But you’ve been seeing it here in my writing as much as I’ve been feeling it. I’m tired of all of it… the performance, the presentation… anything that keeps me from actually being me. From being free. I crave that so much. That call to just drop it all… all of the responsibilities and expectations and just go enjoy my life. Live with abandon.

It’s an unrealistic goal, but who gives a fuck about realistic. I’m living the realistic life right now and I am BORED. I look forward to nothing. I am never excited, or terrified, or ecstatic. I keep saying this because its true—

I WANT MORE. SO MUCH MORE.

I’m thankful for what I have but I want to live differently. Wrecklessly. Openly. Wildly.

No story today. Just these thoughts. We’ll see what I do with them.

It’s starting to occur earlier than it did in the past. Now, I’m at the one year mark and looking around for an exit. I want to be independent, but I also need to have consistent income. So the question for me remains— how do I build something that actually fits me? That will provide the stable income while also allowing me to work how and where I want?

Still don’t have the answer for that.

Today’s Story

I wrote this story while still contending with my need for freedom. I know what’s expected of me, I just don’t want to do it. I’m beyond ready to live my life on my own terms, regardless of what other people may think. But also, with consistent money.

Anyway, enjoy!

Do Black Women deserve happiness?

My mom used to say of her sister, “She hit rock bottom and just kept digging,” to explain why they hadn’t talked to each other in over 20 years. As a child, I took it pretty literally. I could see my Aunt Yvonne, her clothes torn and her beauty hidden under dirt, furiously trying to free herself from a hole by digging herself in deeper.

“Yvonne is defiant, arrogant, and haughty,” my mom would say, in her warnings to me. “She fell hard, now look at her.” Sometimes my mom would say I reminded her of Aunt Yvonne. And she predicted I would turn out just like her.

My mom passed away a week ago. My sister, Antoinette, called me to share the news.

“She’s gone,” Antoinette moaned into the phone. As tense as things had been between my mother and I, this was the very last thing I wanted to or needed to hear. I felt my body crumble into the sidewalk.

One four-hour flight later, I landed in my hometown. It was just as quiet and serene as I remembered it, as I ran from it when I was 22. In front of my mother’s house were two large weeping willow trees, and the branches hung heavy with sadness. I sat in my tiny rental car and watched them for a few moments. We know that death is a part of life and that we all move through the cycles, but for a moment I just want it all to stop. This was too heavy, and I wanted to breathe.

Antoinette came to the front door, and waved to me. “Andria!” she yelled. “Come inside! You don’t see this storm coming?”

It was like instantly I noticed how the wind was swirling around the weeping willows, and tossing their branches violently to the left. I hopped out the car, grabbed my bags, and ran inside the house just as the rain started to fall.

Antoinette closed the door quickly behind me. “Here, gimme your coat,” she said. I shake it off my body and hand it to her.

“Be careful with that,” I said. “I just got it.”

“Yeah, it definitely looks fancy,” she sneered. She clearly wasn’t impressed. Her hair was pulled into a tight, long braid, and she wore a simple black maxi dress. I reached out to hug her, and she was taken aback.

“What?” I said. “I haven’t seen you in a couple years.”

She nodded, then leaned into a hug. “I’m sorry.”

“How are you holding up?” I asked.

“I’m here. I mean…” Her voice dropped into a whisper. “Aunt Yvonne is here.”

“She is?”

“Yeah, she came in about an hour ago. I just thought I’d warn you.”

I craned my neck around the corner to see Aunt Yvonne, sitting quietly in an armchair, watching the storm kick up outside of the window. My heart fluttered. I approached and tapped her on the shoulder.

Her hair was long, bone straight, and white, even though she couldn’t have been more than sixty years old. Her skin was tight and golden brown, and her large eyes were framed by vintage cat-eye frames. She was so stunningly beautiful. She resembled my mom, but her face didn’t have the hardness I had grown accustomed to.

“Aunt Yvonne?” I said, hesitantly.

“Andria Morgan!” She stood up and hugged me tightly. “Oh my! I couldn’t imagine you more beautiful!”

We sat back down. She settled back into her armchair, and I found a spot on the nearby couch.

“It’s so good to see you!” I said, unsure of what to say next, and hoping she’d be willing to direct the conversation.

“I just can’t get over it! Both you and your sister! I’m so sorry I didn’t see you more when you were younger.”

“I get it,” I said. “You had your own life to lead.”

We were quiet. I wanted to ask her about her life, about her rock bottom. She didn’t look like a woman who was suffering or who had a hard life.

She smiled, and sighed deeply. “Your mother and I used to hate storms. Grandma would make us turn out all the lights, and we would just have to sit and wait for it to pass. Now, it feels like a meditation of sorts. Just sitting silently in a dark room, watching the world move and change in front of you while you’re safe and dry inside.”

“When was the last time you spoke with Mommy?” I asked. Aunt Yvonne let out an uncomfortable chuckle. “I mean, if it’s not too personal.”

“Your mother and I had a… complicated relationship,” she said. “We loved each other very much, but we were just very different people who couldn’t meet each other halfway.”

“You don’t need to patronize me, Aunt Yvonne,” I said. “You’re being more gracious to her than she ever was to you. I can handle the truth, whatever it is.”

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to insult you or hide anything. We don’t speak ill of the dead, though.”

“You’re not speaking ill though, just truthfully.” I looked back towards Antoinette, who was busying herself in the kitchen. “My mother warned me against turning into you. I just wanted to know what was so bad, so abhorrent to her.”

My aunt inhaled deeply. Her eyes drifted back towards me. “I grew up seeing the burden of black womanhood. I saw the work they did, constant, neverending work. All the choices they made, the sacrifices so that someone else could have something. Your mom saw it as heroic. I saw it as foolish.”

My ears perked up. I studied her face as she continued.

“I wanted what I saw on TV. You know it was the seventies and eighties, and I loved soap operas. The gaudy excess, the ease of living rich. Girl, I didn’t know what I didn’t know, but I was sure that it was better than working minimum wage at a fast food joint, or cleaning somebody’s house. I was ambitious, but I didn’t know what my ambition was. I just knew I wanted to be rich. So, what were the examples around me? Date men with means. So, I started dating hustlers. Around then was when your mom and I lost touch, because she didn’t approve of my choices in men. Shit looking back, I wouldn’t have either. I quickly learned that leaning on someone else for my success was not going to work. I dated better men, but instead of looking to them for money, I took their knowledge and skills. Don’t get me wrong, if they offered me money I took it. But I also got connections and business acumen. I wiggled my way into party promotions, which led to event planning. Your mom saw me as a failure because to her, there was NO WAY I could be doing anything legitimate to survive. I had to be selling my body. I had to be doing something unseemly. After a while, I just let her think what she want.”

I knew what she meant. The disapproval my mother bestowed upon me weighed heavily now. She didn’t like any of my choices. She didn’t approve of my lifestyle, even though, for the most part, I was happy.

“You had to be happy,” I blurted out, surprised at myself.

“I deserved it. One hundred percent I deserved it.” Aunt Yvonne said. “Despite what she thought, I deserved it.”

“I don’t think my mom was happy.” I thought for a moment. “It’s crazy, but things seem so much clearer to me now.”

Antoinette entered the room holding a plate of mini fruit tarts. She placed them in the middle of the coffee table. “The rest of the guests should be arriving at any minute. Can I get you anything else? Water?”

I shook my head. “I’m good, thanks.”

Aunt Yvonne reached for a tart. “These look delicious dear.”

“Thank you,” Antoinette said without a smile. She went back into the kitchen.

Aunt Yvonne quickly put the tart back.

“Why’d you do that?” I whispered.

“She reminds me of your mom,” she whispered back. “And I made a rule. If that food ain’t cooked with love, I don’t eat it. Always gotta be mindful about what you put in your body.”

I’m in that space now. Counting down the hours. I have about a day left.

Its weird because while so much of my surroundings have changed… and Huntsville as a city has grown to being almost unrecognizable… so much is still the same. The thought processes, the mindsets. My desire for so much more from my life.

