Sunday Special
Community writing style, little palette cleanser if you will. A fun read for us, written by us.
Between Pinterest and my camera roll, there are tons of culturally specific photos I have saved for moments like this to use as a writing prompt. I love using photos to layer in detail throughout my writing, and this image had so many threads stitching our stories together. The theme became take the plastic off your grandma/mama’s couch and let me show you something. Y’all be writing!
Plastic Off The Couch
Trouble has come to my front door, embodied in chocolate skin and oozing invitation. Now I have to decide if I will walk willingly into the fire, or with my eyes wide shut. -
He looks like the memory of a man every woman swore she’d never fall for again, until the right song came on. -
You see me, and you think I’m dangerous. I’m not a monolith. I’m a man. I see you seeing me. I see you too. Now you can go, or you can come. -
I’m not that nigga. I’m the classic soul, D’Angelo joint, making you salivate on yo Big Mama’s couch. Yep, I even got her to take the plastic off because I’m that brotha, the one you can roll through to yo motha. Lay on my lap, my lady, turn up the mic, let me spit something to ya. -
This was the vibe we sat down with to get it started, but now it’s all about the war. -
It’s 5:55 a.m., and a hush drapes over everything except the quiet hum of dawn. The man sits there—shirt open, orange hat tilted just enough to say he’s been somewhere time doesn’t quite remember.
The couch beneath him isn’t just furniture; it’s a vessel. Somewhere between the cotton threads and the faded cushions, a portal hums—soft, magnetic.
He doesn’t recall the exact moment it happened, only that Marvin was playing.
Maybe that’s what did it—the way a song can blur the edges of time. One minute he was here, pouring a drink, the next he was there, in another version of his home, one stitched together by memories he never posed for but somehow lived through.
The scent of old love letters. The warmth of sunlight through ’80s blinds. His grandmother’s living room, the way the clock ticked slightly offbeat to the record player. He lifts his head, and for a flash—he sees them all again. Himself as a boy. A younger man learning how to leave. An older soul trying to return.
And so he stays for a while, half here, half gone, caught between the rhythm and the reason. The couch creaks as if it knows—the portal is never closed, just waiting for the right chord. -
I shouted, “Oh my God,” when I read “Marvin was playing…” -
You look like the kinda nigga that would ruin my life. You, over six foot and shaped like temptation herself. You, poet and artistic type, means you would turn me inside out with your words, then drape me over your easel to be painted like a French femme; my naked body lounging across yours just so. You look like the kinda nigga that would devour my time, energy, and spirit then lick your lips when you done. -
Him leaning there on that backwards turned couch pillow with his unbuttoned shirt window dressing his glistening mocha chest told me exactly what he’d just finished doing. I didn’t care. I only wanted to be next. -
When I walked in the house, the energy felt different; it was thick. “Killing Me Softly” by Lauryn Hill was in the air as I walked to the living room, and there he was, sitting on Big Momma’s couch, his beautiful chest exposed. I felt my heart skip. I knew I was in trouble. I thought I would never see him again, but there he was, sitting, waiting...for me. The look in his eyes told me everything I needed to know, but my feet would not move; all I could do was stare into his soul to make sure that it was real. He’s wearing the outfit I bought him and my favorite cologne, the scent travels towards me, causing the butterflies in my belly to start dancing. I’m instantly called from my daze by his warm, silky voice...so you just gonna stand there?? -
Indeed, it’s come to this! Devo has been reimagined. -
As I sit on the couch alone, I can’t help but recall when I didn’t have that luxury. When my couch was filled with clamoring cousins, coins poking out from the seats, and the lingering smell of family meetings. As a snot-nosed brat, I took that community for granted. I thought we’d all be under the same roof until we met at the pearly gates. Now that same cluttered couch is all mine. I’ve never had more room than I do now, and I don’t know how to fill it. -
There he sat. knowing I didn’t mean it when I said never again. That I was always his, and there wasn’t a damn thing he or I could do to change the fact that I will always come back. right where he wants me. -
When do Black men ever get to relax? -
Ya momma’s couch bout to fuck around and find out, while so anxious by genuine is playing in the background. -
The day had been rough: boss yelling like he had no sense, me keeping my temper in check because I need the bread to pay the bills. If I had the energy, I’d do more than heat up those leftovers for Nana, but after pulling a 12 and already on for another one in eight hours, that’s all I’ve got left. I hope she’ll understand I’m doing it for all of us. -
We were married forty-five years before Clarence passed. I was tasked with finding photos for the projector to play during the repass. The moment this photo fell from the book, a mixture of salt tears and Kool-Aid smiles stretched my face. He always had a dramatic sense of humor. And the hat! A gift from our trip to London, where he was honored for his bravery. Memories like this caution my breath, for I just want to stay in this moment. -
Whatever you want! Boy, you know I will provide! I only think of you on two occasions. That’s day and night! -
a bit erotic
Temptation never sounded so good as it did when it dripped from D’s lips. Thick, smooth, and as seductive as I remembered them to be, his words as slick as the meeting of my inner thighs.
He sat there propped up, legs wide and ready for me, his confidence in my arousal causing his eyes to glint and his smirk just seconds away from gracing his face. I stood before him confidently, granting him a silent permission to untether me entirely.
“Baby...why won’t you let me taste you?” My lips began to part on their own accord, chest rising and falling in tempo with Jill Scott’s “Missing You” playing in the background. How long has it been since I last felt his tongue lap at my body while my hands explored the contours of his? His taunting made me reminisce on the aches he’d cause, and later soothe with warm wax and sweet, hot oils. I’d lasted the nearly 30 minutes we’d been burning in our tension, and I was confident I wouldn’t last 30 more.
I had to take us over the edge. I approached him casually, body melting under his gaze as his signature smirk finally began to dance on his lips. “Because you haven’t said please yet...” -
Editor’s Note
If I’m honest, these are my favorite newsletters to curate for us to enjoy because they are collabocreations grounded in community. That is why it flows so effortlessly and seamlessly, as we do as a collective. When we allow harmony to lead the way, while we follow. Thank you to everyone who engaged in this chat thread, co-creating a story that will be able to live as a mini anthology when you really think about it.
Okay, Collabocreations 👏🏽 this is beautifully written and put together. Thank you for this Sunday special—it truly was a treat!
It was so delightful to read everyone's imaginative creativity. Thank you for sharing this collaboration.