Above it All
All That is Blue
Angels Carry the Sun
In an Hour
Outside Richard's second-story window, the crab apple trees' stiff limbs lurched about like waving lunatics about to board a bus back to their asylum. Richard reached underneath his sweatshirt, patting for the flask, anticipating the swig that would temporarily warm him in that coarse autumn wind on the other side of the window.
On the morning that True Love found Greg Chandler, he-Greg Chandler, not True Love-rose as the second hand on his nightstand clock swept up to twelve and with one movement, planted his feet on the floor and placed his palm over the clock to silence the alarm.
Blood Grip, Prologue: Virginia – September, 1836
Some 50 years ago, my Virginia-bred mother, Cleoria Coleman Sparrow, did something straight out of West Africa. The moment a certain visitor left the house, my mother swept from where he had last stood all the way out to the street.
Blood Grip, Chapter One
Ilsie Stone’s breasts were gorged with milk because the baby had hardly nursed. The child’s fever-bright eyes widened then half-shut as Ilsie’s milk dripped down its cheek. “Have mercy, Jesus,” Ilsie whispered, cradling the baby to her bare skin, feeling the breath of the child for whom they had fled home and kin. Ilsie set the baby on her pallet. She buttoned her blouse, bowed her head, and prayed up what few reserves the last months hadn’t worn away.
Blood Grip, Chapter Two
James Forten climbed the steps of the wooden platform outside Mother Bethel Church and felt the crowd’s attention weigh him down. Folks had come craving hopeful words from someone rich but brown as any of them. What could he tell them in these lean days?
Blood Grip, Chapter Three
“…every woman, who won her freedom, by this perilous undertaking (fleeing slavery), deserves commemoration.” — William Still, The Underground Railroad. (1871)
Blood Grip, Chapter Four
Blood Grip, Chapter Five
“Hurra for the sea and its waves!/ Ye billows and surges, all hail!/ My brothers henceforth—for ye scorn to be Slaves/ As ye toss up your crests to the gale;/ Farewell to the land of the bloodhound and chain,/ My path is away o’er the fetterless main.” - Black Sailors’ Song, from Martin Delany, 1861.
Bone by Bone
Edith Miller sat on the floor of the bedroom that belonged to her son, David. The sun slanted in from the one window to pool on the bare pine floor, and in that light, her thick legs tucked under her, Edith arranged piles of folded pants.
Fiction: Or is It?
The First Pinto
Half the Horses Rise
Henry Moore and the Bookstore Clerk
Her Name is in the Modeling Handbook
How Did I Get Here Again? Thursdays with Nobody
In A State of Partition
Shobha turned the dial of the rickety tuner until Prime Minister Nehru’s voice was drowned out by the commotion of mass radio waves. It was August 15, 1947, and India had finally gained her independence.
The Last Daughter of Prussia
1961 August. When Tip is standing in the doorway as he is right now, it can only mean one thing. I brace myself. He shouts, eyes pleading:
Madonna of Maquiladora
Memoir of a Ghost
Perambulating the Bounds
Red Bean Soup
Seasons of Frost
Tales from the Fire Zone
Tales From the Firezone, Part Two
The Michelangelo Effect
Thurgood Marshall’s Coming
The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
Under Her Hat
Water Walking at the YMCA
“My husband is a good man,” she was saying, as she cut through the water of the YMCA pool. “We’ve been married 40 years. We have three grown children. Today he drove me here because of the road conditions. I don’t like to drive so soon after a snow storm.