[Published in Fleury’s book “Chain Letter To America: The One Thing You Can Do To End Racism” and in the Indian international “Cooch Behar Anthology,”, Sourav Sarkar, Editor, available on amazon]
Photo c/o Jacques Fleury
Ahhh, the sweet smell of morning, coffee brewing, eggs frying, birds chirping, eagles flying…
Dawn has awakened to adopt the forsaken, those born without tongues;
They are the colorful birds without nests, outside of this daylight darkness looms with a smirk,
Patiently waiting for somebody’s light to capitulate
To its black tunnel of nothingness and to laugh
When they get lost and stranded
On their way to salvation, but the morning’s breath offers direction,
A sound that rings ripples in the sea of lost souls,
Anxiously waiting to escape the destitution that stands
Between the richest and the poorest; the destitution that stands on wobbly legs
As naked as a tree in the deep dark frost of winter;
The parts of the earth surrounded by rows of semi-invisible iron bars
Anchored from the ground to the infinity of the sky;
While affluent oppressors gorge on caviar…
And isn’t it about time that someone asks “why?”
But the breath of dawn has come and it’s blowing just enough cold
To seal the pores of the poor so that the venom of racism and classism
Won’t infiltrate their gaunt paper thin skins.
They listen for the breath of morning to announce a new beginning;
Hoping to rid the world of famine…giving them a reason, particularly those sleeping on treason,
To get up in the morning, and to bask in the knowledge that
It is always sunrise somewhere…
Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured and internationally published Haitian American poet, theater reviewer, educator, author of numerous books of essays, reviews, fiction, poetry and literary arts student through Harvard University. He was chosen among over 4, 000 competitors from 83 countries as the Recipient of the International Naji Naaman Literary Prize for Creativity (2026) and a Certificate of Participation for his “…esteemed contribution of poetry to the anthology Water: The Source of Life (Volume IV) presented by La Fenetre De Paris.
Jacques Fleury’s book You Are Enough: The Journey Towards Understanding Your Authentic Self
Four little heads popped up behind the hedge of big purple flowers. They looked like heads, but actually the Bobbers, as they were known, had just one long body form, which changed shape when they moved. Sometimes they could make themselves invisible or float about like clouds. They were watching Grace and friends make music. The Bobbers were crazy about the sounds that were coming from the living area in her house.
Grace was pounding away on a black box with white keys. Another female was plucking at an upright brown box with strings. Another was beating on round circle boxes with sticks. They were swaying back and forth, up and down in time with the sounds they created. Another was blowing on a metal pipe, her cheeks puffing out with each breath.
The Bobbers knew Grace was a female and so were her friends since they had been studying the creatures on planet Earth for some time. Making music was something the Earthlings called fun and entertainment.
You see, the Bobbers were looking for another planet for their civilization. Earth was the closest inhabitable planet to their galaxy which was many light years away. The Bobbers knew the Earthlings would think them aliens, if they were aware of their existence. But they weren’t anymore alien than the races that peopled this planet. So, it was a perfect planet to take over since their planet was at the end of its existence, its sun was dying, and they needed a new home.
The Bobbers meeped at each other in excitement. The musicians had started another song. It was one of their favorites – Watermelon Man. They started bobbing up and down in their version of keeping time to the beat.
“We have to let her in on the secret,” said First Bobber, swaying to and fro.
“We know,” said Second, “but then she might be scared and won’t make music anymore.”
“Well,” said Third, “today is the day we introduce ourselves to Grace. We need to explain that we sent her here.”
“Yes,” said Fourth, “she is one of us. She has prospered here. Now it is time for her to help us out since we need a new home. Now we know this planet is a good fit for our failing civilization. Time is running out to make the transition.”
* * * * *
“Grace, you read too many frigging science fiction novels. There aren’t any aliens on planet Earth. You need to stop reading all that crap on the internet about aliens being spotted on Earth.”
“I know you think I’m daft, but I hear them sometimes.” She leaned in closer across the kitchen table where she and Kate were having their morning coffee. “This one says it wants to meet up with me.”
Kate almost spilled her coffee. “No way. You are not going to meet any alien, Grace. You are out of your mind.”
“What’s the harm in meeting with it?”
“First off, I’m real uncomfortable with an It.”
“There’s lots of its these days.”
“Besides that, It may be a psycho killer.”
“Now who’s talking about watching too many internet weirdo movies. I think It was being nice and earthy, trying to fit in.”
Kate rolled her eyes. “This is too much. Where do you meet this alien?”
“It sits on the concrete patio outside my sliding glass doors in the living room. I saw it sitting there one evening, couldn’t figure out what it was doing, opened the door and engaged it in conversation. It told me right off it was from another galaxy.”
Kate did another eye roll. “You talked to an alien. This is too, too much. I got work to do, people to see, places to go. See you later.” She got up. “And another thing – don’t invite them to our jazz sessions or I quit.”
With that Kate made her exit, shaking her head all the way out the kitchen door. Grace remained seated at the table. She looked down at her beloved cocker spaniel, Rosie, who looked up at her with a smile. She was waiting for a treat.
“I didn’t mention to Kate that I’m one of them.”
* * * * *
Grace had always felt like an oddball. So, she wasn’t real surprised that she was an entity from another galaxy, if what her new friend said was right. Her friends and family thought she was an oddball. Like her idea to quit her job and travel the United States in her old Tundra truck with Rosie, her beloved tan and white cocker spaniel. They told her she had a really good job, wait till she was an old lady and retired. That was too far off, if ever.
Now she had the prospect of “helping her people” like the Bobber said. It had managed to convey her its name. It had a garbled way of talking so Grace didn’t catch everything it said, but one thing she did understand. She was one of them.
In her bones she felt that was right, which would explain her feeling always like an oddball, wouldn’t it? A woman cosmologist like her was not run of the mill in the world of cosmology dominated by men. And a jazz piano musician like her in a jazz world still dominated by men was not run of the mill.
Maybe she was an “it”, too. Maybe not. She always enjoyed male company, even had a boyfriend or two. The all-female jazz trio she played with was by choice. A statement about women being able to compete with men.
The Bobber, if she had understood it correctly, said it was time to help her people, that their planet was dying due to natural causes. She could understand that being a cosmologist. Planets came into and out of being just like everything else in the universe.
She knew that things were getting steadily worse here on planet Earth. She had tried to explain that to the Bobbers. That moving to Earth was a bad idea. How would another civilization move to Earth? She had done short moves in her life. Moving was exhausting. She couldn’t imagine a planetary move.
Maybe she should take them on a trip across country so they could see the Earth wasn’t as great as they thought it was. They could mascarade as a jazz band.
* * * * *
Grace was waiting for the Bobbers. She was in her living room with Rosie by her side, looking out through the sliding glass doors. Grace thought they had said they would be back and appear on her porch today. They did. One by one they appeared. They were small forms that floated like clouds near the ground. She counted four separate forms.