Add to it that I caught a stray from my grandmother that I was not expecting. She told me that God told her I was gonna die if I didn’t lose weight. Like ma’am! She was crying and everything. Said I was gonna leave my daughter an orphan. And, that God said that I would get a boyfriend once I lost weight. Then she smiled like she was telling me good news. Like, you’re not good enough as you are, but not to worry, just get on Ozempic and then some man will want you.

The way she’s talking, I must need to be a cast member on 600-lb life.

Two things: could I lose weight? Sure, its something I have actively been working on. But also, like ma’am, do you know the work I have had to do to get to a place where I love and value myself as I am?

Today’s Story:

I thought about posting this story last week, but I didn’t because it hurt too much still. Shit, it still hurts now, but after this week… I gotta let this go.

As women, as black people, as black women, we are constantly hearing how if we were just a little more… or a little less… then somehow that would be the thing that makes us acceptable. Desirable. Valuable. But all of it is a lie. We can contort ourselves, break off pieces, twist our spines into knots, and still not be enough, or be too much, for other people. Why continue to play into this game? I’m having more fun just existing as I am.

“I felt I had to change every part of who I am in order for someone to love me.”

by Katrina Mitchell

My therapist looked at me with serious concern on her face. “How long would you say you’ve been feeling depressed?”

I wanted to act nonchalant. I didn’t need her panicking. It wasn’t a big deal. “A few months,” I said. “Since this whole thing started.”

“And have you had any thoughts of harming yourself?”

I paused with this question. Now I knew she would panic if I told her the truth. “No.”

She didn’t break her gaze. I looked away.

“No, I don’t think of hurting myself. Got too much to live for.” I laughed uncomfortably.

“If you ever did, would you tell me? Or tell someone? Before you did?”

“I mean, yeah. I’m not crazy.”

“No, I never said that you were.”

“I know.”

We sat in silence for a moment. I looked at my hands. I watched my thumb as it ran across the tips of my fingers.

“Why do you think you’re feeling depressed?”

“I don’t know. Isn’t that a typical feeling to have when your world basically falls apart in a matter of a few days?”

“Stop exaggerating. Remember what we agreed to.”

“That we’d only consider what’s true.”

“And what’s true, according to your timeline, is that everything occurred over the past year.”

“Right, but that one week when everything came to a head—“

“I know, but you don’t think you might have been feeling down from before that?”

I exhaled. At that moment, I did not like that woman very much.

“I lost my job. My best friend passed away. Yes I hated my job. Yes, my friend was sick for a long time before she passed. But when it all happened, it was too much.”

My therapist nodded. “That’s why you’re feeling depressed?”

“I mean, yeah.”

“That’s the only reason?”

I didn’t want to answer her. I refused to answer her. I didn’t want to lie again.

“So there’s no other reason?”

“You wanna ask me that again in a different way, doc?” I snapped. “My answer ain’t gonna change.”

“You didn’t answer at all.”

“Cuz I can’t say what you want me to say.”

“Jennifer, therapy only works when we are completely honest and are willing to be open and vulnerable about the things we are feeling.”

“I’m not— I don’t want to feel that, though.”

“Feel what?”

“Alone.” My tone was harsh. I looked up at her and apologized. “I’m sorry. I just—“

“No, it’s okay,” She nodded. “Feeling alone is normal. You’ve experienced a lot of loss over these past few months.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Like, I’m for real tired of talking about it.”

“I know. But the thing that you’re resisting the hardest, that’s the thing that needs to be examined. Brought to the light. As long as you suppress it, you continue to hurt yourself.”

“It’s just a situation that won’t go away. No matter what I do, I always feel alone. So why dwell on it?”

“Why do you feel like you’re alone?”

“Cuz I am! I mean, look around. Everyone is concerned only about themselves. Don’t nobody have time to help me with my shit.”

“Do you ask?”

“Why would I? I already know their answer.”

“Do you know? Or are you just afraid to ask?”

I really don’t like this woman.

“What do you think will happen if you did ask someone for support? Your mom, for instance?”

“I think she will lead with ‘well you think you know everything, so figure it out.’ Then she’ll proceed to send me a barrage of job listings that I am either deeply uninterested in or extremely unqualified for. This is how she shows support. But it is very unhelpful.”

“Do you ever just say specifically what you need?”

“Yes, but it doesn’t matter. She only gives what she wants to give. It’s just easier to figure it out on my own without involving her. Cuz that’s what I’ll end up doing anyway.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Figuring it out on my own.”

“Right, but just a moment ago, you said you feel alone.”

“I do! It’s just something I have to deal with. Accept. I get that.”

My therapist observed me silently. I looked away.

“I just feel like everything is requiring me to change. Like I’m not lovable or acceptable as I am now. The only person who I knew that loved me for me is gone, and I’m still here. And I do not know why.”

My therapist closed her notebook. “We speak in truths,” she said. “And the truth is you are not the only person who feels alone right now. But the feeling of aloneness is not fact. Feelings shift, emotions change. You’re grieving and that is okay. But at some point, you’re going to have to make a choice. A choice to change your perspective. You are not actually alone– you’re choosing to be. And that’s okay for now, but only for now.”

I shifted in my seat.

She continued. “I know your friend wouldn’t want you to be out here feeling lonely. She would want you to get up, go out, and enjoy your life. And yeah you’re not working now, and that’s frustrating, but it is a temporary state. You’ll find more work, or even better, you’ll find something else to do. But that only comes when you choose it.”

I looked at the clock, willing the hour to be over. Five more minutes.

“Hey,” she said, in a voice that startled me. “Look at me. I need you to hear this.”

I turned back towards her with the most defiant look I could muster.

“You, as you are right this moment, are lovable. You, as you are today, are acceptable. I need you to repeat that back to me.”

“I am lovable.”

“As you are right now.”

“As I am right now.”

“You, as you are today, are acceptable.”

“I, as I am today,” I started. “I am acceptable.”

“Good,” she said. “Now work on believing it.”

But I’m also learning that if I want “it”, and “it” in this instance is rest, I have to grab it. No one is gonna give it to me, especially if they thrive off of my labor. The job isn’t gonna look at me and say, “Trina, you’re tired. Take the day off.” Whatever my daughter needs, she’s gonna ask for it, doesn’t matter if I’m trying to close my eyes at the moment. So, if I want or need rest for me, I gotta just take it, and not feel guilty about it.

But even in general, whatever I want is within my grasp. The question is always, am I willing to get it?

Today’s Story—

The things we do to cope. Sometimes life is just lifeing the fuck out of us, and we need to indulge and disassociate just enough so we can cope. So here is an ode to tacos, pizza sauce, and friends that get it.

“Heartbreak and heartburn are basically the same thing, right?”

by Katrina Mitchell

The waiter came out from the back, holding a large margherita pizza on a tray. He placed the pizza in front of me. He was silent when he delivered it but his eyes were judging me. I didn’t give a fuck.

He was new. He didn’t know how I did things here.

I was 24 hours out from my latest relationship catastrophically imploding, and this is how I nursed myself back to emotional health. Right, I know that it doesn’t actually work this way. But also, again, I don’t give a fuck.

I pulled out a slice and folded it lengthwise. I opened my mouth to take a bite, when my friend Theresa plopped down in the seat next to me.

“I knew I would find you here,” she smirked. “You had that ‘Jimmy’s Pizza’ sound in your voice.”

“Shut up, you don’t know me,” I smiled. I took a bite and was immediately transported to my happy place. Somewhere between the red sauce, fresh mozzarella, and basil, I found my solace and comfort.

“Mandy, I know you. Probably better than you know yourself.” Theresa laughed and took a slice. “You swear by this shit, but it ain’t that good.” She bit into it, then dropped the pizza on a paper plate. She twisted her lips as she chewed.

“Yeah girl, we can definitely do better than this.” She waved the waiter over. “Can I get the check?”

“I prepaid at the register,” I said.

