Storymere follows two girls separated by more than a century, bound by blood, inherited silence, and a place that does not exist on any map. In 1896, ten-year-old Aïssata is torn from her family and home in Mauritania and carried into enslavement, where pain sometimes causes the world around her to give way to something else: a shifting landscape of rivers, horses, fields, voices and light.

More than a hundred years later, fifteen-year-old Malika is legally free, yet her family still lives beneath the power of the descendants of the people who once owned Aïssata. After an act of violence forces Malika to question who has the right to define what happened to her own body, Storymere begins pulling her deeper into the fragments her family has carried for generations.

Moving between past and present, Storymere explores what trauma leaves behind, what families preserve in order to survive, and what happens when reality itself becomes the last thing a girl must fight to claim as her own.

Storymere is currently being written; it has an expected publication date of early 2027. Work is copyrighted. Below is the Prologue and a portion of chapter one. I’d love to hear what you think!

There is a pain — so utter —
It swallows substance up —
Then covers the Abyss with Trance —
So Memory can step
Around — across — upon it —As one within a Swoon —
Goes safely — where an open eye —
Would drop Him — Bone by Bone.

Emily Dickinson, “There is a pain —so utter—”

Only I do hope it’s my dream, and not the Red King’s!
I don’t like belonging to another person’s dream.

Lewis Carroll
Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There

We quiver.

We tremble.

A sliver of moonlight. A flash of emerald silk. A tiny petal tumbling in the wind. Sometimes we are a river curving around muddy banks. Sometimes we are the shaft of light that glitters on the river’s surface. A barren room with walls built of silence and floors laid with disappointment. Endless blades of grass that sashay at dawn, the susurrus of a thought whose origins are hard to recall, a single drop of rain weighing down a leaf—we are all of these things.

Whatever we are, we are never exactly the same twice. We don’t start where you think we will. Beginnings give you things: context, space, answers. Our starting point may be the end. Or maybe just in time to see the horse galloping across plains you’ve never seen. Or just as someone whose name is as much a mystery as we are says something you cannot make sense of. Whatever our opening, it is not worried about establishing anything. It cares about something much more specific: capturing your attention.

How a ray of sunshine reflects on the glassy surface of a river depends on how high the sun is in the sky. If it’s low, it might be broken by the branches of nearby trees and appear against the water dappled instead of as a straight beam. Laughter disguised as the trill of birdsong may encourage you to follow it down the side of a steep mountain. A cloud morphing into a legend you’ve only heard stories of will arrest your mind.

If you look here, you’re not looking there.

We are movement: the gentle rocking of a boat from side to side, the slap of a wave breaking against the rocks, the jagged line of lightning as it slashes across a darkening sky, footprints held in dust. We are sound: the rhythm of nighttime frogs, the melodic sound of a woman singing, horses’ hooves thundering as they crest a hill, the th-thump-th-thump-th-thump of a heartbeat. These things capture focus and shift thoughts. We’re not a star on a map. We’re not a destination. We’re not a story; we just sometimes move like one. This is what we are: diversion. That is why we are here, and who we are changes in order to create it. It is our purpose. It is our essence.

There’s a beautiful horse here. Mane that flows forever; a scent of flowers you can’t forget. Maybe you’ll see him; maybe you won’t. Maybe he’ll be grazing grass in the shade or galloping near the stream… or maybe he’ll be nowhere at all, and you’ll wonder about him. What you see today is what we are today. Nothing more; nothing less. Life is the same way, no? One moment, it’s full of noise and movement and choice and song—and the next, you’re falling into an abyss, screaming and flailing until the only real thing is that which you feel at that moment. You may think of yesterday, dream of tomorrow, but all that’s really yours is now.

But, unlike you, we are unbound by memory, history or emotion. We are free to arrive, and to leave, as we wish. We do not ask for explanation. We do not demand a remembering of what came before you arrived. What happens outside of us stays on the outside; it is not talked about here. It’s not a secret—not here—but we exist outside of it. You do not owe us that. When you fall into us, you fall into whatever we’re doing at that moment. It will not be the same as any other moment and we do not offer explanations; we simply are present. 