“What do you think, Rosie?”
Rosie was intent on what was out there. She saw them, too. Grace was not hallucinating. Rosie growled, a low warning sound.
“Be still, girl,” said Grace. “Everything is okay. I hope.”
She opened the door. The small clouds hovered. Then they did something astounding. With a loud pop each one of them converted to human form. Sort of. Now standing before her were four what looked like children. Grace waited. On closer inspection they looked like miniature adults. They all looked alike except for the color of their hair which they wore in Buster Brown hair cuts. One had green hair, another had pink, another had yellow, and the fourth purple. They fit right in with today’s scene.
Their facial features were almost identical. Brown eyes with tan skin. Wide noses and lips. Broad faces. They were giggling.
Grace didn’t know what to say she was so taken aback at what she had just witnessed. She waited. They settled down, seeming to sense her confusion and astonishment.
“We are Bobbers,” said the one with pink hair enunciating each word carefully. “We come to explain.”
Grace waited. Rosie growled. The Bobbers looked at the dog, aware of her for the first time.
“She’s a dog,” said Grace. “She won’t hurt you.”
“We know,” said Pink Bobber. It reached out a hand to Rosie, who began barking like her life depended on it.
The four Bobbers jumped backed. Grace spent some time reassuring Rosie the Bobbers were friends, stroking and talking to her. The dog quieted after a few more serious barks and a warning growl.
Grace looked at her new friends. “Where is home?” she said.
They all pointed up.
“Far away,” said Blue Bobber.
“You said something about moving your people to Earth since they needed a new planet. How would that work?”
“We have moving vehicle ready. Really big spaceship. We bring what’s left of our people.”
“How many?”
“Not many.”
“What kind of numbers are we talking about?” said Grace.
They all shrugged.
Purple said, “They are orbiting now in this solar system on really big spaceship disguised as asteroid.”
“I see,” said Grace, having trouble assimilating what they were telling her. Another civilization ready to settle on Earth?
“This is going to be harder than I thought,” said Grace.
The Bobbers made a collective frown.
“Problem is we need new place to live,” said Pink.
“Problem is,” Grace said, “that Earth might not be a good long-term solution. We got our problems here, too. The planet is being destroyed from overuse by humans.”
They kept frowning.
“Our research,” said Green, “indicate good conditions here for life of human forms.”
Grace thought that over. They were humans. This was getting more interesting by the minute.
“I have an idea,” she said. “I could take you on a little drive and show you what the problems are. How about we take a trip in my truck? We’ll pose as a jazz band. You’ll see the problems up close.”
“You teach us to play instruments?”
“Why not?”
But first she would talk this over with one of her cosmologist colleagues more amenable to the idea of aliens than her jazz friend, Kate.
* * * * *
Pam looked at Grace for a while then said, “We’ve talked about the possibility of life on other planets. We look for them through the telescopes we have and the research we do. But this is a new twist. They are already here and want to settle on Earth.” She shook her head. “Unbelievable. You have to forgive me. I need time to let this settle in my brain.”
Pam and Grace shared an office at the university where they taught courses in cosmology and astrophysics. Grace had thought over who she would talk to about her new alien friends and their plans. She had decided on Pam, who was a scientist, though not opposed to far out thinking. They had come up with some bizarre scenarios from some of the data they discovered but this was the most bizarre.
They sat in silence for a while, both trying to adjust. Grace hoped Pam would help her think this through.
“Okay,” Pam said at last, “I’m trying to focus on the implications of what you said. You think you can dissuade them from settling here by taking them on a trip disguised as a jazz band and actually showing them sites where Earth civilization isn’t working. I’m not that far along in thinking of solutions. I’m still thinking about a spaceship orbiting Earth with a whole civilization of aliens on board. We don’t know what they look like, how they survive, what they do for a living, how they would feel about Earthlings and what their impact would be on our civilizations. We’re a little crowded here now.”
Grace said, “I thought if I could show them that we’re crowded, that we don’t do a good job of planet stewardship, that this is not the ideal place they think it is, that maybe they would go somewhere else.”
“Can you imagine the panic and confusion if a spaceship lands and disembarks aliens. Where would they go? We don’t even know what they look like. You described them as clouds. How do we communicate with them?”
“They speak English.”
“They speak English,” Pam repeated.
“Yes. I first saw them as clouds. Then one day they popped into human form right before my eyes.”
She described the Bobbers.
“My, oh, my,” was all Pam said.
They sat looking at the wall for a while then Pam said, “I have a great deal of respect for you and your work, Grace, but you’ve left the bounds of science as I know it with this story.”
“I could arrange a meeting with them, if you’d like.”
“Let me think that one over,” said Pam.
* * * * *
Her conversation with Pam left Grace in limbo. She wasn’t sure how long it was going to take Pam to think it over. Meanwhile, Grace had a trip to plan and get underway. And she had to teach the Bobbers jazz.
As it turned out it was very easy to teach them. They assembled in Grace’s living room. Grace had a set of drums. She had a saxophone and a standup bass in her collection and, of course, her electric keyboard piano.
Grace showed them the instruments. Immediately, before she could offer explanation, purple took the drums, pink the bass, green the saxophone and yellow the piano. They started banging away, creating an incredible cacophony of sounds, not all displeasing.
“This is interesting,” Grace said aloud. “You seem to have a natural talent for music.”
She clapped her hands in time to the sounds they were producing. She morphed the clapping into the beat of Watermelon Man, smooth with an offbeat. They followed her.
She started singing or scatting, as singing is called in jazz. They followed along, improvising as they went.
After about five minutes Grace held up her hands and the group ended their riff.
“We play again,” said Purple.
“Yes,” echoed the other three.
“That was impressive,” said Grace.
“We listen to you play very much,” said Green.
They must have listened for hours, Grace thought. But they did seem to have a natural ability to pick up notes, rhythm, and sequence.
“We listen on jazz airwaves for long time,” said Yellow who seemed to be the leader of the group. “We design our faces to go with Jazz artists. They mostly brown.”
“Yes, they mostly are,” said Grace. “Women you don’t see much of in jazz.”
“We not male. We not female,” said Green. “We take names like you have. My name is Herbie, drummer is Jeff, bass is Jamal, sax is Cannonball.”
“You have been doing your homework. Those are some jazz greats you are naming yourself after.”
They beamed. Their faces seemed to be morphing into more recognizable features. Before her eyes, they morphed into wearing hoodies in various shades and long jean skirts.
“My friends,” Grace said. “Females wear skirts. Are you male or female?”
“We not either,” said Herbie. “We wear what we like. You not like this? We not look good?”
“You’re beautiful,” said Grace. She couldn’t help an ear-to-ear smile.
