It was my first day at a new school, as a fourth grader. After being introduced to the class, I received a message via the 60’s version of the internet. It was passed from one classmate to the other until it reached me.

It said:

Will you be my girlfriend?

YES or NO (circle one)

The sender was a cute boy with a big fro. His name was James. That was all I knew, so after zero deliberation or vetting, I circled YES and voila, I had my first boyfriend.

I don’t remember whether the romance lasted past recess, but the communication was refreshingly straightforward - and completely devoid of technology.

By my teens and twenties, courtship involved the telephone. Not a mobile one, but one literally affixed to the wall in your house.

Boy asked girl for her phone number. Girl wrote it down on a piece of paper. Boy called. If Girl was home, she answered. If not, Boy called back later.

There were no text messages, until the 90’s. Certainly no blue checks announcing read versus delivered, nor Facebook, Instagram and LinkedIn pages to scour. And definitely no Grindrs, Match.coms or Bumbles.

Yet, somehow, civilization survive.

In the “good old days” there was something special about dressing for a date, having someone actually pick you up for dinner, and not having access to his entire life story before the appetizers arrived.

By contrast, dating in today’s digital age has spawned a whole vernacular - such as ghosting, situationships, breadcrumbing, soft -launching and hard-launching - to help make sense of the complexities that occur long before anyone gets to the “Will you be my girlfriend? YES or NO” part.

While Kenya and Will from The Thorns of Atlanta inhabit a contemporary world, their budding relationship comes with some old-fashioned considerations.

Who makes the first move?

Who reveals what first?

How much baggage do you unpack on the first date?

They have the additional complication of dating in Atlanta – particular as members of the Clique – where no internet search is required.

Somebody went to Morehouse with him, pledged with her, worked with his ex-wife, goes to church with her mother, or knows exactly what happened at somebody’s house on Cascade in 1997.

All things considered, perhaps dating hasn’t changed that much after all.

The technology is different.

The terminology is certainly more exhausting.

But women are still trying to answer the same basic question since some man first dragged some woman back to his cave.

Does he like me – or is he just trying to get laid?

Start at Chaper One of The Thorns of Atlanta and subscribe to find out.

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A corner table at Chops is a win during Atlanta’s holiday season when shoppers streamed through the Shops of Buckhead across Peachtree Road from the restaurant, on past Lenox Square and all the way to its more refined sibling Phipps Plaza. Located a stone’s throw from the opulent St. Regis Hotel, the restaurant had a rich, but discreet vibe, which was augmented today by cold weather and the festive energy that the Holiday Season ushered in.

Will was already ensconced in a cozy leather booth and enjoying a glass of chardonnay when the host escorted Kenya to the table. Watching her walk toward him, as several others eyed her appreciatively, gave him an unexpected sense of satisfaction to be the object of her attention, at least for the next couple of hours.

“It’s good to see you again,” he said, rising to greet her with a cheek kiss that allowed him to pick up a hint of her favorite fragrance, Voyage ‘A Paris.

“Same,” she said, settling into the booth. “Thanks for the invitation.”

“I’m just honored you made time for me,” he said, smiling.

She leaned forward, and said, “I should say the same. I know this is a hard time for you, with the recent death of your dad. My condolences.”

“Thank you,” he said, touched by the sincerity he recognized in her almond-shaped, hazel-brown eyes. Another beat passed before he remembered to divert his eyes, breaking the strong connection he immediately felt.

“I’m sure it’s even more difficult as the holidays approach.”

“Any special plans?” he asked, adroitly changing the subject.

“Not really,” she answered vaguely.

“No family dinners?”

“No, I don’t have any close family,” she said, smiling, hoping to disarm the look of pity that always followed that announcement.

Will hesitated, before offering, “I’m so sorry,”

“It’s ok,” she assured him. It was her turn to change the subject. “Do you have any special plans?”

“No, not really,” he said. Any other year the answer would have been very different. Thorn family Thanksgivings were legendary and usually included extended family as well as close friends. This year, his mother had no plans to uphold the traditions established before her public humiliation.

“We must be the only two people in the city without plans for holiday dinners,” Kenya said.

“I’m hoping there’s a lot more that we have in common,” Will said, smiling warmly.

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Every organization has its rainmakers.

The people who make the call, land the client, raise the money, close the deal or somehow make the impossible happen – without breaking a sweat.

Atlanta has always had more than its fair share of rainmakers, including those celebs, politicos and Average Joes who frequent one of the city’s most famous watering holes: Magic City.

