Author: Anna Lea Jancewicz

Anna Lea Jancewicz lives in Norfolk, Virginia, where she homeschools her two children, teaches creative writing, and is Best Dungeon Master Ever for a group of heroic middle-graders. She is an editor for Tiny Donkey, a journal of short-form fairy tale nonfiction. Her writing has been chosen for The Best Small Fictions, Literary Hub Daily, and the Wigleaf Top 50 longlist, and has appeared at Hobart, Necessary Fiction, Pithead Chapel, and many other venues. Her short story collection, (m)otherhood, is forthcoming from Widow and Orphan House press, FALL 2017. Say it: Yahnt-SEV-ich.

The Bastard Need/ Icess Fernandez Rojas

I know that today was payday because your wallet bulges from the back pocket of your dusty Wal-Mart jeans. I know that your truck smells like sweat, like taco meat, like recently sprayed $5.99 musk for men because it was on sale. It’ll mask the smell of honest work, the smell of hunger, the smell of indiscretion.

Black, I: The Truth About Slavery

I was in the ninth grade, the only black girl in a classroom of white peers, when I learned the truth about slavery. At the time, I thought I knew all there was to know. No fault of my mother’s; she just didn’t have the heart to tell me the whole truth…

Black Mourning: Let Our Grief Be Our Own

We must let our grief and our celebration, our individual experience, be our own. Because given the voice to speak our own way, we all have something distinct to say about our collective history and future…

Radical Romance: Realities/ C.D. Sorrell

  Wool jacket fastened halfway up, buttons catching the light like June Bugs Drawing close, he whispers like a branch, one leaf rubbing another Home comes through in the ripples in the lake as the cool wind brings me back Summer in Razliv with the founder, the radical, the will-be revolutionary He speaks words like…

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Bootstraps: The Happiest Place on Earth/ Asha Doré

The American Dream, he’d say, and we’d both go quiet and watch the short evergreens and palms out the front window for a beat, their leaves waving a little under the swarm of midday sun. When the window filled suddenly with with a spray of water, the trees and road went liquid. Their colors blurred. Dad would gasp, Shit, Asha it’s happening again. He’d say, God’s raining only on us.