Herbie stopped smiling and said, “Grace, we need tell you something. Maybe we lied little bit, I think you say.”
Grace waited, not sure what to expect.
“See, our people not looking for other planet to live. They disappear long ago. They leave us stranded. We have no place to go now. We need place to call home. We call home with you now.”
Grace kept nodding, slowly, wondering if she was living in a dream.
All she could say was, “I suggest curling your hair. It will go better with your outfits.”
* * * * *
Grace went to visit Pam at her palatial home off campus. She had to talk this one over and find out what Pam thought.
“I don’t think much of this bunch that has befriended you,” said Pam. “I’ve thought over what you first told me. I was about ready to accept you alien story. Now you say there’ll be no alien landing, but we have four stranded aliens in our midst. I must say, that’s a much smaller problem.” She frowned at Grace. “What are you going to do with an alien jazz band?”
Grace shrugged. “Go on the road, I guess. They play pretty good jazz.”
“What about your other jazz friends? Have you discussed this with them?”
“Outside of Kate, no. I have to think over the implications of going on tour by myself.”
“I suggest taking someone along who you know and trust that could defend you against aliens gone wild.”
“I know who you are thinking. Carlo. He wouldn’t be able to get time off from the U.”
“Ask him. You never know.” Pam paused, looking at Grace with squinty eyes. “Might I add, I recommend not going at all and getting rid of your alien friends. Ask them to go to another planet.”
* * * * *
Grace presented the proposed trip with an alien jazz band to Carlo the next day when she saw him for coffee at the faculty coffee shop.
Carlo was all in.
“Grace, this is extraordinary. You know, I’ve always been an admirer of your musical talent. I’ve attended every one of your concerts. I am honored that you would ask me to go along. I’m even more astounded that you’re taking an alien jazz band.”
“You’re a groupie of mine? I didn’t know that I had a following. You never told me.”
“There’s lots you don’t know about me,” said Carlo. “All we ever talk about are cosmology and astrophysics. Of course, you know I have a penchant for the bizarre. Tell me more about the aliens and how this all came about. I’m intrigued.”
“I’ve told you all I know,” said Grace with a shrug. “They are these sweet little entities that dress weird and talk funny and say they are stranded aliens. They love jazz and apparently have been watching my jazz group practice at my house and now they want to learn jazz. What’s really crazy is that they have a natural affinity for music and can play along with me pretty well. And they love the Earth.”
“I’m in,” said Carlo. “Do you mind if I bring my accordion and my pet magpie, Bubbie, along for the ride? He could keep your dog, Rosie, company. They could talk to each other.”
Grace shrugged. “Sure, why not? This trip is off the rails anyway. Why not a magpie. Maybe Rosie will get to like him.”
“He talks, did I mention that?”
“What does he talk about?”
“Nature. His love for everyone and everything. He’ll love Rosie. He’ll love the Bobbers. I believe that’s what you called them, right?”
“Yes, the Bobbers. All right then. Come over to my house this evening and help plan the trip.”
* * * * *
Grace didn’t bother to tell Pam the latest developments. She was too busy coordinating events. She realized that the Tundra was not going to accommodate the enlarged caravan. She decided to purchase a large cargo van and outfit it. Or maybe she could find one already outfitted with sleeping racks and a kitchenette. They’d need lots of storage for the music instruments.
She wasn’t sure if the Bobbers ate. Did they take baths? Did they toilet? This was getting complicated. And where were they going to go now that she didn’t have to prove that the Earth wasn’t a good place for them to live? Obviously the Bobbers were staying. Maybe they didn’t have to go on a road trip. Maybe they could headline right here in town.
She was still mulling over the conundrums of such a trip when the Bobbers showed up at the back door at the same time the front doorbell rang. That would be Carlo and the magpie.
Grace looked at Rosie. “You’re going to like Carlo and his friend.”
Rosie grinned. It was all in a dog day.
Grace let Carlo and the magpie in while the Bobbers made themselves at home in the living room.
The Bobbers had taken Grace’s advice and turned their straight hair into big afros. They took over to the musical instruments and started playing discordant chords, warming up like Grace had showed them.
Grace clapped her hands, calling for their attention.
“Listen, Bobbers, I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. This is Carlo and his magpie friend, Bubbie. They want to accompany us on our jazz tour.”
The Bobbers stopped suddenly and looked toward Carlo, realizing for the first time he was in the room.
“Nice bird,” said Herbie. “He play music?”
Carlo said, “No, but he talks and squawks.”
On cue Bubbie let out a raucous squawk which sent the Bobbers clapping and dancing. Bubbie kept squawking seemingly fascinated by their antics. Carlo took out his accordion and played a few bars to limber up.
Then he said, “Let’s play ‘When the Saint Go Marching in’.” He tapped out the beat.
Grace went to the piano and showed Herbie the melody line. The drummer and bass took up the rhythm. Cannonball blew the saxophone. Grace sang and clapped. The magpie squawked and cawed. Rosie howled. Carlo danced around the room playing the accordion.
They went on and on, each player adjusting to the sounds of the others. This went on for a good long while from song to song until the doorbell rang.
Grace stopped singing and went to answer. The others kept banging away. It was the sweet little old lady from next door.
“Do you think you could keep the noise down?” she said. “It’s pass midnight.” The sweet little old lady gave a weak smile. “Or I call the cops.”
* * * * *
The Bobbers left soon after the neighbor paid a visit.
Carlo sat at the dining table by the patio door. He looked at Grace who stood looking out at the night.
“That was quite a session,” said Carlo. “They are amazing. What pleasant entities.”
“Yes, entities,” said Grace, quietly, feeling tired but exhilarated. “What do you think?”
“I think a road trip would be chaos with this group,” he said. “Are you sure you want to attempt it?”
Grace sat down across from him.
“I think I have more than I can handle. From a scientific perspective this group bears study. Taking them on the road into the hinterland of America will cause all sorts of problems I don’t think we’ll be able to deal with. I’ve thought a lot about this. Someone might try to kill them and do away with us if the alien word got out. Then again some people would welcome the group.”
“I agree,” said Carlo.
They sat quietly each with their thoughts.
“You play great accordion,” said Grace after a while, like this was a normal conversation.
“You’re not a bad jazz singer. Right up there with Ella.” Carlo paused then said, “Where do the Bobbers go when they leave here?”
Grace shook her head. “I don’t know. I haven’t asked or followed them.”
“Maybe we should,” said Carlo. “Something about this isn’t making any sense to me.”
“Follow them now?”
“Let’s just go out into the yard and see if we can find any trace of them.”
“What do you suspect?” Grace asked. “I can tell by your look you’ve got some kind of hunch.”
Carlo laughed. “We’ve been in too many meetings together.”
Grace smiled and nodded. “That we have. We’ve done a lot of brainstorming together on exotic theories of the cosmos. What’s your theory about this bunch?”