Will Thorn and Ron Blaylock qualify on both counts. By day they make deals. By night, apparently, they make precipitation.

For the more sheltered, making it rain at Magic City has nothing to do with deals and everything to do with tossing fistfuls of dollar bills into the air as dancers compete on stripper poles as though an Olympic medal were at stake.

Magic City however is more than a strip club – it occupies a peculiar place in Atlanta’s ethos and is deeply entwined with Atlanta’s hip-hop ecosystem, celebrity culture and the overall mythology of the city.

Atlanta has always had a dual personality; the buttoned-up city of Black excellence and political power, HBCUs, corporate achievement and church on Sunday morning, coexisting with an unapologetically flamboyant nightlife culture. The Atlanta that produced Maynard Jackson, Andrew Young and a formidable class of Black professionals is the same Atlanta that gave the world both Magic City and Freaknik.

Speaking of Freaknik, my generation was blessed to be able to wild out during a time when every twerk wasn’t capture digitally and place on the World Wide Web for clicks. Thank God, since I was there and at Mr. Vs Figure Eight and Ciscos – but only as a witness. Wink wink.

These days, I still enjoy hanging out at night clubs. I’m a regular at one of the hottest spots in Capetown.

Club Duvet.

Very exclusive.

Difficult to get into.

Located between the mattress and a cover.

Dress code: optional

Last call: somewhere around 9:30

Yawn…

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Magic City is a renowned strip club in a city renowned for strip clubs. GQ Magazine dubbed it “America’s Most Important Club” while Jermaine Dupri and Drake later explored its unlikely role in hip-hop history in “Magic City: An American Fantasy,” exploring the club’s place in hip-hop history. For ballers it was a place to see and be seen — ground zero for rappers, hustlers, celebrities, politicians and locals alike. All gathered to watch young girls shake their tail feathers.

If famed Magic City DJ Esco spun your new beat and the girls shook, slithered and twerked until dollar bills rained down, you were considered properly vetted and your track could spin its way into dance clubs and from there, wind its way to mainstream radio and The Grammys. Then, voila, a newly minted baby rapper named Lil’ Something or Other.

The girls of Magic City were ripened Georgia peaches, known for their derrieres long before Brazilian butt lifts were a thing. Rumor has it that many were Spelman, Clark or the Atlanta University Center students who started stripping to pay tuition. But once they discovered they could earn fifteen thousand dollars or more in a single weekend, the economics of a college degree became harder to justify.

A cherry red Ducati SuperSport swung into Magic City’s valet line and off hopped Will looking like a sexy villain in a James Bond movie. He was sporting a supple black calfskin leather jacket and matching jeans – designer of course – and a tinted full-face helmet trimmed in gold. He cruised right past the line of less-notables who were patiently waiting to be frisked, drawing more than a few angry glares. But Will was a rich, handsome player with a last name as revered in Atlanta as a Kennedy in Nantucket.

Once in, he took a seat at a reserved two-top next to the stage, which had poles on each end and a monkey bar-like contraption in its center. The room was unapologetically on the grimy side, though none of the patrons seemed to care. No pains seemed to be taken to rid the carpet of years of spilled drinks, stripper sweat, chicken wing crumbs or any assorted debris, while the tables and chairs were complete decorative afterthoughts. It was the kind of place that didn’t have a wine list of any kind. The menu simply offered up a chardonnay, a cabernet or a merlot, with no mention of the vineyard or vintage; it was not the kind of place where one would order an extra dirty martini, shaken or stirred. But then neither the room, food nor drinks were the main attraction.

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Black Girl Magic is a relatively new addition to our popular lexicon, but the idea behind it is considerably older.

The expression entered our collective chat in 2010s, when Washington, D.C.-based educator CaShawn Thompson began using the #BlackGirlsAreMagic in 2013 to celebrate Black women’s beauty, resilience and accomplishments. It later evolved into #BlackGirlMagic, shorthand for the seemingly effortless way Black women so often manage to excel despite all odds. And, we can all agree that we’ve faced a tsunami of them.

But maybe the “magic” isn’t new at all.

Maybe the wand has been passed down since the beginning of time.

Geneticists tracing mitochondrial DNA – the genetic material passed through the maternal line – have shown that the maternal ancestry of all living humans ultimately traces back to Africa. Scientists have referred to the woman at the root of that surviving maternal line as “Mitochondrial Eve.”

She wasn’t “Black” in the modern sense – those racial constructs wouldn’t exist for tens of thousands of years – but she was African.

She was female.

And hers is the maternal mitochondrial lineage shared by every living person today.

How’s that for staying power?