That is not to mean we are strangers; we are not. We know you. We know when you’re here, and when you’re not. You are seen; you are not invisible. Sometimes we expect you. Sometimes we don’t. You are already known; nothing needs to be said here; we do not discuss before: before the line in the sand was drawn, before the sky split, before the ground shook, before your mind craved the diversion you didn’t know to ask for.

There are stories about things in the desert that confuse you by camouflaging every direction until you can’t find the right one. The sky in a well is real… but it’s not the whole sky. Whether we are the reflection or something tangible isn’t the point, and nor do we care which answer you give.

Stories may not have feet, but they have heartbeats. Just as yesterday became today, and today blooms into tomorrow, so must we change. Something will shift—a voice, the touch of a hand, a whoosh of air breathing over your clammy skin—and you will go and we will not. We belong here and we cannot go with you.

We will not say goodbye because goodbyes are promises, and we have none of those to offer. You may carry remnants of us—we’ll grant you that—but those remnants will not become more. They are fragments of glass stained by colors. Colors, in and of themselves, mean nothing. Whether you give them purpose or meaning—well, that’s up to you.

“Awa,” I whisper, walking briskly behind my sister just as her smaller fingers pull millet from a basket on the table. Quickly, she pushes her hand to her mouth, her tongue stealing the food. “Neene will see you.”

“Neene already sees,” our mother says, tipping her head as she sets a basket of laundry down.

Grinning like a jinn, Awa says, “But we can eat today.”

“Neene, when did you start cooking?” It’s not even daylight.

“Come on, girls, hurry now; Baaba will be waiting soon.”

The world is sleepy, but awakening. The sky hasn’t blushed yet but the stars have wandered back into their homes and there’s more silver than black above us. From somewhere nearby, the murmur of voices slowly grows as we wash. Awa shifts her eyes, her lips twisting to the side as she tries to stay still. Plunging our hands beneath the cold water and then over our mouths jolts us each morning. For me, it’s the nose. I always somehow get drops of water up my nose and it makes me sneeze. When Baaba sees me, he says, “again” until I wash the right way.

“Do you think—”

“Shh,” I murmur, finally moving to wash my feet.

“But do you think there will be fish?”

“Mecca,” I whisper, hurrying her.

Baaba already stands straight, his hands folded in front of him when we find our places. Awa knows the prayers as well as I do almost, but she forgets. I sense her foot shifting too early and snag the edge of her fabric, holding her down, keeping her from rising before it’s time. Only when I hear Baaba take a deep breath in, as if he’s about to speak, do I let go of her. She swats a fly away from her face, sliding her eyes toward me.

 Baaba stands ahead of us and says, “Allāhu akbar.” Together, we follow him. The words of the Fātiḥah always make something happen in my belly. I stop watching Awa through the corner of my eye; my back straightens a little and my eyes stray. A faint light, almost white, spreads along the eastern horizon. A flutter of anticipation builds. Sometimes it is very dark when we say morning prayers, but sometimes, like today, the sky grows restless to spill its colors.

We praise Allah. Neene says compassion is when we know when someone else is hurting, and we care about it. Does He care that my belly rumbles? Awa says hers does, even though she’s eaten a little even over the fasting, but I didn’t: I was like Neene. For the first time, I only ate when Neene did.

We ask for guidance, trusting Him to keep our path straight. As Baaba recites, the first signs of my favorite color, pink, appear overhead. By the time we make the first bow, it blooms into a deeper blush against the white-blue horizon. The wings fluttering in my belly beat faster.

Rising, Baaba prays, “Samiʿa Allāhu liman ḥamidah.” Allah hears the one who praises him.

I sway and my left foot moves a little too far; I bring it back. Awa rushes through it, but I listen and make sure I’m saying it at the right speed, the same as Neene: “Rabbanā wa laka al-ḥamd. Allāhu akbar.”

My hands flatten against the dust; the center of my forehead brushes against it. A small giggle comes from Awa as hers hits the ground a little too hard. She should slow down.  “Subḥāna rabbiyal-aʿlā.” Glory be to my Lord, the Most High.

