*Public downloads available this month, to donators of Eastern Diasporic aid, with an emphasis on Haiti. Proof of donation will be required. Download and Print-Edition Details via BlackFaeryAnthologies@gmail.com *-^
*If you’re a literary or visual artist of underrepresented culture interested in submitting to this reconstructive celebration, email BlackFaeryAnthologies @ gmail with inquiries for second installment guidelines.
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“In the purest form fairies are the essence of dreams. With colonialism and imperialism, slavery and genocide the dreams of Original people have been robbed from them. With only fairies drapped in European garb one starts to think that only white people are allowed to dream. We just have to remember that our dreams are hidden. They are wandering in the recesses of our minds. We have to remember the right words to coax them out.”
- CBS Alife Allah of @BlueBlkAtlantis
Continued in Lunewing (pg 15)
*A PurpleMag.com repost
Word from BSFS
The Genesis Anthology is nearing release.
Click the image for details.
If you missed Onyxcon this year, enjoy the above vid, one of many, from Wendy Raven Mcnair’s youtube treasure trove of the OnyxCon event.
Check Ecbacc.com if you missed that as well this year, either <3
Marai, Jewel City of the Bright Country, mourned with the morose cadence of the Sana’s drums. The gleaming towers that pierced the expansive canopy mourned as well, their peaks shrouded in black cloaks of cotton cloth. From the edge of the barrier walls to the Center of the palace peaks, the city was witnessing an event that had not occurred in one thousand years; the Sana, ruler of The Good Men, was dying.
The elders of the twelve districts waited the customary twelve days before approaching the palace walls, each bringing an entourage of twelve. They wore the shroud; a simple white cloak trimmed in the color of their district and their clan. Each wore a mourning mask carved by the Daal, the exaggerated expressions of grief replacing the various countenances that revealed each persons true feeling. For it was known that even though the Sana had been a wise and generous man throughout his rule there were those that despised him. The day of his death would be a celebration to them, a day that would embark the Good Men on a new future. Most of all, those who hated the Sana wished for his death for one reason only. A new Sana would mean a new beginning. A new Sana would mean the end of Zaria’s exile from the world.
Jele Jakada, royal medicine priest of Zaria, looked down from his tower onto the noble mourners gathering at the gates. Someone among those gathered would be the next Sana, the man who would either keep the traditions of the city or expose it to the world beyond the walls. He trudged to his stool and sat, cradling his old face in his wrinkled hands.
“I should have called you back, Alake,” he whispered. “I’m a stubborn old man who may have doomed us all.”
A gentle rapping on his door broke his mood. “Who is it?” he shouted.
“A servant from the Margara,” the voice replied. “She wishes to see you immediately.”
Jakada sighed. “So it begins.” He stood, straightening out his robes and arranging his talisman necklaces.
“Tell the Margara I will be along momentarily. I have a few things to attend to.”
Jakada entered a second room, a space filled with the tools of his craft. At the back of the room stood an object covered by a splendid leather shroud woven with the images of history. He took a deep breath and pulled the shroud aside, revealing a large mirror trimmed with ebony wood. Jakada studied his reflection for a moment then closed his eyes as he waved his hands across the smooth surface.
“Come home, my daughter,” he chanted. “Your time has come.”
Corliss Johnson awoke that Saturday morning with a head full of memories. She shuffled to her bathroom, performing her morning ritual that had shortened over the years. As a young girl she obsessed over her looks; as a wife her attentions ebbed and flowed with the attentions of her husband; but as an old widow she no longer cared what others said about her appearance. She was at the age where the only opinion that counted was her own and she was thoroughly enjoying the moment.
On that particular day other memories intruded, images of a life she fled long ago. As he dressed in a pair of worm jeans and a weathered sweatshirt she wondered why she would have those thoughts, memories she thought she’d hidden away long ago. She was neither afraid nor remorseful for she had come to terms with her decision. The only nagging resentment was that she had broken with her father. She never tried to contact him, nor he her. In the beginning the pain of his silence cut deep. She couldn’t understand how he would let her go without demanding her return. He had always let her have her way, but she thought this one act would rouse him to give her the attention she felt she deserved. Instead there was silence. That was long ago; marriage and children had dulled that pain and healed the wound.
Bean met her at the door as he emerged into the autumn morning. The cocker spaniel climbed her leg, anxious for his head rub which she obliged. She adopted the tan bundle of spirit from the local pound the day after Travis died, indulging herself with the only pleasure he had never provided her. He took her late husband’s place in her walks on the beach, walking beside her obediently and never straying too far, even when tempted by another of his kind. She knelt down and received his wet kisses, jostling his ears in return.
“Such a good boy,” she said.
“Hello Miss Johnson.”
Corliss looked into the eyes of Javan, one of the local concierges of the Sunrise Resort. She liked Javan; he reminded her of home. His deep brown skin, tightly curled hair and prominent lips displayed his Mandingo roots, though if asked Javan would have no idea of what she spoke. He was like all the others, blind to his heritage and stumbling about the land in search of foundation. But he was a pleasant, polite boy, at least to her and that mattered most.
“Good morning, Javan. Are you my ride?”
Javan tipped his baseball cap. “Yes ma’am. Hey Bean!”
Bean ran to the golf cart and leapt in the back seat. Corliss took her time; Javan helped her inside.
They drove through the resort, waving at the residents as they made their way to the nature trail leading to the beach. Corliss made it a point to know everyone in the resort. She greeted the newcomers with her famous chocolate chocolate chip cookies and was one of the main cooks for the Thanksgiving dinner. She took the time to build a family around her despite the fact that her sons and daughters had moved away long ago. She knew how important family was; to her, family was the only reason to live.
Bean jumped from the cart before it came to a complete stop, charging down the sandy palmetto lined path leading to the beach. The smell of the sea tantalized her senses. After twenty years living along the shore the sea kept its hypnotic effect on her. The nearness of the rolling waves soothed the aches and pains that had become common with advancing age, the salty air a salve to her body. He pace increased as she neared the waves, by the time she emerged from the sea oat covered dunes she was trotting behind Bean, a wide smile on her face.
“Come home, my daughter. Your time has come.”
The words struck her like a fist and she fell onto her bottom. She shook her head, attempting to fling away what was obviously an old memory that had escaped its mental confinement.
“This is no memory,” the voice announced. “This is you baba, Alake. It is time for you to come home.”
Corliss head jerked about as she searched for her father. Their was no mistaking the source for he used her oriki name, a name no one in this world or her old world would have knowledge of. Either it was her father or she was finally going mad.
“You are as sane as the day you left me,” he said.
Bean returned to her, barking for her to come play. She ignored him, looking into the horizon towards her former home.
“Baba, why are you calling for me?”
About the Novelist:
Milton Davis’ YA offering promises to deliver an image beffiting young women of color, celebrating original Motherland roots, royalty, and overall culture. A prolific author, Milton has many African-American speculative fiction projects in the works, is no stranger to reading of his already published works Meji 1&2 for the old and young alike, and has also launched a network by the name of Wagadu.