Grace nodded slowly. “That makes more sense than anything else I’ve heard. That would explain how they can morph so quickly into different entities.”
“And play jazz instruments so well,” said Carlo. “I think AI has jumped out of the machines into embodiment right before our eyes.”
“I wonder who’s behind them,” said Grace.
* * * * *
They walked the perimeter of the house and then around the open field in the back of the house. No Bobbers. Gone.
The night was black with a blazing band of stars.
“I’m dumbfounded,” said Grace.
“There’s no trace of them,” said Carlo. “Not even an exhaust burn on the grass from a spaceship.”
“They said they weren’t travelling in a spaceship.”
Carlo shrugged. “You never know. We need to find how they get here. Haven’t you been curious about that?”
Grace blew out a breath. “I have been so bombarded with strange occurrences in these last few days, that simple fact wasn’t on my radar.”
“When are they coming back?” asked Carlo.
Grace threw up her hands. “I don’t know. They just show up. So far that has worked because I’m the only one communicating with them. Now that you are in the equation, maybe common sense will prevail.”
“I don’t know many cosmologists with common sense,” Carlo said.
“That makes two of us,” said Grace. “My question is, who is behind this? That’s what I’d like to know.”
They stood, looking into the darkness.
Then Carlo said, “You know that top secret project you’re working on that no one is supposed to know about, but everyone does?”
Grace played dumb. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Yes, you do. It has to do with using AI in cosmology.”
“I guess everyone does know about it if you do.”
Carlo grinned. “I got a friend in AI in Silicon Valley. Miles Thorne. He’s the expert. He’ll know.”
“Miles Thorne? That weirdo in theoretical physics? He’s way out.”
“Yup. That’s why we need his help. He knows about weird things.”
* * * * *
When Carlo got back to his home, he placed a call.
“Hey, Miles,” Carlo said to his iPhone.
Miles looked back at him from the phone, well-trimmed head in the center of the screen.
“Carlo, my friend. It’s been a long time. What’s up?”
“You know something has to be up, right, if I’m calling you.”
Miles leaned in. “We’re on a secure line, right?”
“Of course,” said Carlo. “That’s the only way you’ll talk to me.”
“We can’t be too careful,” said Miles in a hushed whisper. “There’s a lot going on these days, you know. Like secret stuff and everybody wants in on the action.”
“Still trying to make money?” asked Carlo.
“That’s what it’s all about. So, what’s up? You wouldn’t be calling unless you wanted something.”
Carlo decided to give him it to him straight, or as straight as possible.
“I ran into some odd entities the other day. At first they said they were from another galaxy looking to settle on Earth. They appeared in the backyard of a friend of mine. They were clouds at first. They said the friend was from their planet. Then they morphed into human form and said they were lying about being from another planet. Even stranger, they like to play jazz and are pretty good. I get the feeling they are AI in human form. They don’t look like robots. They look and talk like humans. You wouldn’t know anything about this, would you?”
Miles’s face remained impassive. “Nope,” he said and the screen went blank.
I thought so, thought Carlo. Those fools out on the west coast are creating AI humans now. Or bots are building themselves.
* * * * *
Later Carlo related his conversation with Miles to Grace when they met the next evening in her house. Rosie and Bubbie listened in, sitting by Grace and Carlo on the couch.
After relating his conversation Carlo said, “I’ve been following some of what has been going on in AI Land through my contacts in Silicon Valley.” He paused, then said, “It’s not good. I checked in with some of my contacts after I talked to Miles. Are you ready for this?”
Grace sat quietly, nodding her head. “I’m ready. Is it going to be as bad as I think?”
“Yes,” said Carlo. “Here’s what I know. There are actors in the AI power circles who have already made sentient bots. They look and act like real humans. Their test models were the US Congress and the present administration. The majority of players in our political world are AI. That’s the reason their behavior is so erratic and doesn’t make a hell of a lot of sense. From time to time some of the AI creations get out and go off on their own. Your jazz band is probably some of the escapees. They are basically sentient AI, but their programs are a little whacky. That’s why yours went from extraterrestrials to jazz musicians. The AI powers perform experiments and some of the experiments go AWOL.”
“All this means,” said Grace, very calmly, “that our world is now run by artificial intelligence that don’t know what they are doing.”
Carlo nodded, adding, “But the AI power group behind them know what they want the world to look like and don’t care who gets screwed. They will go to any lengths to get what they want which is power and money. My dear, we are being screwed, and there is not much we can do about it.”
Grace said, “Do you think the jazz band was an intentional plant? We both work on top secret projects. Someone might want the information we’re generating and collecting, let alone our findings.”
Carlo shrugged. “Maybe. At this point I’m at a loss.”
They sat on the couch with bird and dog for a while, all listening to the night.
Then Grace said, “The immediate question is what do we do about the jazz band.”
Carlo looked around. “Did they show up this evening?”
“No,” said Grace. “They haven’t showed up. Maybe someone got tipped off after your conversation with Miles and recalled them.”
“The plot thickens,” said Carlo.
There was a knock on the front door.
Grace looked at her watch. “It’s kind of late for visitors. We aren’t making any noise so it shouldn’t be the old lady.”
“Maybe it’s the jazz band,” said Carlo.
“They never come to the front door,” said Grace. “But maybe this is a new twist.”
They both went to the door. Rosie and Bubbie watched from the couch. Grace opened the door. There stood a solitary man, with well-trimmed face and beard.
“Miles,” said Carlo. “What are you doing here?”
Miles pushed his way in. “I’ve come to collect you and your friend. You’re Grace Koch, aren’t you?”
“What if she is and what’s this all about?” said Carlo.
“You two are coming with me. I have a project I need help with.”
“Are you kidnapping us?” said Grace like this was normal.
“We only nab scientists we need for our projects. You two know too much now. We’re borrowing you for a time. Let’s take a little visit out west. I have an SUV waiting and there’s a flight out in an hour.”
“Wait a minute,” said Carlo. “Not so fast. We don’t want to come with you.”
Miles hard face softened. “I’m sorry I hung up on you, Carlo. That’s my jazz band we’re talking about. My own creation. I love jazz, and I created an AI jazz band. I love them. Where did you put them? They will come with us.”
“Wait a minute,” Carlo said again. “How do we know you aren’t AI?”
Miles grimaced. “You’ll take my word for it. You got to help me. I’m in way over my head.”
Grace went over and laid a hand on Miles’s shoulder. “Look, we can help. I liked the jazz band, too. We were going to go on the road. What do you want us to do? Do you have any idea where the jazz band is? We thought you took them.”
Miles wagged his head. “Not me. Not me.”
“To get back to my question,” said Carlo, “are you AI?”
Miles shook his head.
“How do we know? AI humans look like the real thing.”
