The Writings of Ariel A. Phoenix

I’ve been a wildfire in a paper town, flames licking every word I can’t take back, teeth sharp with truth, tongue dipped in gasoline. I call it honesty— they call it arson. And maybe we’re both right. Other days, I freeze like a locked screen. Still. Silent. I vanish behind glacial stares and slow replies. You won’t find me. Not because I’m gone— but because I buried myself beneath the cold so I wouldn’t erupt again. See, I was raised on the gospel of survival: be too much, or be nothing. Set the room on fire or leave it frostbitten. Either way, they’d never forget me. But I’m tired. Of sweeping up ashes. Of melting and reforming. Of people saying, “I never know what version of you I’m gonna get.” I want something gentler. Something true. A happy medium— not perfect, but balanced. A hearth, not a blaze. A chill breeze, not a storm. A heart that can stay without scorching or shattering. So I’m learning now to hold fire in one palm and snow in the other, to speak in warmth, to listen wit...

I used to call my soil troubled, weighed down by the weight I carried— letdowns, breakups, curses buried deep, like seeds nobody hurried. The cards I held? Couldn’t pair, playing hands with chips too bare, but the dealer knew my share was more than what was there. Then I twisted the kaleidoscope, turned my scars into a telescope— suddenly, the past had scope, every hurt a slope to hope. Real blessings, disguised as lessons: Disneyland, Thanksgiving dressings, Nana’s summers, sweet confessions in banana pudding sessions. Donny Hathaway crooning “This Christmas,” lifelong friends’ kids living wishes, little cousins now kitchen magicians, passing down the old traditions. Birthday bikes and puppy surprises, family love in bold reprises— every thorn just proof of roses, every storm just watered Moses. So I’m blessed—yeah, deeply grateful. What looked like weeds was faithful fuel. My soil wasn’t troubled, no— just God’s ground for glory’s grow. Now I stand here, strong and sure, fought the b...

I’m not an angry black woman.  Yeah, I know I look the part With my big hair and bigger attitude, And a mouth that’s slick & smart Lips full of knowledge and magic, Hips full of passion and static, The electric intensity of my stare… But I’m not an angry black woman,  I promise, I swear  I’m eclectic and ever-changing,  Swaying between my past and future, A melanated moon goddess, waxing and waning, Trying to create gifts in the present   I’m not an angry black woman; But I do see what you mean.  Yeah, I raised my voice & changed my tone But my heightened state isn’t what it seems When I snap my neck and cut my eyes, You may see the devil in me But underneath my sinister guise is a threatened heart in need of empathy No, I’m not angry That’s not quite the word. Okay, I might be a little bit angry,  But I still deserve to be heard.  “Angry” is a very simple label For a very complex situation There’s a lot more going on here Than your trite ...

  Chapter One: Static Between Us The phone rang four times before Quinn finally picked up. “Hey,” she said, her voice a soft rasp. On the other end, Mia’s tone was half-concern, half-sarcasm: “Girl, I know you see me calling. You better not be screening again.” She paused, then added, “Finally. I was about to send a carrier pigeon. You good?” There was a beat of silence before Quinn replied, “…Yeah.” But Mia wasn’t convinced. “You sure? You sound like yesterday’s weather.” Quinn hesitated. “Just… tired.” Mia frowned. “It’s barely noon. What’s goin’ on?” Outside, Los Angeles rumbled and cracked, impatient and indifferent. Mia weaved her way through downtown traffic in her white Range Rover, hands gripping the wheel tighter with each honk and near miss. Construction blocked the usual route to Quinn’s apartment, sending her down an unfamiliar backstreet where a palm tree leaned suspiciously close to a transformer box and a cyclist nearly clipped her mirror. She cursed under her breath...