“Oh, even better.” Theresa picked up her bag, then grabbed me by the wrist. “Come on.”

“No,” I resisted. “I wanna eat my pizza!”

“Uh-uh. You are an adult, and if you’re gonna eat your feelings, you will at least do it with better quality food.”

We walked out into the sunlight. I kept my eyelids low and leaned on Theresa as we walked.

“How much did you sleep last night?” she asked.

“Umm, I went to bed around midnight, then woke up at 2:30 and watched infomercials and played games until about 5. Then I went back to sleep, and got up at 6:30 to go to work. Then left work maybe an hour later cuz what the fuck was I thinking?”

“I hope you at least got some miracle spring water while you were up.”

“Nah, I just prayed over my blunt. It will do the same thing.”

Theresa snorted. “Right, right.”

We walked a few blocks and happened upon an upscale taqueria. We went in and found a table near a window.

“Tacos isn’t pizza,” I said, observing the room.

“Nope. It’s better.” Theresa smiled. “Just let me order for you okay?”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t order me no squid or nothing crazy like that.”

Theresa motioned for the waiter, then placed the order. Then, she turned to me and just stared. I took a sip from my straw and tried to look away. When I turned back, it was like her eyes were boring holes into my skull.

“What?” I laughed, trying to play it off.

“I’m just waiting on you to…”

“I’m fine. Really.” She didn’t believe me. “Really!” I exclaimed.

“So, you’re just going to eat and drink and pretend that you’re okay?”

“No,” I replied. “I’m going to eat and drink and accept what is and move on with my life. Besides, heartbreak and heartburn are basically the same things, right?”

“Hmm,” Theresa said.

“You really didn’t need to save me. And I’m gonna go back for my pizza tomorrow.”

So my challenge for myself going forward? Do the scary thing. Tell the absolute truth, all of it, not holding back or massaging away the parts that feel the most vulnerable. And remember that my worthiness is not based on what I did or didn’t do in the moment. It’s based on my humanity, the fact that I exist. That I am here in this moment.

No more regrets. No more trying to protect myself from imaginary hurt. If I want to live fully, if I really want what I say what I want, I have to go after it full throttle.

And I am committing to doing exactly that going forward.

Today’s Story—

I want a slow evening. A sweet moment of connection in the midst of a storm. A reminder of what exists between us, what we must nurture, what we cannot lose.

This story is about creating a space for connection. A moment, a glimpse into what feels like home. Hope you enjoy!

Dance real slow

by Katrina Mitchell

I loved moving in sync with him. We had discovered this pattern where it felt almost instinctual– he’d step forward and I would step back. He’d place his hand on my lower back and I’d turn out. We’d shuffle through our daily routine, always physically aware of where the other is. We curled into each other every night. It was so comfortable, I almost forgot to check in.

The changes happened slowly, almost imperceptibly. We bumped into each other on our way in and out the door. Then, we collided into each other in the kitchen. It seemed the more we avoided what was bothering us, the less we were able to avoid each other.

Our sync was off, and I wasn’t sure how or why it started. It could have been the night I stayed out late and forgot to call. Or the day he got good news and didn’t tell me first. So many small things were starting to take a toll on us. To me, it was important for us to get back on track.

It was a quiet night. I lit candles all around the house. I had music playing quietly in the background. I ordered food from our favorite restaurant. He came in the house that evening with a confused look on his face.

“What’s all this?” He asked.

I patted the seat next to me on the couch. “Come. Sit.”

He hesitated, then removed his coat. “I’m tired. What’s all this?”

“I wanted to talk with you…”

“Aww hell,” he responded quickly. “What did I do now?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” I inhaled deeply. I could see his defenses were up. I wanted to diffuse the situation. “Do you wanna sit down?”

He thought for a moment, then walked over to the couch. He sat at the other end.

“Would you come closer?” I asked.

“I’m fine over here,” he stated. “Now what do you want to talk about?”

The lights flickered around us. I decided to get right to it. “We’re off.”

“What?”

“We’re not moving well together. It could be me…”

“Oh, it’s definitely you,” he sneered. I ignored it.

“...but I can’t help but feel like something is missing or is off. So I wanted to spend some time with you. Talk, reconnect. Check in. Make sure we’re good.”

“We’re good,” he said.

“Humor me, please?” I asked. “I got us dinner. Are you hungry?”

He laughed because I knew the answer. I rose and grabbed the bags from the kitchen table, and brought them to the couch. I handed him a container with garlic noodles and spicy shrimp, and I got the green curry with rice. I moved to the seat next to him.

“Is it okay with you if I sit here?”

I could see his defenses letting down a bit. “Yeah, it’s cool.”

We ate our food in silence. I would look at him until I caught his eye, then I’d quickly look away and giggle like a school girl. After the third time, he laughed too. “What?”

“Nothing,” I laughed. “How was your day?”

And almost immediately, the floodgates opened. He told me about this project he was working on and how stressful it was. He told me about a coworker who was determined to upstage him every chance he got. Then he asked me what was going on with me. I told him about the off color joke my boss made when he thought I was out of earshot, and my debate about taking it to HR or not. I told him I think of quitting every single day, but my bills keep me chained to the office.

“If you were to leave, what would you want to do instead?”

I didn’t have an answer.

The night went on, and we laughed so much. It was getting late, and we were cleaning up. An Isley Brothers song played in the background. And that’s when I felt it– his hand on my lower back. I shifted forward. He held his hand out to me. I took it, and he twirled me. I landed back in his arms.

“I didn’t realize how much I missed this,” he said, as we swayed.

“Sometimes, life gets to just be too much,” I whispered. “It’s nice to have moments like this again. I like just being. With you.”

“I like that too,” he said.

And we danced. Real slow.

I ended up switching classes later that year (another story for another day) and my new teacher recognized my love for writing and told my mom to sign me up for a special creative writing seminar they were having at the school on Saturday. One thing to note here: I was raised Seventh-Day Adventist, so Saturday activities were out of the question. We observed the sabbath from sunset Friday to sunset Saturday, and in between no “work” was allowed. And even the definition of work varied depending on who you were around. And in general, it also meant fun too. Anything considered “worldly” had to wait until the sun set.

I don’t know how I convinced her, but my mother made an exception and allowed me to go. For hours, I sat, and wrote, and listened to others as they spoke about their writing, and I was enthralled. In my own personal heaven.

Writing and storytelling have always felt like that for me.

Until I started trying to write a novel. Lawdddd is it hard! I have been stuck at about 40,000 words for the past two months. Like, I’m almost done, only 10,000 more words to go. And the tank is empty, the tires are flat. I gotta put this car in neutral and push it the rest of the way if I want to finish.

And I sincerely do want to finish.

But life has been kicking my butt and honestly, every time I open my project, my mind goes blank. And it is so frustrating that I have a hard time even opening the project now. I keep thinking maybe I just need more time, maybe I should focus on other things like building this Substack or writing scripts.

It’s all distractions though. Ultimately, I just gotta get it done.

Today’s Story—

Some days you just gotta let it go. The back and forth, on and off situations can be draining. Today’s story is about getting off that wheel.

“Once they walk out the door, close it and lock it behind them.”

by Katrina Mitchell

This is the third time Tristen called, and Zhari was still refusing to pick up. She tried to focus on the computer screen in front of her, and the numbers she was trying to interpret. Anyway, she knew why he was calling. He’d left his stuff, some clothes and important documents, in her closets, and wanted to retrieve them. But the last few times she let him come by (for his toothbrush, for a drink, for closure), they’d ended up naked and in bed and by the time he left, she was more confused than before. This was their cycle, and by the tenth time around, Zhari was tired of it.

Zhari did not want to be a sneaky link. She didn’t want to be the person who let him come by whenever he needed to get his dick wet, then disappeared later. Or made her the bad guy for “wanting more from him.” He always gets his needs met, she thought. Why can’t I get mines?

Her needs were simple. She wanted consistency. She wanted effort. She wanted someone to put the same energy into her that they were expecting from her. But apparently, asking for that was like asking for a kidney or a million dollars. It was always more than anyone was willing to give.

