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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780997457896 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Third Man Books |
| Publication date: | 05/26/2020 |
| Series: | Tmb , #31 |
| Pages: | 320 |
| Sales rank: | 1,138,066 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.40(h) x 0.80(d) |
About the Author
She is the author of Sleeping Under the Tree of Life (Aqueduct Press), honored with a Publishers Weekly Starred Review and longlisted for the 2016 James Tiptree, Jr. Award, and of Shotgun Lullabies (2011), described as “a revelatory work like Jean Toomer’s Cane.” Thomas edited the two Dark Matter (Hachette) black speculative fiction volumes that first introduced W. E. B. Du Bois’s work as science fiction, winning two World Fantasy Awards (2001, 2005).
Her work appears in numerous anthologies and literary journals, including The Big Book of Modern Fantasy, Sycorax’s Daughters, Do Not Go Quietly, So Long Been Dreaming: Postcolonial Science Fiction & Fantasy, Memphis Noir, Revise the Psalm: Work Celebrating the Writing of Gwendolyn Brooks, Afrofuturo(s), Ghost Fishing: Eco-Justice Poetry Anthology, The Ringing Ear, Apex Magazine, FIYAH Magazine, Callaloo, Fireside Quarterly, African Voices, Jalada, Strange Horizons, Blacktasticon, Mojo Rising: Contemporary Writers, Mojo: Conjure Stories, Stories for Chip: Tribute to Samuel R. Delany, 80! Memories and Reflections On Ursula K. Le Guin, and Harvard’s Transition.
She is the Associate Editor of Obsidian: Literature & Arts in the African Diaspora (Illinois State University, Normal), the Founding Editor of MOJO: Journal of the Black Speculative Arts Movement, and the co-editor of Trouble the Waters: Tales of the Deep Blue (Rosarium). Honored with fellowships from Bread Loaf Environmental, the Millay Colony of Arts, Smith College as The Lucille Geier-Lakes Writer in Residence, the New York Foundation of the Arts, VCCA, Cave Canem Foundation, and the Tennessee Arts Commission among others, Thomas’s multigenre writing explores the hidden wonders in the invisible. Her stories have received Notable Mention in the Year’s Best American Science Fiction & Fantasy and Honorable Mention in several volumes of the Year’s Best Fantasy & Horror. Her editorial work uncovered a legacy of over a century of black science fiction writing and helped launch the careers of some of the most exciting new voices in the field.
Nine Bar Blues from Third Man Books is Sheree’s debut, all fiction collection. The stories encompass the heart, spirit, and music of the Mississippi Delta and of Memphis, Tennessee, where she was born and currently lives. Visit her on Facebook/Instagram @shereereneethomas Twitter @blackpotmojo
Read an Excerpt
“High John saw the mighty number,” she sang. “High John, High John.”
“High John saw the mighty number, High John, High John…”
Miss Dinah is a master jumper. No one can beat her jumping. We start off easy then speed the doubled ropes up. She gets real mad if we turn the ropes too slowly.
“High John was a mighty number, High Jo—”
“Enough of that wearisome ditty. Sing something else,” she cries.
We are just about to turn the ropes when I hear Amber whisper behind us.
We are so astonished to hear her speak, that we let the ropes drop and fall slack. They hiss and groan as they touch the cold ground. The ropes only like heat, they hate the ice crystals prickling their frayed little bellies. The faster we turn, the hotter they get. I hate the ropes. They hiss and move like snakes and shed like them, too.
Miss Dinah whirls, turning to face Amber. “What did you say, Amber dear?”
Miss Dinah is trying to resume her nice voice, the friendly voice that comforted me when I awoke to find myself waiting in the dark blue.
Amber takes a deep breath, her eyes intent, her mouth a straight line, unsmiling.
“I said, can we hula hoop here?”
“Hula?” Melanie is confused. We have been jumping rope and pattycaking so long that we barely remember other activities.
“Is that another way to turn, another way to jump?” Miss Dinah asks.
Suddenly, I catch KeKe’s eye and motion for her to lay the crying ropes all the way down. They hiss in protest.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yes,” with more enthusiasm. “Can we, Miss Dinah? I haven’t hula-hooped in a long, long time.”
“It’s so fun,” KeKe says, finally catching on. She sounds corny as all get out, but she fixes her face to something that looks like excitement.
Melanie hops over to us, her shoeless foot lightly skipping over the snow and ice. “I wanna hula, too! Me, me, me!” she cries, tugging on Miss Dinah’s tattered dress.
Miss Dinah narrows her eyes into sharp slits. “What does this hula look like?”
“Like a big skinny, hard donut,” Amber says. “You spin it around your waist and keep it spinning with your hips. You can spin it as fast or as slow as you want, but you can’t let it touch the ground.”
“It’s so much fun, Miss Dinah,” I say, trying to sound bright, light.
“And there are songs, too!” KeKe says.
“Songs?” Miss Dinah cocks her head like a bird of prey. “Try me,” she says, both a warning and an invitation.
Amber walks to the center of the playground, away from the ropes that have finally quieted down. She adjusts the ragged remains of her dress that barely cover her chest, the strips of dark-stained fabric around her waist and begins to sing. After a while, we join in.
