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...

When you come into town,  About a mile past the train depot Hang a left at the crossroads; that’ll take you where you want to go Down the road, just after the bend You’ll find nana’s sweet embrace  And the joyous laughter of friends Down the road, just over the valley You’ll taste home cooked food And a warm welcome from your family  Down the road, just under the bridge You’ll feel your lover’s presence  And the innocence of your kids Down the road, just past the big sign You’ll see the fruits of your labor And discover peace of mind Down the road, you will see that our troubles and travels are not in vain There’s a divine purpose in the journey  There’s a palpable payoff for the pain So don’t give up on your voyage Stick to the road just a little longer  The best is yet to come  The road is what makes you stronger

A Kenyan man once taught me the difference between donkeys and zebras He said that while zebras are plenty lovely, a wise man would rather be with a donkey I was a bit confused, I didn’t know what he meant He explained that a donkey is good to be used while a zebra is stubborn and hard to be kept Donkeys are timid, meek and mild Zebras run free, reckless and wild Donkeys come home &  stay in their place While zebras buck & bite,  lacking tact and grace Donkey does what zebra don't. Donkey will when zebra won't. Donkey carries the burden Zebra travels far & light  Donkey makes for an easy ride.  Donkey listens & obeys.  Zebra insists & dismays. Donkey never leaves his side.  Whether Donkey understands or not, there is always a leash in his hand.  No need to explain the plight or plot, there is no opposition to his plan.  Zebra is exhausting,  entirely too difficult and bossy.  Compared to Donkey,  Zebra’s obedienc...