Soon, after the second prayer cycle, Baaba moves, freeing us. By the time we enter the hut, Neene tests the temperature of a pot. She tells Awa to stir. When I sit, the mat wrinkles a little as I start working with the husks. The sound of laughter and rushing feet turns my head in time to see two of the village children run past. Awa inches closer to the millet, the sandy grain too hard for her to resist. She looks over her shoulder toward Neene. I widen my eyes, shaking my head at her, but she grins, moves her arm in a wide circle, as if saying, “I’m just stirring!”

Baaba’s large shadow comes in, his footsteps strong and sure. “Birthing,” he mumbles shortly, grabbing a gourd of water. Awa’s eyes sparkle, but Neene shakes her head. “Keep stirring. Add a little milk to that. Not too much.” To Baaba, Neene asks quietly, “Would it help if I come?”

He shakes his head. “The feast will need the food.”

“Look,” I say, pointing as he walks out. “It’s getting lighter out. The sun will be up soon.”

Awa snags more millet.

Neene reaches into a hot pan, tears a piece of fish and puts it into Awa’s palm. “Eat this.” Awa giggles, her eyes widening as she says, “There is fish!” The smell of the nutty millet over roasted fish makes my own belly rumble again, but I don’t ask for a piece. If Neene can wait, I can wait.

“You’ve always loved the sunrise,” Neene says. Smiling, her voice starts to rise in a song she says she sang with her mother when she was young. Her voice reminds me of the birds who fly near the river. It starts low and then rises until it soars. I join in, “Praise to Allah, who brings light with the morning,” Awa joins in next. Together, the three of us sound like a mismatched chorus of birds. Neene is the highest, Awa is the softest of us and I sound like I’m talking, but not. Somehow, the three of us singing still makes me smile every time. “Who lifts the dark and opens our eyes.”

My eyes stray from work my hands are doing to the open doorframe. From somewhere outside, I hear Samba, my friend, laughing. He will be here soon. “Praise to Allah, who fills the river, who gives grain to the hand and breath to the body.”  Awa nudges Neene, points to the pot.

Neene checks in, nods and gestures toward the gourd. Awa reaches down, picks it up, shakes it to test it.  “Half,” she says, her fingers reaching for the millet again. The last line of the song repeats the first. “Praise to Allah—”

Awa giggles and lifts her voice above ours, “—who brings millet in the morning.”

Our song dissolves into laughter as Neene waves a hand. “Go on to the well, girl.”

The air is warmer by the time I finish with the husks. I carry a basket under one arm, but my other hand drifts to the wrapper around my waist. Deep blue, like the water in the well sometimes looks after rainfall, it falls to my ankles. It doesn’t look or feel like my other wrappers; this one is darker and isn’t as soft yet because it’s new. Neene and Baabam gave me this for fasting for the first time.

Fasting feels like the sun takes many moons to cross the sky. The village smells different during the daylight hours of Ramadan. Cooking fires are quieter, and the smell of roasting fish and hot millet don’t begin drifting between huts until later. My mouth waters.

I am careful to step around the dung as I walk, lifting the edge of the wrapper up so it doesn’t touch the ground. The sun sits higher in the sky, drenching us with heat. I see the new calf as I pass the pasture; it stands suckling its mother. A quick spark lights through me before I can stop it: I want milk, too. Baaba bends near the calf, picking something up from the ground.

Squinting, I look up. I won’t have long to gather the pods before pausing for Dhuhr. I will try to get a full basket before prayer. Ahead of me stretches home, a golden land where light changes. Dry season collects crunchy leaves and stiff grass around the roots of gnarled trees. A small bird flies in front of me and I watch it as I approach the tree. The tamarind tree reminds me of Neene spreading her arms open for us. Sometimes, the village children play a game with me and Awa: we run straight at Neene to see how many of us she can hold at once. The trunk is rough and a strange color; not really brown and not really gray. Awa says tamarind trees look like feathers.