Maybe that’s why we continue calling the achievements of Black women magic, when so much of it has always been about survival, adaptation, preparation, intellect, resilience – and a hell of a lot of hard work.

Kenya Jones, our protagonist in The Thorns of Atlanta, didn’t just magically land in the catbird’s seat in AdCor’s corner office by waving a wand or sprinkling pixie dust. She didn’t leverage family connections and she certainly didn’t get there because of the color of her skin (most likely in spite of it.) She studied hard to earn a scholarship to Spelman, and stayed focused on the prize, because she knew it would never be given to her any other way. She’s not alone. Nearly thirty percent of Black women over the age of twenty-five hold a bachelor’s degree or higher.

Interestingly, even at life’s most precarious beginning, there is an intriguing biological footnote. In one large study of extremely low-birthweight infants both being female and being Black were associated with survival advantages. Black baby girls had more than twice the odds of surviving their first year as white baby boys of comparable extremely low birth weights.

Apparently, Black Girl Magic may have arrive long before we could walk - or wave a wand.

Meet Kenya Jones.

She’s smart, ambitious, prepared - and about to discover that getting a seat at the table and surviving what happens there are two entirely different things.

The Thorns of Atlanta is now unfolding on Substack.

Start at Chapter One.

“Someone’s been holding out,” Jasmine teased with a side eye, as Kenya swept by her desk, heading into her glass-walled corner office.

“What on earth are you talking about?” Kenya asked.

“Last week you insisted that aside from William Thorn’s tragic incident the Mayor’s Ball was a snoozefest.”

“If you’ve been to one rubber chicken gala, you’ve been to them all,” Kenya retorted, settling in behind her desk, which provided panoramic views of the city from its perch on the 30^th floor of a modern Buckhead skyscraper.

While many considered the Mayor’s Ball social catnip, she would actually much rather be home alone. Sure, she could network with the best of them, but preferred to keep her personal life just that, personal.

“They must have been serving more than rubber chicken, perhaps a side of beef?” her assistant joked, joining her in her office.

“Excuse me?” Kenya frowned.

Jasmine plopped down in the chair opposite Kenya’s desk. “While you were out this morning, guess who called?”

“Hmmmm, I don’t know, Jimmy Hoffa?” Kenya and Jasmine had a close working relationship, but an even closer personal one, so their banter was always light-hearted. Jasmine was the closest thing to a friend that Kenya had in her life.

“How about none other than William Thorn?” When Kenya registered a surprised expression, Jasmine added, “Not the dead one, but the much alive, handsome and single son.”

With all the chaos and drama that ended the evening, Kenya had totally forgotten her brief moment of flirtation with him at the start of the night.

“Sooooo….?” By now Jasmine was leaned forward in the chair in anticipation of a juicy update. She’d been trying – with no success – to encourage Kenya to date since they began working together three years ago.

“So what?”

“Should I schedule it?”

“I don’t think so,” Kenya replied. “As far as I can tell he’s one of those bougie black men who has a steady rotation of females, both black and white, that I have no desire to be a part of.

“You’ll never know unless you actually get to know him,” Jasmine chided. “Besides, the man just buried his dad.”

“What does that have to do with me?” Kenya asked, her arms raised at her side.

“Kenya, it’s just lunch.” Before she could come up with another lame excuse Jasmine stood up and added, “I’ll schedule it for next week. Besides, as the new COO it’s important for you to know people like William Thorn, so consider it business if it makes you feel any better.”

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William Thorn Sr.’s home-going was one of the hottest tickets in town. Cumberland United Methodist Church was packed to its stained-glass rafters with local and national dignitaries, politicians, business tycoons, the Atlanta elite, and an assortment of ATLiens who never missed a good funeral.

In Atlanta, funerals for luminaries weren’t services – they were productions. Coretta Scott King’s service at New Birth Missionary Baptist Church lasted eight hours and drew four U.S. presidents. At Hosea Williams’ funeral at Ebenezer Baptist Church, old timers said that folks brought snack lunches including fried chicken, biscuits with jelly and deviled eggs because they knew they’d be there all day. William Thorn Senior’s promised to be no different. It even had a VIP section but stopped short of a red carpet.

The sanctuary buzzed with anticipation of who would be there, with whom, seated where and wearing what, as they all waited for the drama to unfold. The biggest question on many attendees’ minds was will Candace, the mistress, be bold enough to show up? And if she did, would there be another catfight? And if there was who would win? Good money was on Candace since she was younger and in much better shape, though Earlene supporters insisted that fresh rage and the Holy Ghost could overcome youth and conditioning.