“Hula, hula, now who think they bad?”
“I do!”
“Hula, hula, now who think they bad?”
“I do!”
“I think I’m bad ‘cause Amber’s my name. Yellow is my color don’t you worry about my lover, honey.”
“Mmmf, she think she fine.”
“Fine, fine, fine enough, fine enough to blow your mind.”
“Mmmf, she think she cool.”
“Cool, cool, cool enough, cool enough to skip your school!”
“Hula, hula, now who think she bad?”
Miss Dinah’s face, first pale with anger, now darkens and shines with pleasure. Her long teeth recede back into her mouth as do her claw-like nails. She turns back into the motherly creature that had come to the blue oneness and smiled and grinned and lied to our face, the haint that claimed us like a fairy godmother in a bad, bad dream.
“I will get this hula,” she says and rises to go. Her ugly feet levitate off the ground.
“We need five,” Amber says quickly.
“Five?” Miss Dinah lowers herself, looks at us, suspicious. “Why can’t we share the one?”
Amber glances around uneasy. KeKe begins to stutter. I start to speak but then Melanie interrupts me. Any other time I’d be annoyed by that but not this nightday.
“Because I want a pink one with sparkles on it! Sparkles and stars! And Ruby,” she raises my hand. “Ruby wants a red one of course.”
“No,” I cut in. “Blue.”
“I want blue,” KeKe says, her voice soft, quiet.
Miss Dinah smiles, revealing normal teeth now. “Yellow for Amber, RED for Ruby, Blue for KeKe, pink for my Melanie, and…and gold for me!” Delighted, she shoots up into the air like a witch without a broom. She is heading straight for the Jackball sun, the bright colorful sphere that seems to embody her every mood.
“That’s it!” I say.
“That’s what?” KeKe asks.
Amber motions at the ropes. I signal agreement.
“I know where she buried her heart.” I point up to the fake swirly, swirly nebulous sky, the spinning Jackball where Miss Dinah disappears.
“We’ve got to get her ropes. Quick, KeKe, I know you hate turning, but we’ve got to hide them and keep them quiet somehow. Distract her with the new game.”
“There are three ropes now. I know just what to do,” KeKe says. “I can twist anything, I can braid anything, I just need a little help.”
We sneak up on the ropes while little Melanie distracts them and grab them by their tails. Before they hiss and holler, KeKe ties one set of their ends into a tight knot.
“Now turn!” she says.
“Turn?” Melanie asks.
“Not you. Keep watch. Amber, Ruby, help me braid this.”
The ropes jerk and yank, trying to get free. They sparkle and sting us but we keep braiding, one loop over the other loop, under the rest.
“It hurts,” Amber says. We nod, yes it does, what doesn’t here, but keep folding over and over until we are done.
Melanie hops over one of the rocks to us, the little pigtail ends of her cornrows shaking, frantic. “Miss Dinah is on her way back here. She has the hula hoops.”
“Back to your places,” I whisper. Melanie runs to Amber, then runs back to the me.
“What you doing over here?” I ask.
She looks worried. “I don’t know how to hula hoop.”
“It’s easy,” I tell her. “Just watch me.”
“What if I drop it?”
“Miss Dinah loves you.”
Melanie screws up her little chubby face. “Miss Dinah don’t love nobody.”
I think about this as she lands, spinning on one foot.
“Hulas, hulas,” Miss Dinah sings. She hands them out, one by one. “Now let’s get started,” she says.
We sing, each girl stepping into the center of the ring, spinning the hulas, singing of personal glories. Melanie drops her hula many times, but Miss Dinah only laughs and orders us to play again and again.
Finally, when I think I can’t sing another note anymore, when I can’t think of another boast to share, Amber steps forward to take my hoop.
“One hoop is easy. It’s really for beginners and babies,” she says, cutting her eye at Miss Dinah.
“Amber, you know I hate babies.” Miss Dinah hates babies because babies can’t survive here. What would she do with something that needed more attention than her?
“A real master hooper can spin one, two, maybe even three hulas at a time.”
Miss Dinah looks curious. “Are you a master hooper, Amber?” She is always ready for a challenge.
“I am,” Amber says and Melanie gasps. She plops her hand to cover her mouth.
“No, Amber, you’re going to drop them,” Melanie whines.
“No, I won’t, Melanie. Watch me!” Amber wraps her bun tighter in her scrunchie and smooths down what is left of her dress. She adds my red hula and KeKe’s blue to her own yellow hula, one by one. She begins to spin around and walk as she hoops.
“Teddy bump, teddy bump! Teddy bump, teddy bump!” she sings as she swivels her hips, the hoops spinning slowly at first, then faster and faster.
Melanie looks like she’s thrilled and terrified all at once. Her little eyes are about to pop.
“Oh, you want to try me, I see,” Miss Dinah says. She unfurls her razor sharp fingers, her flat palm up. “Give them to me.”
Table of Contents
AncestriesAunt Dissy’s Policy Dream Book
Nightflight
The Dragon Can’t Dance
Thirteen Year Long Song
Lokeera’s Tongue
Stars Come Down
Shanequa’s Blues, or Another Shotgun Lullaby
Madame and the Map: A Journey in Five Movements
Teddy Bump
Origins of Southern Spirit Music