Thunder rolled and lightning flashed outside. Rain started beating against the window. Zhari looked longingly out the window, then back to the screen. The numbers in front of her were bleeding together. Zhari looked at the clock. It was approaching midnight. She closed her computer screen, then trudged to her bed.

Before she could close her eyes, a loud knock came from the front door. A heavy, incessant knock. She walked slowly to the door, picking up a bat nearby before yelling out, “Who is it?”

“Open the door Zhari!” It was Tristen.

Zhari gripped the bat near her waist. She opened the door slowly.

“You can’t just be popping up here,” Zhari said. “We’re not together anymore.”

“Why you dodging my calls?” he responded.

“Cuz I knew you ain’t had nothing new to say.”

“You ain’t know that,” he said, smirking. Tristen slid past her, his hoodie soaking wet from the rain.

“Excuse me, I didn’t invite you in.”

He turned his back to her, running his hands across the furniture like it was his first time seeing it.

“Tristen!” she yelled. “You can’t stay.”

“It’s cool,” he said. “I just came to get the last of my things.” He walked into her bedroom. “I’m glad you ain’t got no niggas here.”

Zhari pushed past him and opened the closet door. She pulled out a box packed with his clothes. “I was going to mail it tomorrow.”

“Good, I saved you a trip.”

“Mm-hmm.” She handed him the box and headed back to the door. “You can go now.”

Tristen placed the box on the floor and sat on the couch. “Uh-uh,” Zhari said. “You are not staying.”

“I just want to talk, Zee.”

Zhari started to calculate. Tristen was clearly not leaving until he got what he wanted. Again, his needs mattered more than hers. But what could she do? If she gave in, he would leave temporarily, but for sure would be back. She needed him out of her life NOW. She also didn’t want a fight. He stood at least nine inches taller than her and was built strong and solid. It was one of the things that attracted her in the first place. His arms at one point made her feel safe. Now all she saw was danger. And calling the police wasn’t an option. She didn’t need this minor dispute turning into a news headline.

So Zhari closed her front door and sat down beside him on the couch. “What do you want, Tris?”

“I miss you Zee.”

Zhari was taken aback. She did not expect those words to come out of his mouth. “Umm… hmm. Okay, and what does that mean?”

“It means what I said. I miss you.”

“Yeah, but what’s different?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what has changed? You plan on stepping up now?”

Tristen sat back. His shoulders sank. “I know you don’t believe me.”

“It’s not about believing you, it’s about being clear. What do you actually want? Because right now it seems like you’re trying to manipulate me, and I’m not here for it.”

“No one is trying to manipulate you,” he said. “It’s just that what you’re asking for is--”

“Too much, right?”

“I ain’t say that.”

“But what you are trying to say is I need to let go of my needs, so you can continue to get your needs met, right?”

“I didn’t say that either.”

“You right,” she said. “You haven’t said much of anything, actually.” Zhari stood up and yawned. “Look, it’s late. I have to finish this report in the morning, so I’m going to bed. I need you to head on home.”

There was a large flash of lightning that lit up the sky. Thunder rolled and shook the house. The lights almost immediately cut out.

“Oh fuck,” she whispered.

Tristen stood up and gripped her shoulders. “Don’t worry, I’ll go out and switch the breakers. You got a flashlight?”

“Just on my phone,” Zhari said.

“That’ll work. You coming with me?”

Zhari shrugged her shoulders, loosening his grip. “I guess so.”

They went outside, despite the storm being at its peak. The wind was howling and the rain was beating them with fury. In the backyard, they found the breaker box and flipped all the switches. The lights turned back on inside. “We make a good team,” Tristen said.

“Corny,” Zhari laughed.

“It’s true though.”

Back inside, Tristen slid out of his wet hoodie and tossed it on the ground. His shirt was wet too, and she could see the outlines of his chest through it. He smiled when he noticed her looking. Zhari didn’t attempt to look away.

Tristen approached her and pulled her close to him. Zhari thought about giving in to the heat that pulsated from him. She knew why he was over there, and it damn sure wasn’t for that box. She let her head lay against his chest for a moment. He squeezed her tighter. His fingers slid under the waistband of her shorts.

Zhari pushed away. She picked up Tristen’s wet hoodie and handed it back to him.

Tristen picked up his box. “I guess I’ll be leaving, then.”

Zhari smiled. She walked over to the front door and opened it. “Drive safely.”

Tristen stood in front of her, his entire body shading hers. He bent down to kiss her forehead, but she turned her head.

“Oh it’s like that?”

“Yeah,” she responded.

“I was serious, you know.”

“I know. But, we shouldn’t speak anymore.”

“Why you have to take it that far?”

“I’m not taking it far. You cannot give me what I need, and you really aren’t willing to try.”

“You make it sound like it’s all my fault.”

“Not trying to place fault, but stating facts.”

“It ain’t facts. It’s what you assume.”

“I asked you directly, what’s different, and you had no answer.”

“Yeah cuz maybe nothing needs to be different.”

“Clearly it does if I’m saying I’m not happy with the situation as is.”

“Well maybe that’s your problem that you’re just pushing on me.”

Zhari exhaled deeply. “Yeah, if that’s true, then this is what I need to do for me.”

Tristen nodded. He turned slowly and walked out the door. Zhari closed and locked the door.

Fast Forward a couple weeks… and Valentine’s Day is upon us. There are two holidays that tend to get me down— Valentine’s Day and Mother’s Day. Those days tend to just highlight my loneliness and they’re usually just all bad for me. This Valentine’s Day, I wanted to do something a little different, so I dressed up for work. I was cute but it didn’t help my mood at all. Somehow, I get through the day, come home, and crash. The next morning, still feeling shitty, I decide I’m gonna put on one of these body suits and film a poetry video. Maybe that will help my mood.

Y’all. That shit worked. I needed to feel sexy, desirable, wanton, and a little wild. I wanted to play, and see myself in a light that is different from everyday Trina. I needed a reminder of who I was at my core, a jolt of confidence… and just the right amount of chaos to add to my life. Maybe I just needed some excitement.

I know, I know. I’m the problem. And it’s okay.

Even my bad decisions turn out to be good ones in the long run.

Today’s story—

“If you want me, come and get me.” It’s a challenge and a call for alignment. What do you want? Like, really, really want? Are you going for it? And if not, do you really want what you say you want? Today’s story takes on that challenge— my character discovers what lengths he’s willing to go to get back the love of his life. Hope you enjoy!

“I ain’t come this far to lose you.”

by Katrina Mitchell

Jadon sat in the middle seat. In the window seat was an older woman who smelled like peanut butter and roses, whose heavy breathing almost sounded like a whistle. In the aisle seat was a young woman with loud techno playing in her earphones. He didn’t want to focus on it. Planes are always ridiculously overcrowded, and he was lucky to have found a seat so close to the front.

Jadon pulled out his iPad and clicked on his notes app. “I’m sorry,” he typed. He quickly erased it.

“I’m sorry” didn’t seem like what he needed to say. He needed something deeper, more convincing… more poetic even. How do I tell the love of my life not to leave me? He thought.

Do I bring up the time when we got ice cream cones and sat out on the beach, talking so much that most of the ice cream melted down our hands before we got to eat it? Or the time we drove to the Grand Canyon on a whim, with about $200 between the two of us?

“Nikki, when we met,” he typed, “I didn’t know how important you would become to me.”

Jadon hesitated. He didn’t want to sound corny. There was an innate feeling that if he wrote or said the wrong thing, he would lose her for sure. Anything that could make her lose respect for him as a man. If he said that he loved her, or that he would move mountains to be with her, that he would be looked at as weak. Best to reign in too much emotion.

He erased the last line.

The woman who smelled like peanut butter leaned closer to Jadon. “What’re you writing there?”

“Umm,” Jadon started. “I don’t know yet. It’s supposed to be a letter… but now it just seems corny.”

