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It’s Lit

  • We Head South
    ,

    We Head South

    October 17—9:43 p.m. EST The two gradually exited Carmine’s restaurant in midtown Manhattan, fully satisfied and slightly tipsy from the fine cuisine and red wine. As they made their way onto the other side of the restaurant door, the cool October night air immediately greeted them. “Wow,” Marie uttered through a smile. “It really got…

    By

    Yesha Callahan

    Published

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    Champion

    I like to tell folks I don’t have a storyBut I also like to fuck with peopleThat in itself tells a story.You confused yet?Good, now we have something in commonI think that’s how friendships begin.Not sure if I can maintain it but that’s part of the story tooPay attention to the detailsThat’s where the angels…

    By

    theroot-wpadmin

    Published

  • ,

    Roses

    In the summer of 1998, shortly after my girlfriend Valerie moved out of our Brooklyn apartment, using the excuse that I was too depressing to live with, Mom called me from her Harlem brownstone, sniffling into the phone. “He’s gone, David,” she said, her voice cracking. “I knew as soon as they started cutting off…

    By

    Yesha Callahan

    Published

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    (What Did I Do to Get So) Black and Blue

    Janice limply heaves the thick unabridged dictionary into the metal trash can at the corner of Vandam and crosses the street. Leaving the Shine office with the large Webster’s in her arms is a pathetic act of payback, she knows. But Janice brought the book with her when she started and she would be damned…

    By

    Miles Marshall Lewis

    Published

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    Bloody Mae

    “Tell me, Jonah: What good is a nurse that faints at the sight of blood?” Obadiah, a frontier-weary doctor, whined as he inhaled his fifth glass of whiskey. “Oh, bless her heart,” Jonah chuckled, placing his two feet on the table before them. “It’s not funny. Just the other day, I asked her to wrap…

    By

    Clarkisha Kent

    Published

  • Fishbone
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    Fishbone

    I’m not going to kill myself. I yelled it out early this morning when my mother woke me up. “I AM NOT GOING TO FUCKING KILL MYSELF!” is exactly how I said it when she came busting into my room demanding that I get my clothes on to go to meet Jesus. Two days ago…

    By

    Stephen A. Crockett Jr.

    Published