Black History by Olivia Salter / Poetry / Black History

 

Black History

By Olivia Salter

Bound in chains, yet never broken,
Hope still whispered, dreams unspoken.
Dragged through fire, drowned in pain,
Still, they rose and spoke their names.

The ocean swallowed cries unheard,
A people lost, a fate deferred.
Yet through the dark, their spirits swayed,
Their songs of sorrow would not fade.

A woman ran with stars as guides,
Through tangled woods and rivers wide.
Harriet whispered, Follow me,
And led the bound toward destiny.

A boy once learned in stolen light,
Carved his mind in ink at night.
Frederick rose with words like thunder,
Tore through silence, split it asunder.

A pen became a blade for truth,
Ida struck with fearless proof.
She wrote through threats, refused to bend,
And made the world bear witness then.

A builder dreamed, a teacher gave,
A road from dust, a mind to save.
Booker lifted, Mary lit,
A path where knowledge would not quit.

War drums called, and Black hands answered,
Fought for nations, left abandoned.
From Crispus’ fall to Union’s fight,
They stood for freedom, claimed their right.

Yet shackles stayed, though war was won,
Freedom caged, the work undone.
Jim Crow's shadow, twisted, cruel,
Turned justice into iron rule.

A man once dreamed a mountaintop,
Where hatred burned but love did not.
Martin stood, and though he fell,
His echoes rang like gospel bells.

Malcolm’s fire, sharp and bright,
Refused to kneel, refused to white.
With words like steel and eyes unshaken,
He called a people to awaken.

Rosa sat and shook the land,
A quiet stance, a bold demand.
They walked for miles, their bodies burning,
Yet never turned, yet never yielded.

Selma’s bridge ran red with pain,
But still they marched through driving rain.
With hands held tight, with voices high,
They faced the dogs, refused to die.

Langston wrote of rivers deep,
Of dreams deferred, of wounds that weep.
His words still pulse like midnight streams,
A people’s grief, a people's dreams.

Maya rose with voice so golden,
Spoke of birds with spirits stolen.
Yet still they sang, yet still they flew,
A song of old, yet fierce and new.

The blues still hum in southern air,
A cry of loss, a whispered prayer.
Jazz erupts, a trumpet shatters,
Rhythm births what history scatters.

Jesse ran with feet like fire,
Ali fought with fists and ire.
From fields of toil to medals bright,
They claimed their space, reclaimed their light.

Mothers wept and fathers bled,
For doors still locked, for words unsaid.
Yet children rose with fists held high,
Their voices stars against the sky.

The fight still breathes in every street,
In protest chants and marching feet.
From Ferguson to cries today,
The past still burns, the echoes stay.

But history is more than chains,
More than sorrow, more than pain.
It is the architects of change,
The hands that build, the minds that blaze.

So here we stand, with voices bold,
A legacy both new and old.
No fire fades, no story dies,
Black history is endless skies.

Glass Slippers in the Magic City by Olivia Salter / Short Fiction / Contemporary

 

Glass Slippers in the Magic City

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 1,201

Ella Mae Brown sat at the old wooden table in the back of Delores’s boutique, the quiet hum of the sewing machine accompanying her as she worked on a design that felt like a quiet prayer to her mother. Sylvia Brown, renowned for her seamstress artistry in Birmingham’s Black creative circles, had sewn magic into every stitch. Now, Ella’s hands, once trembling with the weight of grief, worked with precision and a growing sense of purpose, stitching her own dreams into fabric—a subtle homage to her mother’s legacy. But despite her talent, her designs were hidden, unclaimed, overshadowed by the suffocating walls of Delores’s resentment.

“Ella Mae,” Delores’s sharp voice cut through the silence, drawing Ella’s attention from the sketch before her. “Those dresses won’t finish themselves.”

Ella’s chest tightened, but she nodded without a word, pushing down the frustration that clawed at her. She stood and walked to the front of the boutique, where her cousins, Regina and Portia, twirled in the latest outfits, eyeing themselves in the mirror with smug satisfaction.

“Ella,” Regina scoffed. “You really think you’re cut out for more than this? Stick to designing for us. You’ll never make it anywhere else.”

Portia smirked, her voice dripping with disdain. “Who needs dreams when you’ve got a steady gig? You should be grateful.”

Ella swallowed her retort, her stomach twisting. Her designs—her passion—kept the boutique afloat, yet Delores dismissed them as mere tools to maintain her own fading glory. Ella’s talent, her voice, was something Delores had never allowed her to claim.

When the Young Magic Makers Gala was announced, the opportunity felt like a calling. The gala promised mentorship from a legendary Black designer, a full scholarship, and startup funding to launch her own line. It was everything she’d ever dreamed of—a chance to step out of the shadows and into her own light.

But Delores’s words crushed that hope before it had a chance to take root.

“No, Ella. I need you focused on Regina and Portia. They’re the ones who matter, not you.”