“Well,” the woman said, “in my limited experience, I’ve found that it’s best to just say what’s on your heart.”

Jadon glared at the woman. “Yeah, that’s what I’m trying to do.”

Jadon turned back to his screen. “I want us to work this out.” It sounded sterile, emotionless. Nothing was really working. Jadon turned toward the peanut butter lady.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked.

“Sure,” peanut butter woman said. “I’m Thomasina by the way.”

“Nice to meet you Thomasina. I’m Jadon.” Jadon inhaled deeply. “I know what I want to say, but there seems to be no way to say it without looking like an idiot.”

“Well, what are you trying to say?”

Jadon looked down. “We, my girlfriend Nikki and I… we fought, and now I’m flying to see her because she wants to break up, but I don’t want to.”

“Nikki lives in Boston?”

“Yeah, she moved there a few months ago for a job.”

“Do you mind if I ask you what you were fighting about?”

Jadon paused. He wasn’t sure how much to reveal. “I think the distance is getting to the both of us. That’s the simplest way to put it.”

“Oh, gotcha.”

“Yeah. The plan was that this job was temporary and she would just stay for the duration, then come back. But she told me that they offered her a permanent position a few weeks ago, and she accepted it without talking to me.”

Headphone girl sat up and pulled down her headphones. “And you were upset because she didn’t ask you?” She sounded indignant. Jadon swung around.

“I mean, I didn’t need her to ask me. However, it would have been considerate if she gave me a heads up before she decided to accept the position.”

Thomasina shook her head. “I understand ya, but…”

“Are y’all married or engaged or something?” asked Headphone girl.

“No, but…”

“But you wanted the opportunity to talk her out of it, and now that the opportunity is gone, you’re upset?”

“No, you make it sound selfish. I just wanted to know when we could get back to our lives.”

“Right, but to her–” Thomasina turned to Headphone girl. “Sorry, what’s your name? I would rather call you by a name than just ‘her’.”

“Maya,” she responded.

“Thanks,” Thomasina started again. “But to Maya’s point, if the tables were turned, and it was you taking a job across the country, what do you think her response would be? Or better, what would have been the quote-unquote right thing for her to say or do in that situation?”

Jadon paused. Maya jumped in. “The expectation would have been for her to give up what she had to come and support you. Especially if y’all were married or engaged. She would have had to give up whatever she had going on to follow you.”

“Right,” Thomasina said. “But in this situation, she had an opportunity to do something for herself. Maybe she likes this job. Maybe the pay is great, and she is respected at work. But in a relationship, a woman’s job technically is not allowed to be her priority in this society. So if she told you, hey I got this offer but it would require me to stay here, what would you have said? Or better yet–” she said before Jadon could answer– “What would she have expected you to say?”

Jadon sighed. “That I would tell her not to take the job.”

Thomasina nods. “Exactly.”

“But I am happy for her,” Jadon said. “I truly am. But also, she could have just given me an opportunity to step up. Everyone is making assumptions on what I would’ve done, instead of letting me actually have a say.”

“Are you going to Boston to ask her to come home?” Maya asked.

In the back of his mind, that was what he was hoping for. He was hoping to remind her of all the fun they had together, and that they could keep having together if she just came home. “Yes,” he finally said.

“Would you ever consider uprooting your life for her?” Thomasina inquired.

“Like would I move to Boston?” Jadon asked. Thomasina nodded. “I mean, I really like my job too. I am comfortable with my life as it is now. I don’t think moving is an option for me.”

“So, it’s fair for you to ask her to give up something you wouldn’t give up for her?” Maya said sarcastically.

“Maybe,” Thomasina started, “instead of writing her a letter, you should consider letting her go. Let her live her life, and you live yours. I know this probably isn’t what you want to hear, but…”

Jadon let the plane sounds drown out Thomasina’s voice. Letting her go was the last thing he wanted. But maybe she and Maya had a point. He was asking her to give up something for him, and this might be something she really wanted for her life. It would be wrong for him to demand that she give it up for him. So what was he to do?

“Thank you,” he said to Maya and Thomasina. Jadon started typing again into his iPad.

The plane landed and Jadon quickly made his way to the baggage claim, then the taxi line. He sat in traffic and thought about what he had written to say. I’m really going to do this, he thought.

The cab pulled up in front of the townhouse Nikki had been staying in. He grabbed his bag, and walked up to the door. He rang the doorbell.

“Who is it?” Nikki called from the other side of the door.

“Jadon,” he said.

The door swung open quickly. Nikki jumped into Jadon’s arms. “Oh my God! What are you doing here?”

“I had to come see you,” he responded. Nikki pulled him into the townhouse.

“I’m glad you came,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about our argument last night and as much as I love you, I don’t know that it’s fair for me to expect you to want to stay in a long distance relationship.” Nikki paused, and looked away from Jadon. “Maybe we want different things now.”

Jadon lifted Nikki’s face with his hand. “I want what you want, cuz I want you.” He was sure and solid. “I been flying all day between two nosy ass and opinionated ass women, and they at least clarified one thing for me… I ain’t come this far to lose you. So you tell me what you want, and I’m gonna work on getting on the same page.”

Nikki’s eyes lit up. She hugged Jadon again, and he held on tight.

That being said, I have been feeling HOT. Like I have been glowing from the inside out. I think it’s because I am letting me be me. I am remembering who I am. I am brave. I am resilient. I am creative. I am beautiful, standing in the light that I shine.

So yeah, I’m fine af. Get into it.

Today’s Story—

Humans usually respond to fear or conflict one of three ways— fight, flight, or freeze. I, unfortunately do all three, sometimes within the same situation. I think when we think about being brave, we think about facing our fears, the situations where we have no control, and allowing the consequences. Maybe this story is less about being brave, and more about being human. And reminds us that not every flight is a positive movement.

Last Words

by Katrina Mitchell

“I saw him again the other day,” I said, pulling the orange juice carton out of the fridge.

Des leaned over the counter. “Did you speak?”

I shook my head. “We don’t speak anymore.” I pulled two glasses from the cabinet.

Music played softly in the background. The song felt like Anita Baker, but was actually something much more recent.

“Who is this?” I asked. “Can you look at the TV and see—“

Des hopped off the barstool and walked over to the television. “Someone named Phantasy, spelled with a P-H.” Des shrugged. “I don’t know her.”

“She’s nice. I’m gonna look her up later.”

Des hopped back into her seat. “That’s sad though. I hate that things deteriorated that fast between y’all.”

I placed a glass of orange juice in front of her. She pushed it away.

“I don’t even want it if champagne ain’t in it.”

“Girl, when you go to a restaurant do you actually think champagne be in it?”

“I don’t know. Sometimes.”

I sighed and turned back towards the fridge. “I was trying not to drink today but—“

“Girl don’t drink then. I’m good,” Des said.

“Nah, nah… this gives me an excuse to open this bottle.” I showed her the fancy bottle of champagne I had in the back of the fridge.

“Oooh, yes. Well, in that case. Pop them bottles, sis.”

I tore the aluminum foil off the top of the bottle, then unfastened the metal cover from the cork. I handed the bottle to Des. “You know I ain’t got no upper body strength.”

Des pulls the cork out quickly. A loud popping sound filled the room. A couple minutes later, tiny footsteps made their way toward us.

“What was that mommy?” Eva asked.

“Just the bottle. We’re okay.” I turn my attention to the stove. “Go back to the room. I will call y’all for breakfast in a minute.”

Eva nodded, then turned and scurried back to her room. I turned on the burner to medium, then added a pat of butter to the pan. In a separate bowl, I cracked eggs, added milk, and whisked them together, before pouring them in the pan.

“So what would you say?”

“Huh?” I asked, turning to Des.

“If y’all were speaking, what would you say?”

I opened the drawer near the stove and pulled out a spatula. I grab the seasoned salt, black pepper, and garlic powder from the spice rack. I felt like I was missing something.

“I don’t know that I would have anything to say at this point.”

“Oh, you have shit to say.”