“You know I’m not AI. I just design them. I jumped ship on the rest of the AI human project crew. Now some of the dudes have it in for me. They want my jazz band.”
“This makes no sense to me,” said Carlo.
“Nor to me,” said Grace. “You said you wanted help. I don’t want to now. Take your jazz band and get out of here.” She pointed to the door. “There’s the door. Leave now.”
“I don’t know where the jazz band is,” said Miles. “Truly I don’t.” He looked back and forth between the two scientists. “One of the other guys on the project must have gotten jealous of the jazz band because they were pretty popular. He sent them some commands to make them act like they were aliens. I thought he was joking. The jazz band disappeared. They next thing I know Carlo is calling me about these strange entities that appeared at your place, Grace.”
Carlo blew out a huge breath. “Don’t you guys in AI have any ethics? You screw around with this stuff like it’s a video game. This is real life and real people we are dealing with here.”
Miles shook his head. “You don’t know the half of it. And you probably don’t want to know. The AI power people have no morals. I’m not sure all of them are human. You had no idea all this was going on before the jazz band showed up. Now you know.” He looked back and forth to them both. “I’m afraid you are a liability now.”
“Liability?” asked Grace.
Miles nodded. “You know too much. That means I’ll have to make you quietly disappear.”
At that point Rosie, who had been growling on the couch, started to bark. Bubbie the magpie started squawking to add to the noise. They went on the attack and beat Miles to the floor.
“Call off the damn animals,” cried Miles. “Call them off. I was just kidding. Really. Just kidding.”
“Rosie, stop,” said Grace, grabbing the dog by the collar. “Settle down, girl. He won’t hurt us.”
Carlo held out his arm and called the magpie. “Come here, Bubbie. We’re okay.”
The magpie squawked again, made one more peck on Miles’ arm then flapped up to Carlo’s shoulder.
Miles hunched over on the floor, quietly groaning. “I don’t know what to do,” he moaned. “I don’t know what to do.”
“I do,” said Carlo. “I’m going to put you in your SUV, and you will leave right now. You’ll be on that flight west without us. We’ll take care of ourselves.”
He hauled Miles up by his shirt from the floor, Miles moaning the whole time.
“I can’t leave without you,” he said.
“Yes, you can,” said Carlo. He pushed Miles toward the door.
Miles stumbled ahead. Carlo threw open the front door and pushed Miles through.
“Wait here, Grace,” said Carlo. “I’m going to put him in the SUV and on the road.”
Grace and Rosie watched from the front door as Carlo with Bubbie on his shoulder pushed and pulled Miles to the driver side of the SUV, opened the door, and shoved Miles into the seat, Miles complaining the whole time.
“Start this thing up and get out of here,” Carlo shouted.
Miles started the SUV, threw it in reverse and floored it. The SUV bounced out the driveway, careened into forward, and screeched away, Miles screaming, “I’ll get even with you.”
“Holy crap,” said Carlo, backing toward the front door. “I hope he doesn’t kill anybody.”
Grace watched from the open door, mouth wide open. They both stared as the SUV disappeared into the black night.
They looked at each other.
“Do you think he’s gone for good?” asked Grace.
“I hope so,” said Carlo.
“Now what?”
“We pack up Rosie and Bubbie and take that road trip you planned. No jazz bands allowed. We need to disappear under our own terms and never come back.”
“Where will we go?” asked Grace. “We can’t just leave our jobs, homes, friends.”
She turned toward the open door.
“Wait a minute,” she said. “Do you hear that?”
“Jazz,” said Carlo.
They rushed back inside.
In the living room the jazz band was tuning up.
Herbie waved and said, “We play a little jazz. We go on the road. We take care of you. Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry,” said Grace. “Of course, we’re worried. We were just threatened by your maker. Where have you been?”
“We didn’t want Miles to see us,” said Herbie. “He no good. We tired of him. We like you and Carlo.” He looked at Rosie and Bubbie. “And dog and bird. We have solution.”
“What?” asked Grace, standing with hands on her hips.
“Come outside,” said Herbie leading the way out the sliding glass doors to the back of the house.
In the yard beyond stood a monstruous Winnebago motor home, light beaming from all the windows and surrounded with a glow like a halo.
“Here you new home,” said Herbie. “We get for you and Carlo. We all go on the road together and have good time.”
The rest of the jazz band – Jeff, Jamal and Cannonball – jumped up and down in front of the motorhome. “Come with us. Come with us,” they shouted.
Grace and Carlo stood with Rosie and Bubbie, assessing the glowing vehicle before them. It didn’t look quite real.
“Sounds like a great plan to me,” said Grace. She looked at Carlo, Rosie and Bubbie. “What say?”
“I’m in,” said Carlo. Rosie gave a resounding bark. Bubbie squawked and flapped his wings.
“It looks like a spaceship,” said Grace.
“It is,” said Herbie. “Load up.”
Carlo said, “Let’s go. This is the solution to our problem.”
Grace picked up Rosie. Bubbie perched on Carlo’s shoulder. The whole troop loaded into the glowing motor home. It closed up and started to vibrate. Soundlessly, it started to rise into the night, slowly at first. Then in a whoosh it disappeared up into the night sky.
They were never seen again. Except every once in a while there are reports of a group that show up from time to time at recreational events and campgrounds around the world and put on a great jazz show.
Pulling into the parking lot of Walgreens, I sat in the driver’s seat of the paratransit bus I piloted for the county’s elderly and disabled citizens, waiting as my latest fare, Appearing as if by magic, Ray struggled up the four steps, handed me his token and walked to his seat. He leaned heavily on an ancient, non-descript wooden cane.
“Mornin’,” he greeted me.
“Hi Ray,” I responded in kind. “Straight home, right?” I asked.
“Yes, please.”
I waited as he eased down the aisle of the small bus, empty now but for the two of us. Eventually he found a seat and plopped down into it.
Waiting until he secured his seatbelt, I put the vehicle in gear and we rumbled away. My passenger lived but a mile distant. Elderly and disabled, he couldn’t travel more than 50 yards under his own power.
As I sped down HY 111 en route to ninth st., where Ray’s modest clapboard home reposed, we enjoyed a companionable silence.
Suddenly he spoke up. “A guy yelled at me today,” he told me.
“What?” I asked, incensed. Why would anyone yell at such a pleasant and harmless fellow? I wondered.
“Yeah,” said Ray. “I was sittin’ outside the pharmacy, my back against the wall, waitin’ for you, when I saw this couple walk past, aroun’ 30 feet away. The woman this guy was with was a real looker,” he continued. “The guy wasn’t much to look out, but she was fine.”
“Why did he yell at you?” I asked. I glanced in my rearview mirror and saw Ray shrug.
