a48/Junior-Duplessis.png" data-mid="214194879" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/780/i/5fd16f0b61fa74bc5e24425c71b886ff6a85e0f5a02d200c7dd7476024674a48/Junior-Duplessis.png" /> Author’s BioJunior Duplessis (Jinyò) was born in Pòtoprens, Haiti and raised in the luscious Platosantral region near the historic city of Mibalè. He started to develop political awareness of the status of Haitian Creole in Haiti after years at various Catholic/Espicopal schools where the French language was imposed. Today, he runs a blog, @Kreyolizasyon, on instagram exploring relevant subjects to the Haitian experience while promoting the usage of Haitian Creole. He is actively researching queer spiritual traditions and historical and linguistic connections between Haiti and other Black geographies. ︎ @Kreyolizasyon ︎ @Jadedkrab <img width="780" height="779" width_o="780" height_o="779" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/26b610e7e367dbedd77f576a531cb732972d51c8438f28e47955c1dc59a77663/Thobeka-Boya.png" data-mid="214194881" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/780/i/26b610e7e367dbedd77f576a531cb732972d51c8438f28e47955c1dc59a77663/Thobeka-Boya.png" /> Artist’s Bio Nomntu is a prominent Abstract painter, crafter, art facilitator for kids and digital illustrator. They have developed a signature style which is a blend of Afrocentric and Futurism by also referencing various ancient techniques such as weaving and embroidery to her practice. Their work connects us to some of the world's ancient cultures in a unique and dynamic way.︎ @isbani_sekhaya︎ @king_boya ︎ https://plantinmag.com/Goldilocks-of-Heartbreak Thu, 04 Jul 2024 23:48:37 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Goldilocks-of-Heartbreak ︎ Next Story Previous Story Goldilocks of Heartbreak Ekphrasis for Mary J. Blige &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Nnenna Loveth&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by A.Akido&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 1 min&nbsp; Sounds the shade of navy blue tide my body cracked against the shores of my grief. Sleep don’t come easy here… nowhere…everywhere. Time is sloshing since you been away boi. Asphyxiating surender suspends me. I wake finding that life don’t come easy that my whole world is up!-ended. Floating and sinking at once I have no idea of an ocean floor. I’m so sorry sorry sorry. Sorry! I haven’t responded to that text There's no reception in the deep. Sorry! I canceled plans again– the anglerfish and I have dinner plans swallowing the salt tears fallin' from my eyes. I settle into the sadness ask Mary J– is the ocean too big on me? She says no. It fits just right. &nbsp; -- Published July 5, 2024 This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="780" height="779" width_o="780" height_o="779" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/b41e3cd53c0ddb111ba4c27148c8b1b2eccf70cd2a7adb243bc248a03f2d5246/Nnenna-Loveth.png" data-mid="214194464" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/780/i/b41e3cd53c0ddb111ba4c27148c8b1b2eccf70cd2a7adb243bc248a03f2d5246/Nnenna-Loveth.png" /> Author’s Bio Sarah “Nnenna Loveth” Umelo Uzoma Nwafor (they/she) is an Igbo lesbian poet, performer, and facilitator. Their work explores Black g*rlhood, Black queerness, Igbo Cosmology, Sensual play and rituals of healing. Nnenna published their debut chapbook, Already Knew You Were Coming, with Game Over Books in January of 2022 and has also been featured on Button Poetry, WBUR’s ARTery, VIBEs Magazine, and Ujima #Wire. When Nnenna is not writing, they are somewhere being romanced by the intensity of life. ︎ @pleasure.as.compass︎ @nwafor_sarah ︎ pleasurearthealing.com <img width="780" height="779" width_o="780" height_o="779" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/39ccf2e1365fd13fcc14ac58ef78a23efe80ad582f313f9fd01b3c92e915295b/Alex-Akido.png" data-mid="214194465" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/780/i/39ccf2e1365fd13fcc14ac58ef78a23efe80ad582f313f9fd01b3c92e915295b/Alex-Akido.png" /> Artist’s Bio A.Akido ︎ @Alxmadethis ︎ https://plantinmag.com/Say-a-Lil-Prayer Sun, 07 Jul 2024 00:43:15 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Say-a-Lil-Prayer ︎ Next Story Previous Story Say a Lil Prayer &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Leo D. Martinez&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp;&nbsp; Illustrated by Kaitlin Woodlen (TBA)&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 16 min&nbsp; Note: This is an excerpt of a longer story &nbsp; &nbsp; Desperate, Juan Luis ran to his mother’s altar and dropped to his knees. A white sheet covered a small table that held white candles, red roses, nine glasses of clear water, and a statue of the patroness of the