“Yeah, I mean. But what’s the point in saying any of it?” I open the seasoned salt and sprinkle it on to the eggs. Then I add the black pepper and garlic powder. “What am I missing?” I mumbled to myself while I scrambled the eggs.

“You gonna make bacon too?” Des asked.

“I got sausage links in there. You want that?”

“Yeah, that works.”

I opened the freezer and pulled the box out, placing them on the counter. On a nearby burner, I looked over at the grits that were lightly boiling. I grabbed a spoon from the drawer, opened the lid to the pot, and stirred the grits. “What am I forgetting?”

“Probably those biscuits. They probably done by now.”

“No, that’s not it,” I said as I opened the oven door to check them. “They need a couple more minutes.”

“I don’t want mines too brown,” Des said.

“I know. You like yours damn near raw.” I laughed.

“So, if there was a point to saying it, what would you say?”

“What would the point be?”

“I don’t know, girl. Maybe it would be the thing that fixed things between y’all. What would you say?”

I exhaled deeply and grabbed a cast iron skillet from the lower cabinet. I moved the eggs off their burner and put the skillet in its place. I poured a little oil in the pan, then stepped back to watch it heat.

The biscuits were starting to smell heavenly. I opened the oven door one more time, then grabbed a potholder and pulled them out.

“You gonna put cheese in the grits?” Des asked.

“I can,” I said. “Look at you, backseat cooking.”

“I’m tryna help you out. You over there thinking you forgot something.”

I shudder. “I definitely did.” I added the links to the pan.

The song changed. I opened the fridge again, this time to pull out the shredded cheese. I added it to the grits, along with a pat of butter, salt, and black pepper.

“Can you call the kids,” I said. “Then, grab some paper plates and put them on the table. I’m gonna— goddamn it!”

I spun around and looked at Des. “I gotta go back to the store. Don’t call them yet.”

“You remember what you forgot?”

“The fucking birthday cake! I forgot to pick it up this morning.”

I turned off all the burners on the stove.

“You do too much, sis.” Des said. “I can watch them if you wanna just run there really quick.”

“Yeah, it will only take five minutes. Well, fifteen. Shit, maybe 30. Not more than that though.”

“It’s cool, I got it.” Des takes a sip of her drink. I pretended not to see. I grabbed my purse and my keys from the counter, and ran out the door to my car.

In the store, I stood at the bakery counter, waiting on my cake. The attendant came back with a big box.

“Everything look alright?” he asked. He opened the lid. The cake read, “Happy 5th Birthday Eva!”

“It looks perfect. Thanks!” I said. “This would’ve been an epic mommy fail but you saved my life right now!” I took the cake and turned to exit the store.

And there he was again, not fifty feet in front of me. He stood by the gourmet cheeses, the ones that seemed more like flavored butter. I stared at him for a second. His green jacket, trusty and old, but still in good shape. His veiny hands holding the box. His dark eyes jetting back and forth, reading the label. I was sure he hadn’t seen me. He wouldn’t have been standing there if he did. I thought about what Des said. I inhaled deeply, and marched over to where he was standing.

“Hey,” I said, unsure of what to do next. He looked up at me and clenched his jaw.

“Hey,” he said. “Big cake.”

“Yeah it’s for Eva’s birthday. We’re having a breakfast party for her.”

“Breakfast? It’s 5 at night.”

“It’s what she wanted,” I said, shrugging my shoulders.

“Well tell her happy birthday,” he said. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and handed me a twenty dollar bill. “Tell her to buy what she wants.” He smiled at me. He hadn’t smiled at me in a long time. Felt like forever.

“So, umm…Des asked me this question earlier. She was like, if I could say one thing to you that would fix everything, what would I say. I don’t know that this would fix anything, really, but I would say to you that you are important to me and I miss you. And I’m sorry and I wish things didn’t turn out the way they did.”

He didn’t respond. Or, I didn’t give him time to. I backed away from him, then walked out the door to my car.

Back at the house, I watched as everyone else ate. I picked around at my eggs and my grits. Des looked at me. Finally I stood and took my plate into the kitchen. Des followed behind.

“You okay, sis?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I lied, fighting back tears. “No. I can’t fix things. No matter what I say, I can’t fix it.”

“That’s not true,” she said. “You did what you needed to do. Now you gotta just wait. You can’t force anyone to want what you want.”

“I know.” I started to clean up the kitchen.

“Leave it,” Des said. “I’ll clean up.”

I went to my room, a ball of anxiety and stress. “Why the fuck would you say that?” I chastised myself out loud. I threw myself on the bed. Soft tears began to pour out my eyes. I imagined what he could’ve said, had I stayed.

“There’s nothing to fix, we’re cool.”

“Just leave it alone. Let it go.”

“I’m not the one with the problem here.”

“I’m hurting too.”

“Maybe we could—“

Des interrupted my thoughts. “You ready to do cake?”

I sat up and wiped my eyes. “Yeah, coming.”

Des closed the door. I inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly. There was nothing else to be done.

“There is nothing else to be done. There is nothing else to be done.” I chanted that as I walked out the door.

We need moments like this. We need to let it feed our creativity.

Today’s Story

It’s a quick scene where two lovers talk through their anxiety. I’m learning that it’s okay to speak up for yourself, to say that you need reassurance and not judge yourself for it. I spent so much of my youth suppressing myself and my needs so that I don’t become a burden to others, and that limited how I was able to connect. Now though, I can hold space for others and expect them to hold space for me as well. It’s okay. We’re all just human.

Safety

by Katrina Mitchell

He wouldn’t let me walk away.

His arm reached out immediately, as I turned away.

“Wait,” he said, pulling me back to him. I wanna say that I didn’t melt almost immediately, but that would be the biggest lie. He wrapped his arms around my waist, and my head found a place in the center of his chest. I couldn’t stop the angry tears that rolled out of my eyes, so I wiped them on his shirt. He looked down at me.

“Why are you crying?” He asked.

I sniffle and try to pull away, but he tightens his grip on me. “You frustrate the shit outta me,” I said.

He chuckled lightly. “I know,” he said. He kissed the top of my forehead, then pushed my head back a little further to place another kiss on the tip of my nose. “You’re still my favorite person.”

“You can’t just say that to keep me from being mad at you. Nothing is solved.” I pulled away from him. “We have to solve it or it will just keep coming up as an issue.”

“Okay,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. “What do you need from me right now?”

“Right now? I need to know that you hear me when I speak. That I don’t have to keep repeating the same thing over and over. I need to know that I matter to you enough for you to consider me.”

I leaned against the wall. “I’ve told you so many times that I hate being left hanging. That I get that life gets busy and sometimes you can’t always call me back or reply to a message, but don’t just go days ignoring me.”

“It wasn’t even a day though.”

“But it felt like it.”

“Okay, but I can’t help what things feel like to you.”

“But you can though,” I said. He flexes his jaw. I continued, “This is what helps me feel safe around you. Knowing that you will at least consider me. Take five seconds and send a text. Busy right now, I will call when I’m free. Or I saw your message, I can respond later. Something that lets me know I’m not sending things out into the abyss. That we’re still in this together.”

He released a deep breath, then walked over to me and took my hands in his. “Okay, listen. I am here with you. Even when we aren’t physically together, I am with you. That’s not changing. Ever. You may think you’re moving on from me one day, and that’s cool, but I’m coming with you, okay?”

I guffawed involuntarily. He squeezed my hands as he smiled widely. “But I hear you though. I will respond to make sure you remember that I’m with you. But I need you to trust me when I say I’m with you, and that’s what it is.”

I nodded, this time wiping away tears of relief. “Okay.”

“Can we stop crying now? You know I don’t like to see you hurt.”

I nodded again, and forced a smile to my face. He pulled me in for another tight hug, and whispered in my ear. “You’re it for me. If it ain’t you it’s no one else. You understand? I love you.”

My eyes widen at his words. I pulled away to look him in his face. He’d never said that before. I never said it. But was I feeling it?

“You mean that?” I said, a little dazed and startled.