“I dunno. Because I looked at his girlfriend, I reckon,” replied Ray. “I mean, my tongue wasn’t hangin’ out or nothin’, and I didn’t say nothin’ to her and I certainly never touched her. I just sat on the sidewalk and looked. Liked what I saw, too” he said, remembering.
“What did he say to you?” I asked.
“Asked me how I’d like to get my ass kicked,” replied Ray. “An’ I said, ‘thank you, no.’ ” Ray chuckled.
“Then what did he do?” I asked.
“He yelled some more. I couldn’t unnerstan’ what he said,” said Ray, “but he started walkin’ in my direction, until his girlfriend grabbed his arm and pulled him back. As she took hold of him, I could see her smirkin’.”
I looked in the mirror again and saw Ray shake his head.
“She got what she wanted, I’m thinkin’. But lemme ask you, what kinda girl wants to fire her man up with jealousy like that? I mean, I’m forty years older’n that guy. They both insecure,” he said.
“I don’t know, Ray,” I said, shaking my head.
“Apparently, I still got it,” he said brightly.
“You do,” I agreed.
“Lucky he didn’t tangle with me,” said Ray. “I wouldn’ta been gentle,” he promised.
I looked in the mirror once more, to observe Ray. At five feet, six inches tall and perhaps 115 pounds, he had a formidable demeanor. I smiled.
“Uh…” Ray said, “…what’s your name again?” He asked me this every Thursday when he rode on my bus. His faulty memory was a product of his nascent dementia.
“Rolanda,” I told him again.
We pulled up in front of Ray’s modest cottage on ninth street.
“Home again, home again,” sing-songed Ray, struggling to his feet.
“Have a good one, Ray,” I said.
“Be cool, Yolanda,” he replied, then sidled to the sliding door.
Suddenly he turned back. “I know it’s Rolanda,” Ray said, then added. “Sometimes it’s best not to give ever’thin’ away.”
He limped to his front door, waving and smiling at me.
If you still think of English as belonging to the British or the Americans, it may be time to reconsider. Over the past few decades, a quiet but enormous revolution has taken place in the world of linguistics: non-native speakers by a staggering three-to-one ratio. Of the nearly two billion people who use English worldwide, only about 400 million are native speakers. As linguist H. G. Widdowson argues, English is no longer a “product” exported from a western center; it has become a global resource, continuously reshaped bypeople from different cultures to meet their own communicative needs. This remarkable transformation raises a fascinating question: if English belongs to everyone, does it still belong to anyone? And as new varieties continue to emerge, will English eventually evolve into distinct localized languages, or will globalization keep it united?
English is a West Germanic branch of the Indo-European language family that took shape in early medieval England. Its name derives from the Angles, one of the Germanic tribes that migrated to Britain after the fall of Roman Empire. Over the centuries language underwent enormous transformation. The Norman Conquest of 1066 marked a turning point in its history: thousands of French words entered the language, giving rise to Middle English. Later, during the Renaissance and the era of William Shakespeare, English absorbed a great many new words from Latin, Greek, French, German, and Dutch. At the same time, a phonetic shift known as the Great Vowel Shift fundamentally changed the language’s pronunciation. By the late seventeenth century, the foundations of modern English as we know it today had been laid. But this was only the beginning of its most fascinating journey. Today, English has long since expanded far beyond the borders of Britain or the United States. It is used as an official, administrative, or cultural language in nearly ninety countries and territories, and has become the primary means of connecting people of different nationalities in education, science, business, diplomacy, and technology. With close to two billion users, English is the most widely spoken international language in the world. What is most striking is that the majority of its users speak it not as a native language but as a second or foreign language. This means that most communication conducted in English today takes place between people for whom English is not their mother tongue.
This shift has transformed English from the property of any single nation into a global language used by the whole world. As a result, distinct varieties of English have emerged in countries such as the United States, Britain, Canada, Australia, India, Nigeria, and Singapore. Each variety reflects the history, culture, and worldview of its respective people.
To account for this linguistic diversity, linguists have put forward the term “World Englishes.” This concept recognizes the many legitimate and independent varieties of English that have formed under the influence of different societies and cultures. While the term “World English” refers to the language’s role as a vehicle for international communication, “Global Englishes” emphasizes its worldwide expansion driven by globalization. “World Englishes,” by contrast, signals that English no longer exists in a single standard form, but is continuously being enriched and developed by the millions of people who use it.
Today, English is no longer governed by any single country or standard. As it has spread across the world, different societies have adapted it to their own needs and cultures, creating new varieties of the language. This is precisely why linguists today prefer the term “World Englishes” rather than simply “English.”
The English used in India, Singapore, Nigeria, Australia, and many other countries is not simply a copy of British or American English. Each has its own pronunciation, vocabulary, and modes of expression that have developed over the course of history.It is precisely this diversity that, rather than weakening English, makes it a richer and more adaptable language. The social function of English also varies from country to country. In India and Nigeria, for instance, English is an essential part of education, governance, and everyday communication. In countries such as Uzbekistan, by contrast, it is studied mainly as a foreign language that expands opportunities for international education, business, travel, and global communication. Because millions of people use English every day, it continues to evolve constantly. New words, new expressions, and even entirely new hybrid forms — such as “Hinglish,” a blend of English and local languages — keep emerging. This clearly demonstrates that English is no longer the sole property of its native speakers, but the shared wealth of everyone who uses and develops it.
Saymurodova Madinaxon Zohidjon qizi, 2nd-year student at Uzbekistan State University of World Languages, majoring in Foreign Language and Literature, Uzbekistan
a motorcycle disappearing at the end of the street.
Nothing remarkable happened.
Yet something shifted.
The air no longer felt
too heavy to lift.
I began to notice
small things again –
the window left open,
rain gathering
on the hibiscus leaves,
the stubborn sparrow
returning to the same branch.
Years from now,
people may speak
of resilience
as though it appeared
all at once.
They will not know
it first arrived
carrying your patience,
sitting across from me,
asking for nothing
except another cup of tea.
The poems explore friendships that hold people together when words are not enough.
Chidimma Ewelukwa is a Nigerian writer whose work explores memory, belonging, identity, and the quiet tensions of everyday life. She has been published in Writer Monk Literary Magazine and Polis magazine in Greece.