DR, Our Lady of Mercy, draped in a tunic and shawl of white gold—the one who allegedly shielded Columbus' goons from the righteous rage of the Native army. He removed his cap and cowered in his lap. Outside, the rooster sang praises to the sun as the dawn mist faded on his father’s farm. Swords of light pierced through the window and refracted a yellow hue on Juan Luis’s back. &nbsp; &nbsp; “Please, please, send Pablo back to me—you are the only one who can send him back to me.” &nbsp; &nbsp; Tears fell to the floor, and a feeling in his gut intensified. &nbsp; &nbsp; “I’m not at peace–can’t sleep, can’t eat. This love I feel for him…I’ve never felt before. I want to give them a piece of my soul, spend my life forever with them. Their love is a gift that I never want to lose. Please send Pablo back to me!” &nbsp; &nbsp; Under the veil where you cannot see, a prayer materialized on the tip of the Lady’s open hand and fell like a chinola from its tree. Dust-sized and glowing dimly, they rolled back and forth. They had been preparing for their first mission for ages, but the prayer now didn’t know how to move—or lacked the will to move. They only knew that they had to find a “Pablo.” What made him so important? &nbsp; &nbsp; An elder spirit mounted Juan Luis to speak through him. An aura like the Lady’s raised above his body. His arms twisted and knocked over one of the glasses. Water doused the prayer, pushing them towards the doorway. The elder gave instructions for the prayer through Juan. &nbsp; &nbsp; “Pablo is the love of Juan Luis’s life. He lives by the river and is going to make a terrible decision that will kill him. Get to that river! Do not verge off. Do not take any detours. Do not help anyone or anything but Pablo. You’re his only hope.” &nbsp; &nbsp; The prayer gained more confidence—a new light. They stood upright and recalled that, in this reality, they would need large vessels to travel long distances. The family dog, curious to learn who was screaming so loud, stepped into the altar room near the prayer. They climbed on his paw, and when the dog used it to scratch his head, the prayer clung like a flea to a black mole behind his ear. &nbsp; &nbsp; The elder spirit returned under the veil, and Juan Luis remembered who he was. He heard a ringing in his ear and turned to see the dog. For a moment, it was like he recognized the prayer. The dog couldn’t handle his intense look and skirted into the kitchen. Juan Luis turned back to the Lady’s open arms. &nbsp; &nbsp; Smelling the scent of stewed chicken in the kitchen, the dog encountered Juan Luis's mother, who snatched the broom and smacked it on the floor. Her “No, you dirty bitch!” hurt the dog’s feelings. He rushed out the front door and head-butted into a rooster, his black-blue comb wobbling. The dog yelped while the rooster got ready to fight. The prayer leaped to the rooster’s wing and held onto the fibers of its feather. The rush of oxygen from the impact reminded the dog of his lover, another male dog across the road. He ran to be with him to love unashamedly. *** &nbsp; &nbsp; The rooster didn’t know what to do with himself. He sang his morning song to celebrate that the sun had returned. What was he to do now? He scratched the red dirt, and his second purpose came to mind: to fuck as much as he could in a single day. &nbsp; &nbsp; The prayer, cocooned in the rooster’s feathers, gained more mass. They liked feeling heavy. Back home, they were a massless particle, but Juan Luis’s words became their flesh. Here, they weren’t just one of many. They don’t have to submit to the collective will or consider the greater good. They could be selfish. &nbsp; &nbsp; A devious thought came to mind: What if they didn't find Pablo, instead got bigger and explored this world? They had heard so much about this world's strange humans with too much knowledge. Humans have made so many errors—enslaved and eaten and buried alive their own kind, and yet they are still worthy of our mercy? &nbsp; &nbsp; The prayer fantasized about becoming a human—making love, eating, shitting, cussing, fighting. They could move with abandon. Then they remembered what their elders had chanted to their students: everything here dies and dissolves into chaos. If you are lost here and never complete your mission, you can never return home. Never return home? Fuck that! They had a mission and didn’t want to spend one more minute here than necessary. &nbsp; &nbsp; While the prayer contemplated their free will, the rooster made his way to the hen house, and the girls weren’t having it. He clucked around them, waving his comb and puffing up his chest, but they ignored him. He called out their names; they all side-eyed him and chuckled at his clownery. &nbsp; &nbsp; Tired of the rooster’s