“Every word.” His face was stone and serious. Dark eyes peering into mine as if to reassure me. He meant it. Did I? “You don’t have to–”

“I love you, too.” I say, cautiously.

“You don’t have to say it cuz I did.”

“But I do.” Another tear. This time he wipes it away with his thumb. “Why do you think I was so mad at you? I didn’t know if I was feeling this alone.”

“You’re definitely not,” he smiled. Then he leans down, and lays the softest, sweetest kiss on my lips, repeating the refrain before diving in for another one. The second was fiercer, possessive. I join his refrain, and we kiss, and we repeat, and we vow for long minutes against the wall.

I don’t know that it is. So, I’m trying (valiantly) to get into alignment with my goals, with the things I say I want.

Getting into alignment is necessary but not necessarily easy. My friend told me to just take everything one step, one movement at a time. So, that’s what I’m doing.

Today’s story—

I wrote this one back in undergrad. I think I was 19 or 20. Many of my stories then (and now) drew from some personal inspiration— a conversation, an event, or in this case, a moment. I am a person of words, but in this moment, I didn’t use them. I guess I could say that about this entire relationship. I sat on my feelings, afraid that if I ever revealed them I would be rejected in some way. Now, at 40, I feel so much hurt for that girl, so scared to say what she wanted to say, admit what she wanted, feel that she was worthy of love. So much I’m still unlearning.

Anyway, check out the story. Hope you enjoy it!

Less Than

By Katrina Mitchell

The sun was hiding behind a few small clouds; the rays shown through the breaks. We sat in the glow, trying to soak up as much warmth as the sun was offering that day. I knew I would need it.

There was a small picnic table in front of the lake. We sat there; me on the table, him on the seat between my legs, the way we always had. The last time I’d seen him, I’d hated him, but being this close to him, I loved him. He laid his head back in my lap and threw his arms over my legs. I stroked his hair, rolling each of his tiny locks between my fingers.

“You should wash these,” I commented. He ignored me.

The wind blew lightly. Family after family passed in front of our table. “If we had a daughter, what would you name her?” he asked.

“I’m not having babies with you,” I said coolly.

“Why do you do that?” he asked.

“Do what?”

“Pretend like you don’t love me.”

I didn’t answer. I stared of into the lake. A mother duck and her babies crowded around the edge of the lake where a few little girls were throwing pieces of stale bread at them. I twisted his locks with my fingers.

The wind started to chill my body. He wanted to lay down. We walked back to the car.

“Y’all were gone for a long time,” a woman shouted to us. Her southern accent was prominent. She sat on top of a picnic table under a huge tree. Spread out in front of her was an array of crafts, yarn, paints, and more. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail. But there were no kids around her. “I saw y’all when y’all came in, and I was wonderin’ when y’all would come back.”

I smiled. We walked on.

The sun had broken through the clouds and followed us to the car. I put the keys in the ignition, turned on the radio, then joined him in the backseat. He laid his head on my lap and stared up at me.

“Last time, you left on bad terms,” he said.

“Yeah,” I agreed. I knew he wanted an explanation, but it didn’t matter what said. He was gonna be who he was. I couldn’t ask him to change, no more than he could ask me to. He didn’t push either.

He touched my face. I tried to move away. I wanted to withdraw inside and cry again. I knew what I needed to do; I didn’t want to do it.

A tear slipped past my barrier; he noticed before I could wipe it away. “What are you crying for?” he asked.

I turned my head away from him. He sat up and turned me towards him.

“What’s going on with you?”

The sun was falling slowly out of the sky. My tears blurred the most beautiful sunset I could have ever witnessed. You, I thought.

So I’m heading back to the States today, and I feel like I’m actually ready to get to work. Write more. Share more. Create more. Unceasingly.

So today’s story was actually written in my notes app pretty randomly. I like writing scenes, quick glimpses into a character’s life— a look at who they are and how they respond to tension. I feel like a lot can be done with a little. I switch a lot between past and present tense…it was intentional and I hope it doesn’t throw you out of the moment in anyway. I hope you enjoy it.

Broken

By: Katrina Mitchell

He knew I was in a mood when he walked into the kitchen and I had Kendrick blasting.

He noticed, even raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything.

He knew how it went. If I had “Aight” or “The Blacker The Berry” playing, he knew some white folks, probably at my job, pissed me off.

If I played “tv off” or “wacced out murals”, anyone could catch these hands.

But today, it was “we cry together”. Just for him. My ire was directed at him.

He sat down on a chair by the kitchen table and just looked at me.

I finished cooking, made a plate for myself, and sat down across from him. He smirked.

“Can you turn the music off?”

“Nope. I like this song.”

The edges of his anger started to peek out. I grabbed my phone and turned down the volume.

He pointed at my plate. “Got any more?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t know you were coming home. Haven’t been here in a while.”

“I came home this morning.”

“Must’ve been after I left.”

“That was the point.”

“Is that so?” Now I’m smirking. “Then why are you here now?”

He stared at me blankly. Then he got up, grabbed a fork from the drawer, and pulled his chair closer to me. He sunk his fork into a piece of shrimp before swirling it in the noodles, giving himself a generous bite. I put my fork down at his display, surrendering my plate to him.

The song started over.

When his greedy ass finally came up for air, I asked a different question.

“Do you still love me?”

He rolled his eyes and wiped his hands and mouth with a napkin.

“C’mon man. That’s not the question you really wanna ask, is it?”

“It’s the one you’re avoiding answering, so yes. I wanna know.”

He shook his head. “I don’t know what answer you want me to give you.”

I nodded, my jaw clenching on its own. “That’s an answer.” I exhale deeply. “You want me to leave you, spare you the embarrassment of being the bad guy.”

“I’m not the bad guy, and I don’t care what anyone else thinks.”

“Oh you care. Cuz if you didn’t, you wouldn’t need me to leave you. You’re grown and capable. You can do whatever you want.”

“And you think what I want is to leave you?”

“I think you’re acting like a man who wants to be free, but is too cowardly to do it on his own.”

His eyebrows fly to his forehead. “Cowardly huh?” His voice drops to a dangerous timbre as he leans into me. “Let that be the last time you call me a coward.”

The song replayed.

“You’re wasting my time and yours. If we’re done then be done. All I know is I tried. And now, I don’t care.”

“I called you three times, and each time you sent it to voicemail.”

“Like I said, I don’t care anymore. And yeah you called but I haven’t seen you in a month of sundays—“

“It’s been a week.”

“What the fuck ever.”

“I was giving you space.”

“Did I ask for it?”

We sat in silence, an ominous stare down with catastrophic implications.

The song started over, and a vein in his forehead began to throb. “MAN, TURN THAT SHIT OFF!” He bellowed. I tried my hardest not to react, but picked up my phone and did as he instructed. I had gotten under his skin, and that was the main goal.

He inhaled deeply, then turned towards me, a little calmer than before. “You know how to send a person up a wall.”

“And so do you,” I retorted. “What, you wanted me worried sick? Scared for you? Sick to my stomach, unable to sleep? Well you got about 48 hours of that. But by the time you finally decided, finally deigned to acknowledge me, I was over it. Be wherever, with whoever. I don’t care.”

“You still care.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yes you do.”

I stand up and grab the plate from in front of him, throwing it in the sink and letting it shatter. I point to it, then turn towards him.

“That’s us.”

I walk out of the kitchen.

He gets up and follows behind, catching me by the elbow and spinning me around.

“I’m tired of playing games with you.”

“I’m tired too. Like I said, let’s just be done.”

“No.”

“No?”

“No.”

I yank my arm back. “Well you need to figure it the fuck out… but not here. Go back to whatever hole you crawled into when you first disappeared.”

“You can’t just have me on your time.”

“Neither can you!”

“I reached out. I tried. You didn’t respond.”

“Because you disappeared. You left me hanging first.” Tears sprang to my eyes. They were totally unexpected… but my body knows it has to make sneak moves like that to get me to shed tears. When it comes to emotions I’m a thug.