The grass smells of sweaty paints mixed with wolfish yawns and dirty fur
I kiss the grass of your leafy hands and try to warm them with my tired hands
But you fade like a candle of sunlight on the eve of the polar night
Your body is so beautiful, so white, but I can’t take it with me: corpses are capable of decomposing
Your thoughts are empty, like a desert —
Let’s go tomorrow at sunrise and take a last breath of preoccupation air
Love
Mother sews a dress for her daughter
Mother sews a vagina for her daughter
<Mother wants grandchildren>
Mother sews a vagina for her daughter for a soldier
Mother’s husband died long ago
Daughter still feels like a child
Because being a child means being a slave to parental love
And vagina tries to talk at night
And the nuclear rain outside the window never ends
The bell
bears sprats viennese carpet turkish ball brazilian borscht ukrainian carnival white bears sharks telephone injections or (open) calls all kinds of cola sugar and blood memory and mint and first and foremost want to die and never never twice and thrice never see newer ti see to know or to hear the killer(s) number(s) 89 back bladder balls beaten chops kidneys of the punishment shorty shortly shitty cell molecules of corpses separated like lovers no one loves and no one knows locusts begin to emerge from the sleeve god’s torn robe еven flowers can’t drink blood water cotton and candy cotton cocon candy sandy mold of memory has grown on my moss covered back (grass or glass) i still can’t speak or remain silent but my screams and these people are pulling my soul out of my carry belly oh oh how painful it is it was it will then they hammer my soul back in like a nail with a hammer and despair
The peeling putty
The peeling putty of human life
The snake sheds the skin of the past and falls asleep
Snake catchers go hunting and kill icy time
The pendulum of the bell tower of the nursing home is covered with gray snow
Cut off the cute
Cut off the cute eyes of a handsome boy
Trample the dew from the glass with your bare feet
Break the grass and crush the helpless ant
(I look down and feel small)
The sky painted with the infinitive of murder floats overhead
The sky floats away overhead
The ground disappears from under your feet and
And the sand of time dissolves in the bowl of memories
Birth
Death
Design
Signature
Time doesn’t exist
Only sand exists
The amount of pain cannot be counted
The number of aircraft carriers cannot be counted
Pain doesn’t exist
Paint doesn’t exist
There is only death
Silence
Scream
Fuck me endlessly and cum inside so that a new atomic bomb is born in my body
You’ll never fuck me
Everything around has long been dead and buried
Blue pоem
The sky is the color of angel blood
•••
Dot drops swell to the size of thinking
°°°
The capillaries of autumn spring burst with a cemetery
|||
The blue shadows of the dead during sleep will be picked up by crows
^^^
The blue shadows of the dead during sleep will be thrown down from the heights by crow
~~~
Down there the river dries up with frozen faces of screams
Militia Vox’s story opens with a kid staring at a piano and deciding she wants in because her best friend is doing it.
“My best friend was playing piano, and I was like, ‘Oh well, I want to play piano too,’” she says. They started together; the friend drifted away. Militia didn’t.
Very quickly, piano stopped being an activity and became a relationship. “Music became a thing that was my best friend,” she remembers. “This is something that I can carry with me forever.”
Her teacher enrolled her in competitive piano guilds without really explaining what that meant. Every year she had to take guild exams, playing for judges who measured everything: dynamics, posture, interpretation.
She accelerated fast. “Next thing I know, I’m winning regional and state competitions, and then like was considered one of the best young pianists in the country,” she says.
But the more she tried to bring herself into the music, the more the classical world pushed back. “Some of the powers that be in the classical circles would say things like, ‘She plays too loudly,’ ‘She bangs on the piano,’” she recalls.
She even got criticized for how she sat: “Sometimes I would side saddle, and they didn’t like that.”
She was already chafing against the idea that her job was to be a polite conduit for “dead composers’ music.”
“I got tired of playing dead composers’ music and not being able to create more,” she says. “When I was trying to bring more of myself to the performance, I was getting marked for it.”
By the time she reached the Boston Conservatory at Berklee, the faculty basically admitted she’d outgrown them. “They were like, we have nothing left to teach you, like your art’s already way above what we’re doing here,” she says. So she decided: if they couldn’t teach her, she’d use what she had and make something of her own.
Even before that, she was already staging rebellions. In eighth grade, she put together a performance‑art piece for a talent show, recruiting friends, painting their faces black and white, dressing them in shredded tuxedo jackets, and choreographing a routine to the industrial‑leaning song “Oh Industry” from the movie Beaches.
“I choreographed this piece to it, and I sang, and everybody was like, ‘This is so weird. It’s really good, but it’s so weird,’” she says. That was the moment she started to feel the split: the world wanted her to fit, and she couldn’t.
“I always felt like I was having to fight and rebel,” she says. “This was like my villain arc because I started a strong sense of like, I can’t fit in here, so I’m just gonna go in the other direction. If you guys are gonna make me feel like I’m doing things wrong, I’m just gonna go for it.”
Her childhood environment didn’t offer much in the way of a scene. She grew up in Maryland, “in the middle of like what was a horse farm,” with no musicians around.
Her father, an avid record collector, became her unofficial curator. “He would like send me to my room and be like, ‘You’re Potter, and you’re gonna listen to King Crimson,’” she says. She’d lie on the floor, listening, trying to decode how those songs existed at all. “I’d just try to figure out like how did these people meet each other? How did they write this stuff? How are they putting this? How do they know what sounds to choose? What notes to choose?” she says.
She watched the Grammys and saw a room full of musicians on TV, wondering, “Where are you? Like, I need to be there. How do I do this?”
Her first rock concert was Duran Duran. She was a kid, her parents had to take her, and she spent the show standing on her chair, screaming at the band. “I was screaming at them and embarrassing the hell out of my parents, just screaming at the band, ‘I’m one of you. Take me with you,’” she says.
Her parents tried to make her sit down. “I was like, ‘No, no, no! I need to be where they are,’” she remembers. It felt like the old fantasy of running away to join the circus—only her circus was rock. “Same thing,” she says. “Different circus.”
The bridge from classical to rock came through a boyfriend who was putting a band together.
He knew she was an actor and asked, “Can you cry on command?” Then he handed her a line to sing: “It’s kind of like ‘Red Water’ by Type O Negative.” She didn’t know Type O Negative yet. “What’s Type O Negative?” she asked—and then went down the rabbit hole. “I was like, ‘Oh, this is awesome,’” she says.
The band asked her to join. “They were like, ‘Oh, do you want to come be in the band?’ I was like, ‘Be in the band?’ I was like, ‘Yes, you want me to be in your band?’” It blew her mind.
That band became Disciples of Astaroth, a name steeped in occult resonance. They played Boston and sold out every night. “We used to sell out. We played in Boston, and we’d sell out every night that we played,” she says. They played New York once, at the Batcave. The sound was dark, gothic, heavy, and theatrical. It was also deeply intertwined with drag and queer performance.
Disciples of Astaroth was a co‑singer band: Militia and Britt the Other Bully. Britt did drag—specifically “dark drag,” long before the RuPaul era made that aesthetic mainstream. “He did drag. He did like dark drag,” she says. “Way before Sharon Needles and these drag queens from like the RuPaul era.” He performed to Ministry and other industrial and extreme bands. “Belinda Davenport would do her performances to like Deicide,” Militia recalls of another drag queen from Beverly, near Salem.