endless games, the prayer needed a new vessel to travel to the river. They peeked out of his wings and looked at the environment: a hot sun, bored hens, a mango tree with too many mangoes, cows napping under the shade of that tree, green hills and more hills, and beyond that, more hills—nothing was moving anytime soon. They retreated into the wing’s darkness; would they remain in this reality forever? &nbsp; &nbsp; A bell rang. Confused, the prayer saw a yellow cow pushing against the wired fence. She yelled, “That farmer always too drunk to take care of us! His offspring sit on their asses! And I don’t get any fresh water! Fuck this shit; I’m going to the river!” &nbsp; &nbsp; She was their opportunity! &nbsp; &nbsp; They fled from the rooster at the right moment because he, not caring that the hens weren’t interested, forced himself on one that was the slowest to run. &nbsp; &nbsp; Hopping to the cow became challenging: patches of morirvivis littered the ground, and its green leaves closed at the prayer’s light presence. They bounced from stalk to stalk to avoid danger. Morirvivis are said to be sensitive to touch because they fear being pulled from their roots and grieving their soil. &nbsp; &nbsp; Cut by the wire, the cow wailed, and, caught off guard, the prayer slammed into the plant. It had trapped them in its softness. They struggled to free themself, but the leaves smothered them, tiring them out. When they stopped resisting and rested on its fibers, they imagined spending the rest of their existence there. &nbsp; &nbsp; The plant, sure of its safety, opened again. The first thing the prayer saw was the cow halfway through the fence, her body scraping against the wires and hooves hitting the ground on the other side. They made the difficult choice to leave the comfort. Bouncing on the red-orange dirt was easier, and they hooked themselves onto her tail, the last part of her body, to escape. *** &nbsp; &nbsp; Licking the snot from her nose, the cow trotted down the road toward the river. The prayer moved up to her head to have a better view than her ass. They rested on an eyelash on her right eye and processed all the emotions they had experienced: selfishness, frustration, despair. Was this what a human experiences daily? They couldn't believe they had fantasized about staying here. At least back home, everything could behave as one being, one consciousness. But here, humans cause problems for themselves and scatter. What mercy did they deserve? The cow slowed to eat a patch of tall weeds. She closed her eyes and chewed on its fresh bitterness. It tasted like the first time she could eat all by herself without her mama’s milk. Her mama who was later sold to another farmer and never seen again, a cruelty the cow never forgave. She held onto her pain and turned her rage into hating her master, his family, all humans. &nbsp; &nbsp; As she moved forward, she bumped into a charred body hidden in the grass. Its head, hands, and genitals were cut off. The parts that weren't burned to a black crisp were black-blue bruised. &nbsp; &nbsp; “A-ha!” she laughed, seeing the truth the humans could be ruthless with each other. The prayer, on the other hand, felt pity. They knew that a desecrated person’s soul could never sleep in peace. These souls were stuck between the veil and here and would complain about every pain they could remember. No one listened to them. How could they transition when their histories were erased? &nbsp; &nbsp; The cow ate around the body until it was visible. She wanted other humans to see they could be slaughtered, too. The prayer made a mental note to listen to this soul’s story if they would ever encounter it. *** &nbsp; &nbsp; Juan Luis’s father woke up hungover that afternoon and went to the window to see his property: his wife scrubbing the patio floor, his rooster harassing the hens, his cows getting fatter. He noticed a lack of color among the cows and was pissed to find his yellow cow, his most valuable possession, had escaped. A buyer who wanted to breed her and sell her offspring planned to pick her up later that day. &nbsp; &nbsp; The farmer cussed out his wife for her negligence. She came up to him and shifted the guilt to their children. “Don’t disrespect me, stupid. You know I don’t give two shits about those cows. They shit and shit everywhere. You told the boys to watch her—remember, asshole? And you smell like cow shit. Go wash your ass, and I’ll get your food.” &nbsp; &nbsp; The farmer wanted to smack across her smart mouth but needed to leave as soon as possible. He grumbled to himself, washed his face, armpits, dick, and balls, and called his sons to the kitchen. &nbsp; &nbsp; Most of his children—all boys, no girls—left the farm to work in the city because that's where the