All eyes were on the widow as Earlene was escorted down the long candelabra-lit aisle. Instead of wearing black she defied tradition and wore a teal blue St. Johns suit in silent protest. She also donned a large pair of dark sunglasses, not as a fashion statement or to conceal swollen or tear-stained eyes, but rather to hide the overall lack of any emotion outside of anger.

All these years, she’d known about her husband’s adultery, but kept her head in the sand, choosing not to acknowledge that everyone else also knew. But to put his whore and bastard child in his last will and testament to be read in front of her children was unforgivable and a humiliating slap in the face. She could have forgiven his multitude of sleazy affairs, she could have even forgiven a love nest, but a whole child? As she made her way to her seat, many along the aisle reached out to her, quietly passing along their support, which made her cringe, knowing their sympathies probably had more to do with William’s cheating than his death.

Alongside her was Will, who was there under duress. After the explosive reading of the will, he’d threatened to boycott the service. It had taken Lloyd days to persuade him that it would not be in his best interest to skip his own father’s funeral. Lloyd insisted such a public display of disrespect would taint his future since Senior was so well-known and loved in the community. So the unapparent heir walked beside his mother with his head hung, wishing he were anywhere else in the world. To the unknowing spectator it might have appeared that William was deep in grief.

With lace hanky in hand, a whimpering Carlene was escorted down the aisle by her husband, Herbert, who held her arm delicately as though she might pass out at any moment. The closer they got to the front of the church the louder the whimpering and sniffling got, until she let out a full-on wail once she laid eyes on Senior’s black onyx, 24 carat gold-trimmed casket.

Last was Jonathon, who seemed even more uncomfortable in his skin since being named his father’s successor. One minute he was the overlooked middle child, and the next he was The Man, the successor to William Thorn Sr., the president and CEO of Thorn Enterprises. He made his way down the aisle awkwardly wearing shoes that seemed much too large for him to ever fill.

The choir members stood at the behest of Cumberland’s famed director, Melvin Wilson, whose style on an ordinary Sunday was extra and flamboyant, but today was no ordinary day. There were senators, congressmen and even an Atlanta Housewife in the audience. This special occasion called for his extra-special choir robe – the one that was replete with golden sleeves that opened like magic wings once he really got things going. He conducted with the confidence of a choir director who secretly believed heaven itself waited for his cue.

With a flick of his right gold-bedazzled pinky the first solemn chords from the grand pipe organ filled the room with Walter Hawkins’ long celebrated gospel song, Be Grateful. He pointed two fingers on his left hand and the choir seamlessly eased into the melody before his right hand beaconed his soprano section into the first verse.

The lyrics touched Pamela, who could certainly relate to rain and pain, but was still waiting on the sunshine part. Currently she was doing her waiting on a pew directly behind the bereaved family. She’d gotten to the church three hours early to be sure that she’d have the perfect spot from which to pick up any fodder for the gossip mill and to keep a close eye on her romantic target, William Thorn Jr. Though they’d hooked up a few times, things weren’t progressing as well as she would like. Initially she’d worried that their seven-year age difference would be an issue, but he seemed to appreciate her maturity, particularly in bed, so perhaps they did have a future together, she mused.

By now the spirit was moving freely throughout the sanctuary; Melvin had the mourners literally in the palms of his hands. This time he brought the lead soprano in with such force, vigor and finesse that it was hard to know if she was the source of the flawless vocals or him.

Vikki was close to tears, yet still comforted by the peace she felt whenever she was reminded of God’s steadfast presence in her life. Knowing that no matter what, she was not alone because, like Walter Hawkins said, “He feels your pain just like you.” Even though the pain of her mother and father’s deaths were still fresh, there were good times to appreciate. And lately, a lot of them were because of the man who sat holding her hand, Ron Blaylock.

On the last verse the organist, the choir and soloist all joined together to bring the song home resoundingly, as the director’s golden sleeves flapped like the wings of a great magnificent bird-like creature. Only then did Pastor Hill, also wearing his special gold-emblazoned robe, emerge to join the choir on the stage, something many pastors were prone to do whether they could sing or not.

During the last refrain, Pastor Hill spoke directly to Earlene, “Sister Thorn, during these difficult times, I urge you to:

“Bee-ee-ee-ee-ee-eeee Grateful!”

The choir softly joined him, which resurrected both the Holy Spirit and Melvin, who along with his magic robe whipped the choir back into a rousing repeat of the last verse. The performance was so powerful that it brought a few of the sisters to their feet, seemingly forgetting this was a solemn occasion rather than a gospel revival or night at the club.