My toes feel the patch of grass: dry. It won’t stain my wrapper, so I let it fall and watch as it sways to my ankles. The sound of cattle nearby turns my head, but they are too far away to see. There are plenty of tamarind pods still left, though. My belly rolls again, thinking of the sauce Neene will make with what I gather. The first tamarind pod I see rests on the dusty ground beneath the branches. Leaning down, I pinch it between my fingers, lifting it. Rolling it over, I look for cracks or bugs but there aren’t any. This one is the right shade of brown: dark with clear, unbroken ridges. It’s curved a little at the end and that makes me think of Neene again, her back curving as she lets all the village children run to her. I drop the pod into the basket and look for another on the ground, then up.

Hanging from a low branch, I spot a cluster of three. The branches wobble, and a leaf crunches as I step closer, plucking the pod. As I examine it, twisting its rough shell around in my hand, I notice a small crack. I run my thumb along it.

“Oumar.”

My breath hitches in my throat.

Mammadu and Baaba haven’t spoken in many moons. But, I look behind me toward the pasture and see him shake Baaba’s hand, nods towards the calf. When they move farther away, my mind drifts. I tip my head upwards. Prayer will be soon and I still have to fill this basket.  I’m holding another pod up, scrunching my nose at the bug crawling over it, when I hear my name.

Awa—before her name fully crosses my mind, I see a whirl of arms, legs and soft fabric flying. Samba, taller than both me and Awa, rushes past first, his palm slapping bark. When he grins, it’s bright and wide, and he says, “I won again.”

“You told me she was at the river; you cheated!” Awa pants, dropping to the squat she favors, both her heels flat, her left knee tipped farther outward, her wrists hanging loose between her legs. Being so fast is tiring. Fuzzy strands of hair have worked loose of the cornrows Neene makes for her. Worse, a streak of dirt smears across the top of her wrapper and her hands look like she’s played in dung. She probably has. “Don’t touch me,” I say, stepping back, looking down at my own wrapper to make sure it’s still clean.

“You’ve only got three pods.” Samba steps to the side, plucks a cluster of pods and tosses them into my basket.

“Wait,” I say, pulling it back out. Taking one off the stem, I turn it carefully, looking at one side, then the other. “This one has a crack.”

Samba’s smile changes into something softer. “What are you checking them for?”

“Bugs.” He’s a boy; maybe he doesn’t know to check. “Cracks. We gather the best.”

His elbow nudges me. “And how many times do you check? Let me guess? Three? No—wait; four.” His voice splinters into laughter and I see the sparks in his eyes. I roll mine, dropping another pod into the basket.  

“Why are they not shouting at each other?” Awa asks, pointing. When we glance up at the pasture, Baaba and Mammadu walk toward us. Baaba checks the position of the sun. Prayer draws closer.

Samba shrugs. “Not today.”

Even though he’s not close to us, I feel Baaba watching me. “Prayer. It’s time for prayer.”

The stars are bright tonight, twinkling above us, as smoke rises between huts. The fires, and the noise around them, warm the air. A young girl knocks a mug over, spilling water, and laughter erupts as a flurry of hands race to keep the food dry. Someone leans over, setting another bowl of couscous out. I watch. Her hands have barely pulled back before I’m reaching for a handful. My belly hasn’t rumbled in hours; now, it grows tight.

“Look,” Samba taps my arm, points beyond the village. Past the last hut, just safe enough from the enclosure, the outline of something catches the light of the moon. Its body and feet are turned to the side but its rounded head looks our direction; its ears are perked. “The golden wolf.” Samba grins. As if it knows we see it, the wolf cries, long and low.

A man stands, takes a few steps closer to it, waits.

“A stand-off,” Awa says happily.

“The wolf against the men of the village,” Samba adds to her story. “The men win, every time.”

“The wolf wins,” Awa insists. “Because it’s sneaky.”

“One time, when I went hunting with the men, we saw one chasing a hare. It wasn’t hiding; it was just fast.”

“Did it catch it?” I ask, tipping my head. The wolf makes another long cry and takes two steps forward.

“Thinking about chasing it off,” Baaba says, joining the first man.

“Let’s see if it comes closer.”

“We didn’t see if it caught it but I know it did. It was faster than the hare.”

“But smaller means the hare might have hidden where the wolf couldn’t get it.”

Samba shrugs. Moonlight shifts and the wolf runs toward the darkness. Baaba shakes his head, slapping the shoulder of our uncle. “Heard there’s been some cattle lost in the north; might be the fault of a group of those.”