money was. They were dead to the farmer. His family came from a long line of men who farmed, back when their ancestors were forced to work on someone else’s land. Now they own their own land; how could they leave behind what was their overdue reparations? Those who remained were his youngest, 20-something Juan Luis and his pre-teen twins. &nbsp; &nbsp; He spat curses at their faces while he ate stewed hen with mashed auyama. Juan Luis, hoping to appease him, said, “I was praying at Mami’s shrine, Pa. And I sent the twins to the colmado to buy some casabe.” &nbsp; &nbsp; The farmer narrowed his eyes and grabbed Juan Luis’s ear. Twisting it clockwise, he said that praying was the last thing Juan Luis should have been doing; God was not going to rain money on them. If Juan Luis wanted to pray so bad, the farmer suggested he chop off his dick and join a monastery. The twins stayed quiet to avoid their father’s wrath. When his anger plateaued, he announced that they were catching that cow. Juan Luis heard something ringing in his ear again. The twins started up their shared motorbike; the farmer got on Juan Luis’s bike, removing his cap and rubbing Juan Luis’s head like he’d done when he was a baby. Juan Luis snatched his cap and placed it back on. &nbsp; &nbsp; They all rode through the gate; his wife, hands on her lower back, asked God, “When will this life get easier?” *** &nbsp; &nbsp; The cow marched forward while the prayer retreated into their fears. They had no clue what they were going to do. From their vantage point, they still saw fields and, beyond that, more fields. Where would they even find Pablo? He could be anywhere at any time. Why would the elders put them in a difficult situation like this? One part of themself remained steadfast, but that prayer was scared shitless. &nbsp; &nbsp; Seeing an unaccompanied yellow cow walk alone did turn some heads—more than a rotting body. The exploited farm hands with bundles of batatas on their backs were too tired to capture her. Besides, everyone knew that taking another man’s property led to gunfire. They would be the ones who later told the farmer and his sons where they had seen her and in which direction she was headed. &nbsp; &nbsp; At a crossroads three miles from the river, an overseer, a good friend of the farmer, reined in his white horse to block the cow’s path. The farmer was excited to sell her to pay off his many debts. He pulled out a lasso and threw and tightened it around her neck. &nbsp; &nbsp; The prayer heard her gasping air and shrieking, “Let me go! Let me go!” &nbsp; &nbsp; She twisted her head and stomped her hooves. Orange dust flew everywhere. The overseer used all his strength to restrain her irrational movements. Why wouldn’t she obey the noose around her neck? Her cries became desperate. “I can’t go back, I can’t go back, I don’t want to disappear, I don’t want to disappear! Help me, please, help me!” The overseer laughed, feeling primal power rising in his chest as he watched her suffer. The prayer was paralyzed, powerless against this senseless cruelty. What could they do? If she was dragged back to the farm, they would be back where their journey started—time wasted. They pleaded for a miracle. Please let God be true quickly! &nbsp; &nbsp; An ashy-faced owl swooped in. She clawed on the arm that held the lasso. The horse, shocked to see an owl during the day, stood on its hind legs. The overseer fell on his back. The owl flew to the fallen man and tormented him, her talons cutting deep into his skin. He had no choice but to run away, and his horse ran after him. &nbsp; &nbsp; The owl flew to the nearest post to be eye-to-eye. "My sister, are you ok?" &nbsp; &nbsp; “No, I’m not,” her tone quivered, “I can’t be at peace nowhere.” The noose lingered around like a bruise. “Nowhere I can be at peace. Maybe leaving my farmer was a mistake.” &nbsp; &nbsp; The owl squinted at her. “You came from a farm?” &nbsp; &nbsp; “Yeah, was thirsty for fresh water—for something to nourish me. My spirit’s weak, and maybe the water from the river can heal me, you know what I mean?” &nbsp; &nbsp; She flapped her wings. “That will not happen, you know that? Your owner will be coming for you, and you will be put in the same place where you were. I see it all the time. I only helped you because your screams woke me. I am quite upset to be here in the first place—over some farm cow.” &nbsp; &nbsp; “I didn’t ask you for your help. Get the fuck out!” &nbsp; &nbsp; “Don’t bite the claw that fed you, stupid cow. Be grateful that I have gotten rid of that human. Go back before you are dragged back.” “You don’t know shit about me or what I’ve been through, so don’t tell me what I gotta do!” &nbsp; &nbsp; The owl turned her back and flew away, leaving the cow to spiral: “Owls are supposed to be wise, and us cows mindless, right? What do I know? What do I know what I want? Why am I here—all these terrible decisions I made—what’ll they do to me? Shit, shit, shit, I'm fucked.” She couldn’t move nor cry, her heart beating slower. The prayer trembled as they felt a darkness overtaking her. Crap, they didn’t plan on caring about this cow; she was just a vessel to get to the river. In this situation, the elders would advise them to find another vessel. &nbsp; &nbsp; No, the prayer couldn’t do that; they understood the gravity of her pain: she had been mistreated, objectified, and attacked. Her life was not hers. Compassion sprouted inside the prayer and bore love. Forget about Pablo and the mission and going back under the veil. Their priority was to convince her to keep going to the river. &nbsp; &nbsp; Moving into her ear, they sat inside and hummed a soft chant they had learned long ago. The cow heard a ringing that wouldn’t stop—a ringing that reverberated through her body, reaching her heart. In her mind, she heard: &nbsp; &nbsp; Praise our Mother who cools our heads &nbsp; &nbsp; Your powerful water fills us &nbsp; &nbsp; You give barren mothers babies &nbsp; &nbsp; Praise our Mother who cools our hearts &nbsp; &nbsp; The one who heals our weary hands &nbsp; &nbsp; The one who wears a coral comb &nbsp; &nbsp; Praise our Mother who washes our hair &nbsp; &nbsp; A hidden memory rushed to the front of the cow’s mind. When she was a calf, she, her mama, and the other cows were being herded through the mountains and had to cross the nearby river; the herd complained about getting wet, but her mama loved it; it was the first time the cow saw her mother laugh; her black and brown coat radiating, she splashed until the farmer whipped her; her mama’s light was strong at the river. &nbsp; &nbsp; The cow, excited to immerse herself in the water, to feel her mama’s joy, lowered her head, stepped on the rope to free herself, and walked on. The prayer could feel her light again. &nbsp; &nbsp; The farmer and his sons caught up with the defeated overseer. He explained how he was attacked and told them they weren’t far from catching her. The farmer pissed himself laughing. Imagine it—a strong man defeated by a cranky owl. Betrayed, the overseer looked unaffected but learned a lesson he would pass down to his children and their children: God don’t like ugly. &nbsp; -- Published July 5, 2024This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="750" height="750" width_o="750" height_o="750" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/9a424c750097e4f39ec9531e98345c1ba46236bd9418dad040f1578873429b85/Leo-D-Martinez2.png" data-mid="215101203" border="0" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/750/i/9a424c750097e4f39ec9531e98345c1ba46236bd9418dad040f1578873429b85/Leo-D-Martinez2.png" /> Author’s BioLeo D. Martinez (she/her &amp; they/them) is an Afro-Dominican-American and non-binary femme queen. She is a creative writer and artist born and raised in Harlem, New York who now resides in Atlanta, GA. Her writings explore the intersections, disconnections, and parallels of gender fluidity, unruly bodies, nationalism, racial identity, migration, and Afro-syncretic spiritualities. ︎ @leotheecreator︎&nbsp;@leo2gay Artist’s Bio Kaitlin Woodlen is an illustrator and published kidlit artist. ︎ https://plantinmag.com/Mother-Reversed Mon, 08 Mar 2021 05:06:39 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Mother-Reversed ︎ Next Story Previous Story Mother, Reversed &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Judith Ellen&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Illustrated by Emily Clarkson&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 6 min&nbsp; Call me Serenity!, you demanded. Age three, fastened securely in your car seat and unbound by the traditions which raised me that I knew, tepidly, I could not, for both our existences, pass down to you. You were singing, excuse me, belting out some song by Destiny’s Child where you made up toddler lyrics that sort of rhymed and merged them with the actual lyrics you could decipher. You managed to stay pitch perfect. Your music teacher would rave about your three year-old ability to remain on pitch and neither you, of course, nor I, had any idea what that meant, but it sounded mature and fully developed in a way that a mother wants the world to bless her child with greatness before they know how to read. Then I shall call you Serenity, I responded in deference. I instantly felt this pang of guilt after I said that to you because I wondered if I had named you wrong. I pulled up to the entrance, the next car in line for morning drop-off, and I could not get you to leave the car. For thirty minutes you cried in