I swipe at my eyes furiously, angry that he was there to see me upset.

He comes closer and pulls my hands away from my face. The contact, gentle, tender even, makes me want to crumble. I’m still angry, but I was lying when I said I didn’t care.

“You did this on purpose,” I whined.

“What? Made you cry?”

I nod, breaking loose from his grip and turning away. I sit down on the stairs and fan at my eyes… like that’s going to do anything.

He sits a step below me, and leans his back against the rail.

“I-I… shit,” he curses.

I know what he means.

Four decades in, and I’m still waiting for something more. Some undefined more.

Eh. The day is still young… even if I’m not. LOL.

Anyway, today’s story is a short one. It’s all about touch, connectedness, closeness. Hope you enjoy it!

Ours.

By: Katrina Mitchell

He was 90’s fine. Sharp, low cut caesar, meticulously groomed goatee, brown skin dazzling. Diamond studs in each ear. And I could stare at his dimpled smile all day. But, it was the chains for me.

Three of them. One gold cuban link, one gold rope, and one long figaro. It was the way they dangled from his neck. My hands reached out on their own, curious, jealous of the jewelry that got to sit against his skin all day. That caught his sweat, gleamed in the light, and brightened his face.

The chains taunted me, teased me as they swang. He was working, grunts and moans filling the room. But it was the tiny clang of metal that caught my ear.

“You feel so good,” he’d say. “I could stay here forever.”

“We get to live on him forever,” they’d laugh.

“Does it feel good to you?” he’d ask.

“We get to feel him all the time,” they’d say.

This man, beautiful and strong and completely puddy in my lap, and I still wanted to be those chains. I wanted to be on him all the time, feeling his heartbeat, lifting with his chest as he breathed.

We lay, wrapped in each other. My fingers gliding along his sweat-slicked skin. Still, the chains persisted. “This is ours. You’re only a visitor.”

I grab the cuban link, wrapping it around my finger. “How long have you had this one?” I ask him.

“Let me go!” the cuban yelled.

“Shit, maybe five years,” he said.

I drop the cuban link and tug on the rope. “And this one?”

“Hey! Stop it!” the rope screamed in a high pitch.

“I got this one maybe three years ago.”

I let the rope go, and my fingers walked to the figaro, who was already protesting.

“Don’t touch me!” the figaro yelled.

“And this?” I say, placing the figaro gently in my palm.

“I said no!” said the figaro.

“That one? I think that was the first one I bought. That one has been with me forever.”

I wrapped my fingers around chains and tugged.

“Ahhh!” they screamed.

“Can I wear them?” I asked, making my voice syrupy and light. He nodded, sat up, and unclasped each chain. The figaro fell to his lap, shrieking on the way down. The cuban link was next, and his “Nooooo” dragged and bellowed like a whale’s call. Last was the rope, which fought against the separation, but fell unceremoniously compared to the others.

“Turn around,” he said.

I turned, lifting my hair from my neck. He picked up the rope, and wrapped it around my neck, clasping it gently. He did the same for the cuban link and the figaro. Then I turned towards him, my fingers on the warm gold.

“Damn,” he said. “They look better on you. I think you should keep them.”

“WHAT!” they screamed.

I smiled, and leaned into him, and kissed his bare neck. “Maybe we can just share.”

I love telling stories about women discovering their power. This story was published in my first book, She Lives (available on Amazon), and it’s representative of where my mind was at the time. I knew I had power, but I needed some reassurance. I needed to feel seen. Shoot, if I’m being honest, I still feel that way sometimes.

Anyway, November is just a couple days away, and my main focus for the month is finishing my first novel! Enjoy the story and wish me luck!

Power

By: Katrina Mitchell

Power

She is sitting on the curb outside of her Philly apartment. It’s summertime, and she has her long dreads pulled up into a ponytail at the top of her head. She wears thick, oversized silver hoop earrings, a sleeveless, burnt orange top, jeans that flare at the knee, and wedge sandals. Around her neck is a small Gye Nyame pendant on a thin, tarnished silver chain. Her face is serious and her eyes are wide. She’s on the verge of smiling or crying.

She stands and walks slowly down the street. Her arms are folded across her chest, like she’s cold, even though it’s a hot day. She smiles slightly at the passerby when he says “Hey”. She adjusts her top, pulling it down to cover the slight midriff. She pauses and looks around, expecting to catch someone staring at her. People stand around, talking to each other through car windows or screen doors, but no one seems to notice her.

She lets herself lean against the light pole, wrapping her right arm around it, and bracing with her left hand. Her touch makes the light above her turn on, as do all the others that dot her street. She stands under the artificial light and bathes in it. The sky slowly turns from orange to red to purple, before settling into a deep black. She watches the people, but is starting to feel invisible.

He approaches her from behind. “What, no stars tonight?” He says in her ear. “You’re late,” she says, “so the stars will be too.” “Baby, don’t you know I’m always on time?” he says. She laughs, and tears fall down her cheeks. He slowly lifts his arms, and the moon grows, settling into a spot behind two rowhouses, where only the top half can be seen. Her eyes flutter, and stars begin to appear.

In her mind, she thinks of the fall. That night in early November when they first came together to make the night. In the cold Philly air, wearing puff jackets and Timbs. Her hair down, as if to guard her neck from the wind. She remembers that she was young, and scared. But he reminded her of the power she had, a power that even he couldn’t master… over the seasons, over the sun. “You can do everything,” he said. And so, she did.

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I’m Katrina, and this is Honey and High Water—

The title is based on a poem I wrote years ago. I have been writing short stories and poetry since I was a kid— writing was definitely my first love. I’ve written and self-published three books of poetry and short stories: She Lives, Text Messages, and Flowered.

What to look out for—

I will send short stories based off prompts. Some prompts I find online, and others I collect from time to time. A big focus of my writing is romance and relationships, but there will be other topics and ideas explored too.

Today’s story—

Imagine time is running out, and you are faced with your last chance to say what you need to say, or to act in a way that could change the course of your life. What would you do?

Clock’s Ticking—

We stand about fifty feet apart. Neither of us want to move– not towards each other or away. Cuz we know…

“I should go,” you yell. “It’s getting late.”

I just stand there… wanting to speak, but afraid anything I say will be the wrong thing.

“It was good to see you again. I’m glad you came out.” Your words feel closer, almost like a warm balm rubbed into my skin. You still haven’t moved. I still haven’t spoken.

The chime of a church bell. Or a mosque. A call to prayer. A siren. A warning.

Still, no movement. No voice.

I want to say so much to you but I cannot speak. Get my mouth open or my tongue to work. I’m paralyzed, incapable. I know what this means. Soon, you will leave. You will lift one foot in front of the other. You will turn your back to me and go. And my opportunity will be lost. My only chance, my last chance. Cuz we know…

Days like these are special, rare. We walked through an ornate garden, buzzing like bees, filled with the energy of the past and future. You were my first love and I remember why– you sparked joy, creativity, light in me. I could show you my weird, my scars, and you weren’t put off. You could show me your war wounds, your “awkward and silly”, and I would join you. It was fun. We were…

But it was the past. It was dreams of would could be, what could’ve been. But not what is.

In reality, we’re older. We’re responsible adults. We have lives and promises and commitments that we must see through. It can’t just “be” because we want it to be. Can it?

You have to go. I know you do. Clock is ticking and the longer we stand here, not speaking, not moving, the sooner reality crashes into us. Knocks the wind out of us. Separates us further.

“Okay, so..” you start, and I take off running. To you. Into your arms. Holding on tight and refusing to let go. You wrap me up, lifting me off the ground like I'm weightless. Like I’m nothing and everything, everything that’s precious to you.

“I don’t want to let you go,” you say. “I was afraid to touch you again cuz I knew I would never want to stop.”

Your words make my breath catch in my throat… but I recover and force out the words. “Don’t ever stop.”

If you liked what you read, join my Substack!

Also, catch my poetry videos on TikTok or my short films on YouTube.

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