“Come,” Awa says, pulling my arm. She doesn’t wait for me to stand before running ahead to the dusty area where a few of the children gather. The clinking of jars and bowls, adults and children talking and laughing, the crackling and popping of the fire in the hearths and the sound of some women trying to remember the words to an old, old song fill the air. A group of older boys kick a ball and I think Samba will join them, but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands across from Awa. Across from me stands my cousin, Takko, who shouts for her mother to watch.

Her mother and Neene shift, turning to see us.

Awa, of course, goes first, squatting again.

“Up, Awa,” Neene says.

Awa stands, squinting an eye and telling Samba, “That hole in your chin is so deep, I could plant millet in it.”

“You mean this hole?” Samba shoots back, tapping the dimple in his chin. Awa nods, her eyes widening as she stands, then squats again. “Well, your hair looks like Neene started braiding it and a goat finished.”

Awa’s lips purse, her eyes promising revenge, as the adults laugh. She says, “Your knees are so far from your feet, they have to shout to each other.”

Instead of being annoyed, Samba’s grin grows.

“Switch,” an adult says. We move until we stand in front of another child and the teasing continues until the adults are clapping and everyone laughs, even the kids. As someone calls us closer to the fire for storytelling and songs, I’m pinching my wrapper and pulling it out to check it for dirt when Samba comes up alongside of me, making a tssking sound. “Dirt knows better than to get on your wrapper,” he says playfully.

“It better.”

The hearth crackles as we gather around it. Mammadu talks to Baaba, his voice calm and steady.  Baaba listens, saying little, but with a smile playing on his lips. Neene asks Takko if she had enough to eat. When the small bowl being passed around reaches Samba, I lean over and steal a handful of roasted groundnuts. I use my thumb to rub the reddish skin from its kernel as the sound of cracking ripples around. The skin clings to fingers that are sweaty. I move to wipe it off but remember just in time: not on the wrapper.

“I thought you were going to do it,” Samba teases. I should be bothered because, well, I did almost forget…but I’m not because I didn’t. “On me,” Samba offers, patting his own grey wrapper. “Can’t have pesky things like that on your new wrapper.”

My smile grows despite itself. Carefully, I use a fold in his wrapper to clear my hand. But then I stand. Hands should be clean. I know he watches me as I run to the side of the hut to pour water over my hands; I make it back before anyone starts a story, and I feel much better. Now, it won’t get dirty even if I forget. As I move to sit between Samba and Neene, Awa sneaks another handful of groundnuts, smiling playfully.

One of the elders starts the same story we’ve heard many times before. His deep voice sounds like warmed honey. Leaning over, I rest my head on Neene’s arm. Her hand pats my leg. The story of the jinn lost in the desert, tricked into thinking a river was just that way, makes Awa’s eyes grow heavy. Soon, she rests against Neene’s other side. Someone adds to the story and I perk up because it’s different than before; someone else laughs, claps wrinkled hands and starts singing.

Dust swirls in patches as bodies and feet and wind shift. I reach down, brush away dirt from a small stone, pick it up. Samba likes rocks. I hold it out toward him, tapping his arm. When he sees it, he picks it up, turns it, nods approvingly. He’ll add it to his pile of them he keeps buried beneath the thin tree outside his bedroom. He says one day, when he’s older, he’ll dig it up and use the stones of when he was young to build his own hearth. I laugh when he says it because his voice changes to sound like that of the men in the village who talk about when they were young.

Neene chuckles and I look just in time to see Awa’s head slump, her chin touching her chest. “This one is done,” she says as the story finishes. She scoops Awa up, saying goodnight to everyone, and disappears toward our hut. Baaba’s eyes follow, but he stays seated.

Tipping my head back, I watch the stars twinkle until another person says they’re going on home, too. Voices move from chatter to whispers; laughs turn to yawns. Women start to gather sleepy children and bowls scraped clean. Samba leaves, tossing the last of the roasted groundnuts into his mouth, saying quietly, “Your wrapper made it the whole day, Aïssata.”