the backseat because you had not finished your homework, and you were upset with yourself, fisting the crumpled sheet of math problems, which was becoming soaked with your tears. I used every trick from the invisible Parenting a Fourth Grader manual to try and calm you. You were overly tired from afternoon and evening performances the day before when you spent your entire day at the theatre. I was with you for part of the day, the child wrangler for the rest of it. One evening, I picked you up from rehearsal and the cast was all smiles. You were killing it, they exclaimed. Well, I said, she is Shiva the Destroyer. And that’s what they called you from that point on. I knew Shiva from my yogic studies, but I didn’t fully understand until I saw you on stage. You possessed the ability to both speak the world into existence and to call it crashing down, and I didn’t know what to do with you. Your power embarrassed me like I had done something terribly wrong while you were in utero. Like we would forever be caught in a cycle of push and pull and if I tried to suppress you,&nbsp; you lifted me to the heavens so I could see all that I would never control. I couldn’t get you to leave the car and you missed another day of school. You were listening to the song I Kissed a Girl on repeat, and excitedly, I called my best friend to gloat that I had done it. I had successfully raised an emerging teen girl who embraced her sexual identity unbegrudged by religious and societal norms. This was a fancy, educated way of saying that I was the mother that young, White feminists dreamt of becoming. But the real reason I called her was to ask, yet again, which books she recommended I read about talking to your daughter about menstruation and her body. I had read Our Bodies, Ourselves too late and had never memorized the anatomy of the vagina. Whenever the deluge of my blood could not be contained with a super-plus tampon and a back-up, nighttime maxi-pad, I hid my stained underwear and bedsheets from you. This was my shame and by god this would never be yours, and I had to find a way of teaching you that didn’t expose me for the sham artist I was. For your seventeenth birthday, we went to high afternoon tea at that posh hotel in the seaport district. Our table was decorated with red rose petals and situated near the windows, providing an unobstructed view of the water. The view made it easier for me to disconnect from the uncomfortable parts of our conversation where you were talking freely about your relationship with your boyfriend. You loved being in love, and I did not understand the subversive language of emotion, which when translated, is what eroticism is. I had you young during a time when having babies young was a perfectly acceptable and fashionable thing to do. Sticking your hip out to hold a well-fed baby the same way those hips swayed in the club before the pregnancy occurred. The server came over to announce the fixed menu, and he was very handsome and proper. I’m pretty sure he thought that table had been reserved for a pair of lovers. We’re at the kitchen table with our laptops. I’m blurting out examples of topics you can use for your med school application essay. You’re shaking your head at every turn of phrase, every random thought, which I think comes from an informed place. For inspiration, I’ve placed a few old copies of Norton’s Anthology of American Literature in front of you, where the dog-eared pages are reminders of my red-lined papers, which I thought were A-work but I had to hopelessly settle for B+s. I double-majored in English Lit and French. I thought that I would move back to Paris after I graduated, but what good would I have been with a BA cum laude and a toddler in tow? My French was not strong enough to raise you bilingually and my daddy needed me back at home. For extra cash, I wrote papers for struggling undergrads. I am an adequate writer, but you, you have the gift of space travel. You create portals for beings who desire to leave this empty world in search of life amid the uninhabitable. “For there are no new ideas--” you are starting to say, but I interrupt you. I’m lost in my past and it’s getting in your way. You patiently repeat, “For there are no new ideas. There are only new ways of making them felt…” I look up from my screen and I am impressed with your statement. It’s from Audre Lorde, you tell me, and you think you’re going to use her quote as a thesis statement. It’s lovely, it’s perfect, I tell you. I had no idea that you read Audre Lorde. You laugh and say that I don’t remember that year when we took turns reading her essays aloud. The year of the uprisings. The year when you went from wearing your hair straight, to box braids and then to locs. You’re right, I say. I have a terrible