Deadline extended to October 5th for the 2019 Winter Tangerine Fellowship! Get your apps in now!

It’s October & autumn is in full, lovely swing! To celebrate, we want to get spooky w/ y’all so all month we’ll be hosting our new #WTchCraftChallenge prompt series. Be sure to use our hashtag—we cannot wait to see what wonderful witchy brilliance you brew! ✨✨Check our social media every day for new prompts written with love by the WT staff.

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Donate to our Trans Writers of Color Workshop Fund here!

When you cannot find your reflection, you resort to touch. You feel for your left arm with your right fingers, all five of them. Each one drags across the bumps on your skin. Once you have confirmed that your left arm is there and your right fingers are touching it, you lose one of your earlobes or your whole neck. Your body is constantly looking for itself, remembering itself. It’s nothing like people who lose their limbs but you still think of your lost body parts as ghostly, weightless, always at risk of floating away from you forever.

from REAL BODIES, Laura Chow Reeve

What a joy it is to announce the first cohort of the Winter Tangerine Fellowship!

Our 2018 fellows are Siaara Freeman, Lyrik Courtney, Golden, kiki nicole, & Yujane Chen!

These writers marvel and shimmer. Their writing is bold and luminous, and the urgency and insight of their work undeniably moved us. 

Click here for more info on our fellows & excerpts from their work.

Perséfone’s fingers are thin and long, like La Calle Septima, one of the main streets in Bogotá, Colombia, where her family is originally from. She used to play the cello. I saw it one night soon after we began hanging out—body buried in a black bag—tossed in a back ditch of her bedroom, a thin stream of dust coating the shell. That night, I didn't ask about it. If I had, she might have shut down and uploaded herself into the dust of satellites, unreturned texts and trails of indecipherable emojis.

I always thought that a cello looks like a swan: a long slender neck curving into rounded hips. Perséfone, a girl with the gravest of expressions, could be either the cello buried in her bedroom, resplendent but untouched, an instrument with no voice; or the swan sailing across the water, alone and determined.

— from Perséphone in the Summer, Mónica Teresa Ortiz