I look down, running my hand over the blue fabric. The smile that touches my lips is soft, not so wide as to show the gap between my teeth. Neene will be proud of me for keeping my new wrapper clean. Baaba remains, so I stay, too.

“Today was fun,” I tell him, pulling my bottom lip between my teeth. Baaba nods quietly, taking a deep breath in so that his chest rises high. He leans forward. The fire is low now. Instead of sparks flying, it’s more ember than flame, straining for breath, just alive enough to cast shadows over Baaba’s face.

“Can you tell the star story?” I ask.

It’s not one everyone knows. I can’t remember Baaba telling it by the fire with anyone but us, but it is the best story of all. Baaba’s face changes and I feel the tingling deep in my belly; it makes me smile before he’s said anything at all. My legs want to curl beneath me, but he wouldn’t like that, so I don’t. You are not so little anymore, my starling.

“The stars are not just twinkling lights pasted onto the night sky. They are more than that. Do you know why Allah made the stars, Aïssata?”

I wrap my arms around my middle. I know the answer by now, but I pretend I don’t. “So there would be light?”

Baaba shakes his head. “The moon gives better light.”

“Because they are pretty?”

One side of his mouth moves. “You stole that from Awa.” He points upward as my face warms. “Allah tells us they help travelers find their way. A man might lose his path if the ground is dark. He can lose the river. He can lose the tree he uses as a marker. But no matter what he loses, he can still lift his head.”

I look up. “That one is very bright,” I say, pointing. It shimmers like the sunlight does across water. 

“Once there was a girl whose father traveled so far from home she became scared the distance might swallow him.” Baaba’s voice turns serious. I move my head, my eyes colliding with his. My throat moves. “How far?”

“Farther than you would like.”

“Across the river?”

“Farther.”

“Kaédi?”

“Aïssata.”

I stop asking.

“Every night, the girl went outside and chose one hoodere.”

“Any star?”

“The same one whenever she could find it. It was always the first she could find. Her father told her wherever his road carried him, he would look for that same star too.”

“What if he was very far away?”

“She asked the same thing.” Baaba’s shoulders rise, then fall. “She thought maybe the star would have to choose between them. Maybe it would follow her father and disappear from the sky. Or maybe it would stay above her and leave him alone.”

Silence stretches between us and I know.

It’s not just a story; Baaba will travel far soon. He works and farms and sometimes he’s gone for many moons. My shoulders drop. I look back up at the stars and feel the wind brush slips of hair out of my face. I only look down when I hear something. Baaba pulls a slip of copper from his garment, turns it between large fingers. “The star never chose.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Because the girl misunderstood.” His eyes find mine. “There was never one sky for the father and another for his daughter.”

I glance up again. The sky stretches in each direction as far as I can see.

“There is only the one sky.” His thumb moves across the scratched star in the copper. Moonlight strikes it. I can’t see the full thing, but I see lines etched into the metal.

“So when you miss someone who is far from you, look up.  You may not know where beneath it they are. You may not know which road they are walking. But you know this: they have not left the sky above you.” He pauses, then moves his hand, holding the copper toward me. I take it. One of the star’s eight arms is shorter than the others. “This one is broken.”

“That one is copper,” Baaba says. “I told you about the ones in the sky.”

I stare at him. His mouth twitches. Carefully, he closes my fingers around the pendant. “The copper made me think of you. Your eyes have the same star in them as this has. Right now, in the fire, the copper looks almost warm, almost red, just like your eyes do in the light.”

“Awa says they’re like mud,” I say dryly.

He chuckles. “Maybe in the hut. But not in the light. You’ve got lines that go like this.” His finger taps the copper; I look at its star. “In the light.” He pauses, letting the silence stretch. Finally, he pats my knee and says, “Come now. Fajr will come early.”

But I do not go to sleep, not even when I lie near Awa, listening to her breathe. Instead, I stare at the ceiling, holding the pendant. When I can’t stand it anymore, I rise, moving quick and quiet, just outside. The calabash bowl sits full of water by the door, ready for washing. Moon and starlight drape the night and when I lean over the bowl, my face floats in the water. My eyes look darker there, almost black, until I move closer and the light catches the little brown lines Baaba calls stars.

When I find my mat again, I dream of twinkling lights.