memory. I only remember your hair. &nbsp; -- Published March 10, 2021This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="639" height="639" width_o="639" height_o="639" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/606c73bbf64598c4f8a99b24594430b62d22ca50526e9417aa1db02b66d711bf/headshot_June2020---Judith-Tauriac.png" data-mid="101310550" border="0" data-scale="80" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/639/i/606c73bbf64598c4f8a99b24594430b62d22ca50526e9417aa1db02b66d711bf/headshot_June2020---Judith-Tauriac.png" /> Author’s BioJudith Ellen is a multi-hyphenate writer based in New England. Her writing has appeared in Wretched Creations Magazine, Telling Our Stories Press, and Elephant Journal. She is the creator of UNpolisheD &amp; IMProPEr, a quarterly virtual writing and yoga series.︎ @karmicdragonshead︎ @thekarmicdragon Artist Emily Clarkson ︎clarkegraphicdesign.com ︎ https://plantinmag.com/Stush Mon, 08 Mar 2021 05:19:33 +0000 Plantin https://plantinmag.com/Stush ︎ Next Story Previous Story Stush &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Written by Camille Wanliss&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Illustrated by Sam Viotty&nbsp;&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Est. Reading Time: 5 min&nbsp; The way Stush Campbell sees it, they were all living on borrowed land. Nuh matter if it was passed down, generation to generation, or paid for with the sweat off their back. Like a man who find out him pickney a jacket, in the end what you thought was yours was never truly yours. Not since the first bauxite deposits were discovered. Not since the government declared that any property bearing the mineral belonged to the Crown. There was a time when the old folks said the red soil got its color from the mass graves underneath. Said bakra broke ground to dash ‘way broken body after broken body. Piled flesh on high like burlap sacks filled with flour. All because the ancestors heard the drum call of Tacky and Nanny, and the whispers of Samuel the Baptist. Ol’ massa thought he could squash rebellion into the root, but him never anticipated soul turning into sod. Could not have known that marrow and sinew would one day become earth and ore. How many Sundays did they preach of the moon turning to blood? Imagine their surprise when it would be the very ground beneath their feet. Now wherever the soil bleed, people disappear. One day you could be talking to the usher whose face favor common fowl or the bar owner you once box down inna bush when you were in fifth form, and the next day they’re gone. You don’t even realize it at first. Entire weeks pass before you notice the shuttered bar on the side of the road or the several church services Madda Inez hasn’t escorted you to your pew. All because what one conqueror bury, another decided to unearth. For Stush, it take a little longer. She hadn’t been to the family farm in Myersville in years, not since Granny Bell went home to glory and her mother take sick. Her uncle Desmond had the title transferred to his name, so when the time came to make arrangements for her mother, Stush could think of no other place than the burial plot on the property. She leave all the way from Jones Town thinking she a go find the forty acres of yam and cassava, the one-story house with the swing bench on the veranda, the water well, and the pear trees her granddaddy plant out back for the baby born blue and the two God saw fit to blow breath into, but when she get there, all Stush see is a gaping wound in the ground. If mothers are our first home, Stush nuh have nothing to run to now, so she runs past the open pit with the jagged rock stone. Past the places cordoned off with barbed wire. Past the boarded windows and overgrown grass and hollowed-out buildings. Past the ghost town until she happens upon signs of life. As Stush nears one home, she sees an old woman sitting in the yard, separating ackee seeds into a bowl on her lap. Another woman, possibly her daughter, emerges from behind the screen door in a house dress, her hand in military salute to block the sun from her face. The woman says a man from “the other BBC” – Berthe Bauxite Company – knocked on their door one day to buy the land for mining. She told him no, that her mother have a whole heap of medical problem and they needed to be near the clinic. Another time after that, an American stopped by saying the same thing and again she refused. They remain one of a few holdouts, though the woman admits she’d likely sell the land now ‘cause the company’s machines make all sort of noise in the ungodly hour, and with many of the farmers gone, she haffi travel further and further to buy food. Stush shows the woman a photo of her uncle and asks if she knows him. The woman stares at