Ella’s heart cracked, but she nodded, the weight of defeat sinking in. Yet the spark inside her refused to dim. She had come too far to let anyone dictate her future.

Late one evening, after the shop closed, Ella slipped away to Miss Violet’s tiny seamstress shop on the outskirts of town. Miss Violet, an eccentric elderly woman, was known for crafting bridal gowns that were said to “bless” the brides who wore them. But what few knew was how deeply Miss Violet understood the struggle of creative souls, especially those who had been denied their rightful place.

“Sit, child,” Miss Violet urged, her voice as warm and inviting as a summer breeze. “Let me see what you’ve got.”

Ella’s breath caught as she handed Miss Violet her sketchbook, filled with designs that had been locked away in her heart for far too long. Miss Violet’s eyes lit up as she turned the pages, her fingers tracing the edges of the designs with approval.

“This city needs you, Ella Mae. You are the magic they’ve been waiting for.”

For weeks, they worked together, Ella’s vision blossoming under Miss Violet’s gentle guidance. The gown they created was a masterpiece—a stunning blend of white and gold, inspired by Birmingham’s “Magic City” trademark. Every stitch was infused with Ella’s dreams, her grief, and her unshakable strength. But it was the shoes that would prove to be the turning point—crystal-heeled and daring, a symbol of Ella’s courage to take the first step into her truth.

“Take these,” Miss Violet said, pressing the shoes into Ella’s hands. “These shoes will carry you toward your destiny. But only if you’re brave enough to wear them.”

The night of the gala, Ella slipped into the gown and felt a shift within her—a quiet but powerful transformation. The woman staring back at her in the mirror was poised, elegant, and full of strength she hadn’t known she possessed. The crystal heels clicked against the floor as she walked toward her destiny, her heart pounding but her feet steady.

The moment she entered the gala, every eye in the room was drawn to her. The room fell silent, the breath of every person held in awe. Ella didn’t just wear the gown—she owned it, radiating a quiet power that left the audience spellbound.

But then Regina and Portia saw her.

“Ella?” Regina hissed, her voice sharp with venom. “What do you think you’re doing? That dress—it’s ours!”

The accusation rang through the room, and murmurs spread like wildfire. Delores, furious, appeared from the crowd, her gaze hard and calculating.

“This girl works for me,” Delores sneered, her voice dripping with malice. “The dress? My design. She’s nothing but a helper.”

Ella’s heart sank as security began to move toward her. Her mind raced, and for a moment, she wanted to disappear. But then, from the corner of the room, Malcolm King stepped forward, his presence commanding.

“If you’re the real designer, prove it,” he said, his voice calm and unwavering.

Ella hesitated, every part of her screaming to flee, to retreat into the safety of silence. But Miss Violet’s words echoed in her mind: You have to walk toward your truth.

With trembling hands, Ella pulled out her sketchbook, laying out her designs for the room to see. She showed them the sketches—dozens of original pieces, each one a piece of her heart. Her fingers shook, but her voice was steady.

“These are mine. Every last one of them.”

Malcolm studied the sketches carefully, then turned to the crowd, his voice ringing out with conviction.

“This woman is the real designer. And it’s time for the world to see her.”

The scandal broke wide open. Ella posted videos of herself designing the gown, exposing Delores’s lies for the world to see. The community, once unaware, rallied behind Ella. Prominent designers and influencers shared her story, amplifying her voice. Delores’s boutique collapsed under the weight of the public’s outrage, and Regina and Portia were exposed as complicit in the deceit.

Ella was invited back to the gala, this time to accept the award. The judges crowned her the winner, the applause deafening. But Ella barely heard it. Standing at the podium, her heart full, she addressed the crowd.

“My mother taught me that the magic of this city isn’t in its buildings or its history—it’s in the people who dare to create. Tonight, I claim that magic as my own.”

With Malcolm’s mentorship and support, Ella launched Magic Threads by Ella Mae, her fashion line that honored her mother’s legacy while embracing her unique vision. Miss Violet remained her guiding light, a mentor and collaborator in the truest sense. And Malcolm, who had stood by her when it mattered most, became her business partner—and something more.

As for Delores, her regrets were evident, but Ella’s words were firm.

“You taught me what it means to lose everything. Now, I’m going to teach you what it means to build it back—on your own.”

Ella’s journey wasn’t a fairy tale. But it was hers—and that made all the difference.

Inferno & Devotion by Olivia Salter / Poetry / Romance

  

Inferno & Devotion

By Olivia Salter  

Your touch is a matchstrike, sudden and bright,
A wildfire carving through velvet night.

Lips like embers, slow-burning deep,
Whispers like coals, where secrets keep.

The air is molten, thick with want,
A fever that time itself can’t haunt.

Your breath on my neck—a whispered vow,
Melting the past, unmaking the now.

Desire flickers, then roars to life,
A blaze untamed, a spark turned knife.

Fingertips carve like tongues of flame,
Branding my soul with the sound of my name.