The beauty‑queen drag performers didn’t always appreciate it. “All the other drag queens were kind of uncomfortable because it was pretty wicked,” she says.
Militia marched in Gay Pride with Britt, did drag performances with him, and shared dressing rooms with trans performers.
“I basically was raised by drag queens when I started,” she says. They taught her the importance of aesthetic and presence. “They showed me like, you know, you have to have a look, you have to have an aesthetic, you have to have something to offer in the performance,” she says. “This is how you do your makeup, like show makeup. This is how you get your glitter to stay on. You should up your look or magnify who you are.”
For her, drag queens and trans people were part of the band ecosystem. “I was so used to incorporating drag queens and trans people into our band situation,” she says. “It was weird for me to find people that didn’t find that normal. Like I was like, why wouldn’t that be normal? They have the most to say.”
After Disciples of Astaroth, she moved to New York and joined a shock‑rock band whose singer was a performance artist.
“We were featured on Real Sex on HBO,” she says. Her mother saw the episode and called her, crying. “She’s like, ‘Oh my God, you guys are on Real Sex, and you guys are like doing all this crazy stuff on stage,’” Militia recalls. Her response was pure: “I was like, ‘Well, what are you doing watching Real Sex, Mom?’”
New York’s underground felt like an extension of the world she already knew. “Performance artists are like, they have something to say,” she says. “In New York, performance art and music is also like sister friends. There’s a lot of performance artists here that are also in bands.”
Drag performers, performance artists, musicians, and trans people overlapped constantly. “They’re like the twinsies,” she says. “A lot of drag performers are also performance artists here.”
Her original band Vulgaris eventually caught the attention of Cleopatra Records. “We made an album and then we got noticed by Cleopatra Records,” she says.
They signed a deal to contribute a song to a Dead Can Dance tribute album. “We have the last track on the Dead Can Dance tribute album,” she says. But the label cut their elaborate intro without asking.
“We had done this very elaborate, like moody intro. They cut the whole thing without asking us,” she says. “We were just like, their mind was blown, and then they like shelved our record.”
The full‑length, Embrace the Empty, was a dark, Type O Negative meets My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult‑style record. “It was very Type O meets like My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult,” she says. It never got the release it deserved.
That experience fed into a strategic shift. Militia is now widely known for her cover work—especially fronting Judas Priestess, the all‑female Judas Priest tribute band—but she’s blunt about why she started doing covers. “I only started doing cover songs because my original music wasn’t getting the attention that I wanted it to,” she says.
Her first original band, Disciples of Astaroth, did get attention and sold out shows, but it was localized. The wider industry didn’t know what to do with her. Covers became a way to get heard, to leverage the power of familiar songs while still bringing her own ferocity and theatricality to the stage.
Her range—four octaves, with a taste for drama—made her a natural fit for Judas Priestess. She’s done Bowie covers, Tina Turner, Motörhead’s “Ace of Spades,” and more, moving across genres with the same intensity she once brought to Chopin and Liszt. She’s also collaborated with figures like Dee Snider and sang a duet with Rob Halford, the metal god himself, inhabiting the lineage of metal while refusing to be confined by it.
Identity and representation are central to her story. Militia talks openly about being a Black woman in heavy metal, a genre that has long been saturated with toxic masculinity and narrow ideas of who belongs. She’s been told to change her appearance, to tone down, to fit a mold that has nothing to do with her talent.
“Everybody told me ‘I should not be doing that,” she says. “Everybody, literally, family, friends, strangers.” We duet on the Amyl and the Sniffers’ song. “People told me I shouldn’t be doing that..” She says. “I lived it too. I related to it so much.”
Her album Burn My Crosses was misread by some as anti‑Catholic, leading to bans from events and venues.
In reality, it was a response to corruption and hypocrisy she witnessed in Catholic school, where choirs were rigidly controlled and singing pop songs “for fun” was considered disrespectful.
“Anytime I tried to instill an element of fun musically, usually shot down,” she says. She’s been banned multiple times for being outspoken, for refusing to soften her critique, for refusing to pretend that institutions are benign when they’re not.
At the same time, she’s deeply rooted in dark literature and subversive art. She’s a member of the Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore, a detail that fits perfectly with her aesthetic.
She loves Poe, Bowie, Nine Inch Nails, and the whole lineage of artists who turn darkness into revelation. Her upcoming work includes a collaboration with 24‑7 Spyz and a solo album titled For Those Without Shadows, a post‑apocalyptic project that promises to push her themes of identity, survival, and rebellion even further.
Threaded through all of this is a refusal to compromise authenticity. Whether she’s side‑saddling on a piano bench, painting her face black and white for an industrial performance piece, fronting Judas Priestess, marching in Pride with dark drag queens, or being featured on Real Sex, Militia Vox is not interested in shrinking herself to fit anyone’s comfort zone. “If you guys are gonna make me feel like I’m doing things wrong, I’m just gonna go for it,” she said as a teenager—and she never stopped.
Three hours of conversation with her don’t feel like a linear biography so much as a constellation: classical guild exams and King Crimson, Duran Duran and Dead Can Dance, drag queens and Deicide, Cleopatra Records and shelved albums, Catholic school choirs and banned records, Judas Priestess and Tina Turner, Poe societies and post‑apocalyptic visions. What ties it all together is the same line she screamed at Duran Duran as a kid: “I’m one of you. Take me with you.” She wasn’t asking permission. She was announcing a fact.
Militia Vox didn’t simply move from classical piano to metal. She built a life out of refusing to play dead men’s music quietly, out of insisting that drag queens, trans people, Black women, and neurodivergent misfits belong at the center of the stage. She didn’t just find her voice. She forged it, loudly, and never apologized.
About Alex S Johnson:
Dubbed “The Baudelaire of our time” by John Shirley, primary screenwriter of the cult classic horror film The Crow (1994) and songwriter for Blue Oyster Cult, Alex S Johnson is a retired university English professor, author, editor and publisher with Nocturnicorn Books. He has performed spoken word with the likes of Iris Berry (Punk Hostage Press; The Lame Flames, The Ringling Sisters with Pleasant Gehman), Ellyn Maybe (Beyond Baroque; author of The Cowardice of Amnesia as edited by Exene Cervenka of X and published by Henry Rollins of Black Flag and Rollins Band); Danielle Willis, author of the cult classic Dogs in Lingerie (Zeitgeist Press) and Lambda Literary Award-winning author and retired Yale University trained pediatrician/bi rights and disability rights activist Jan Steckel. Other interviews he has done published on Synchronized Chaos, Blue Blood Magazine, Metal Hammer and Zero Tolerance, etc. include Diamanda Galas, Jarboe, Gitane Demone, Rozz Williams, Lemmy Kilmister, Ronnie James Dio and King Diamond. He lives in Carmichael, California with his family.