it for a long time before shaking her head. Before she leaves, Stush is handed a piece of paper with the address of a man named Bruce Harrison. He relocated to a district called Pepper as part of Berthe’s resettlement scheme. She says he may know something. When Stush arrives at Bruce’s cattle farm, he greets her like they’re old friends. He’s short with gray hair and even more peeking out of the top of his shirt. On the back porch, he fans himself with a khaki-colored cap and places napkins over the rum punch to keep the flies out. “When dem first say ‘bauxite,’ mi tink dem a talk ‘bout s’maddy rass,” Bruce says, flashing a row of missing teeth. His smile soon fades. He had heard of farmers before him who were forced off their land with nowhere to go and no way of making a living. Some given a mere two weeks’ notice to leave. He feared what would happen to his farm and his family, so when Berthe offered to compensate him with the same amount of acreage they were taking, he signed the contract right then and there. Figured it was better than nothing. Here in Pepper, his livestock have more grass to graze on, but his days are filled with regret. He says his wife decided to stay behind in Myersville with their children because, as he put it, “she never feel fi leave her church and her job and her friend dem.” Stush asks about her uncle, but Bruce says he hasn’t seen the man in a long time. He then takes her to the bar where Desmond’s old girlfriend works. Trudi is the kind of woman who responds to your greeting by looking you over from head to foot bottom. “Him gone a foreign,” she mutters bitterly before Stush can utter a single word. It turns out Desmond took a cash payout from Berthe, paid off his debts, and purchased a one-way ticket to England. Not long after that, Stush dream see the bauxite refinery in Nain and thick, gray smoke billowing from its cylinders. In the nightmare, the smoke gathers at her feet, then rises higher and higher until a sickening smell chokes the air in and around her. She drops whatever she’s doing and runs as fast as she can, but whenever she looks back, the smoke is right there behind her. Soon, it leaves nothing in its wake. Not Bruce’s cattle farm or the home where the old woman and her daughter live. Not the shop that serves cornmeal porridge or Ovaltine with sweetened milk every morning. Not even the Revivalists holding service along Marchmont Road. As they vanish into the fog, Stush can still hear the rattle of their tambourines and the raspy voice of the one they call Captain Owen singing: Awake Zion, awake Awake and trim your lamps Stush wakes up all right, her nightgown drenched in sweat. She lies in the dark frightened so till she don’t know what to do. And just as quickly as the clock hand strikes the midnight hour, that same fear turns into searing rage. &nbsp; -- Published March 10, 2021This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. <img width="639" height="639" width_o="639" height_o="639" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/d6206c5d9d4b973b468691aed9933f31ce702fd8724c966dbfb7129c0ab04879/Camille-Wanliss---Camille-Wanliss.png" data-mid="101310926" border="0" data-scale="80" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/639/i/d6206c5d9d4b973b468691aed9933f31ce702fd8724c966dbfb7129c0ab04879/Camille-Wanliss---Camille-Wanliss.png" /> Author’s BioCamille Wanliss is a Jamaican-American writer born and raised in New York. A 2021 Pigeon Pages Essay Contest winner, her work has also appeared in Raising Mothers, Anomaly, Kweli Journal, Weird Sister, The Feminist Wire, and The Indypendent, among others. In 2016, she founded Galleyway, a site that champions diverse voices and spotlights opportunities for writers of color. Camille is the recipient of the Adria Schwartz Award in Women’s Fiction and her short story “Leverage” was shortlisted for the Small Axe Literary Prize. She earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the City College of New York.︎&nbsp;@CamilleWanliss︎&nbsp;camillewanliss.com <img width="639" height="639" width_o="639" height_o="639" data-src="https://freight.cargo.site/t/original/i/e2fc2519dede2b21ab25583b0d2e90d58e0e729157f73fddf851218299e65f9e/StushImage.png" data-mid="101311150" border="0" data-scale="80" src="https://freight.cargo.site/w/639/i/e2fc2519dede2b21ab25583b0d2e90d58e0e729157f73fddf851218299e65f9e/StushImage.png" /> Artist’s Bio Sam Viotty is a designer, creative strategist, and illustrator based in Washington DC. Her artistic career has revolved around youth and community work as a teaching artist and now runs the Viotty Design Studio, a creative operations design consultancy. She gets excited about having conversations about visual art, museums, libraries, books, and data! ︎&nbsp;@viottydesignstudio ︎