The night exhales in silver heat,
Where fire and flesh and hunger meet.

Nails trace scripture on sacred skin,
A language of longing, whispered within.

Sweat beads golden, fever-fed,
A hymn of bodies, a prayer unsaid.

The world collapses, ember by ember,
A love too fierce for time to remember.

Your kiss is molten, slow and sure,
A tether to something vast and pure.

Flames rise high, no space for doubt,
Shadows dissolve as passion shouts.

Your voice—an echo, raw and bright,
A tremor laced in liquid light.

My name escapes like a half-spun spell,
A tether between the heaven and hell.

The night unfolds in tangled sighs,
A love too reckless to disguise.

Time folds in, undone and spun,
A wildfire raging against the sun.

Closer still, no space remains,
Just heat and heart, untamed, unchained.

In afterglow, the echoes stay,
A love that smolders past the day.

No morning cools what’s forged in bone,
This heat, this fire—we call it home.

So let us burn, let embers rise,
A love that dares—eternal, untamed, baptized.

Inferno by Olivia Salter / Flash Fiction / Romance

 

Inferno

By Olivia Salter

Word Count: 786

The first time she touched me, I knew I was in trouble.

It wasn’t love—not the kind they wrote about, all slow burns and quiet devotion. No, she was wildfire. The kind that licked at your skin before you realized you were already burning.

We met on a humid summer night outside a jazz bar, the scent of rain and whiskey thick in the air. I had stepped out for air, rolling the taste of regret on my tongue, when she walked past me—bare shoulders kissed by the neon glow, lips curved in something between a dare and a promise.

I should’ve looked away.

But she turned, and her eyes locked on mine, as if she already knew.

She tilted her head. “You always stare at strangers like that?”

“Only the ones worth remembering,” I said.

She smiled, slow and knowing. And when her fingers brushed mine, just for a second, my whole world shifted.

I didn’t know it yet, but this was the beginning of something that would leave me in ruins.

One night turned into two, then weeks of tangled sheets and whispered names. She was a force, moving through my life like a storm, leaving no space untouched.

She kissed like she was starving. Touched me like she was writing scripture on my skin, branding her name into the spaces between my ribs.

I should have known better.

Because you don’t hold onto fire.

You let it burn, or you step away before it consumes you whole.

It was a storm that finally undid us.

Lightning split the sky as she traced her fingers down my spine, her breath warm against my neck. But there was something different in the air, something I couldn’t name.

“You’re afraid,” she murmured.

I wasn’t. Not of her. Not of this.

But she wasn’t asking about fear. She was asking about something deeper, something I wasn’t ready to give a name.

So I kissed her instead.

Let her pull me under.

Because I knew, when the storm passed, she’d be gone.

And I wasn’t ready to watch her leave.

Morning came.

The sheets were cold.

Her scent still lingered—jasmine, ylang ylang, and something wild. But she was gone.

No note. No goodbye. Just silence where she used to be.

I told myself I’d forget. That she was just a fire meant to burn fast and leave nothing behind.

But some embers never die.

Months later, when I saw her again, I knew—I had never stopped burning.

Autumn had settled in, the air sharp with change. I found her outside that same bar, wrapped in a leather jacket, arms folded tight against the wind.

I almost didn’t cross the street. Almost convinced myself that chasing ghosts was a fool’s game.

But then she looked up.

And the world tilted all over again.

“You left,” I said, my voice quieter than I meant it to be.

She exhaled, a slow thing that made my stomach twist. “I told myself I wouldn’t come back.”

“Then why are you here?”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, she looked past me, like she was watching something far away. Or maybe something she wasn’t ready to face.

Then, finally—“Because I wasn’t supposed to care this much.”

My pulse kicked up. “And now?”

Her jaw tightened. For the first time since I met her, she looked… unsure.

And then, softly, “I don’t want to run anymore.”

Love had never been the problem. We had always had enough fire.

But this? This was something else.

Something special. Deep. Inferno. 

I reached for her hand. Held it. Just held it.

She didn’t pull away. Didn’t let go. But I felt it—that flicker of hesitation, the war behind her eyes.

“You don’t have to run,” I said. “Not from me.”

Her breath hitched. She looked down at our hands, fingers tangled together, like she was memorizing the desire of something she wasn’t sure she deserved to keep.

Then she closed her eyes.

She thought she was built for leaving. That love like this wasn’t made for people like her—people who knew how to burn, but not how to stay.

She had spent so much time believing that fire always had to destroy.

But maybe—maybe it could warm, too.

She swallowed hard. “What if I don’t know how to stay?”

I squeezed her hand, tighter. “Then we figure it out. Together.”

A gust of wind swept between us, crisp with autumn, but neither of us moved.

Seconds stretched. The night pressed in. And then—

She exhaled, slow and unsteady, and curled her fingers tighter around mine.

Not a promise.

But not a goodbye, either.

And for now, that was enough.