Once the Holy Ghost took a seat, along with the choir and its winded director, Pastor Hill got on with the business of preaching Brother William Thorn Sr. straight into heaven in the event he needed any further assistance getting there.

Continue reading here…

There’s nothing quite like a good old-fashioned, celebrity-adjacent, scandal-ready, gossip-fueled Atlanta funeral.

Black may be the prescribed color, but it comes in an astonishing variety of price points. Some mourn in understated elegance. Others appear dressed for the Met Gala’s “Bereavement Collection.” Atlanta has always believed grief and good tailoring can coexist.

It’s one part worship service, one part family reunion, one party fashion show … and a healthy dose of amateur investigative journalism.

An Atlanta funeral is where grief, grace, gossip and good tailoring all arrive at the same address.

But where do they sit? That’s another sermon all together.

The obituary may tell you who died, but the seating chart tells you who remains important.

Of course, the family section — most notably the coveted first row — is reserved for immediate family, or those wanting to be as close to them as possible. In fact, in The Thorns of Atlanta our friend Pamela arrived hours early to William Thorn Sr.’s service so that she’d be as close to Jr. as possible.

Fiction?

Hardly.

I’ve attended enough Atlanta funerals to know there’s always someone who walks in with the family, despite no one being entirely sure how they got there.

At a proper Atlanta funeral, the sanctuary quietly organizes itself.

One section belongs to elected officials.

Another belongs to sororities.

Another to fraternities.

Don’t forget the alma mater.

And then…

…there’s everyone else, silently taking attendance.

An Atlanta funeral may be the only place where attendees can simultaneously pray for your soul and wonder why your ex is sitting in the second row.

Then there’s the eulogy, whose principal responsibility is to grease the wheels of the casket so the dearly departed glides effortlessly past Gabriel and straight through the Pearly Gates. Mrs. Thorn’s feelings notwithstanding, a eulogy is no place for brutal honesty.

Rounding out our cast of characters, most funerals also share a few wild cards: those chosen to share their memories, recollections and sometimes remorse about the dearly departed with the congregation. Since these snippets are usually unfiltered and off-the-cuff, they often offer a bit of humor and additional fodder to be discussed, dissected and reconstructed – at the repass.

During weddings, there’s the quintessential question, “Does anyone oppose this union?”

At funerals, while there is no official “all call,” there is always the possibility of someone flinging themselves onto — or into — the casket, wailing, passing out or speaking in tongues, or just a woman arriving just as the service ends. Dressed entirely in black. Holding the hand of a small child no one has ever seen before.

The funeral may end when the pastor says “Amen,” but the real postmortem begins at the repass.

William Thorn Sr.’s home-going was one of the hottest tickets in town. Cumberland United Methodist Church was packed to its stained-glass rafters with local and national dignitaries, politicians, business tycoons, the Atlanta elite, and an assortment of ATLiens who never missed a good funeral.

In Atlanta, funerals for luminaries weren’t services – they w…

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Atlanta society certainly understands the importance of a fashionably late entrance, and just how to pull it off. Remember Will pulling up to Magic City on his bright red Bugatti, sporting butter sofa leather and designer jeans? Likewise, making a splashy entrance is practically an Olympic sport for many women in The A.

Leaving gracefully?

That’s another matter altogether, especially when power is at stake. I’ve come to believe that the hardest entrance isn’t into power, but rather the graceful exit from it.

Whether it’s the White House, the Supreme Court, the corner office, or the pulpit very few powerful people wake up one morning and say, “You know what? I’ve had a wonderful run. It’s someone else’s turn.”

Instead, there’s always one more reason to stay.

One more election for politicians.

One more quarterly report for executives.

One more sermon for mega-church pastors.

One more season in sports.

History gives us abundant examples.

Though in ill health, Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg remained on the Supreme Court until her death, leaving a vacancy that reshaped the Court for a generation. Congressman John Lewis, also ill, served until his final days, leaving others – not his adoring electorate - the opportunity to name his successor. President Joe Biden, after initially presenting himself as a one-term bridge to a new generation, ultimately remained in the race until way past the “sell-by” date.

Different people.

Different institutions.

The same uncomfortable truth.

Every leader has an expiration date – self-imposed, or not.

The same thing plays out in business. Founders who can’t quite hand over the company they built from scratch. Parents who are still running the family business post retirement age, because “the children just aren’t ready.” Or, more accurately, perhaps…the parents aren’t.

Here’s the irony. The stronger the leader, the harder the exit. After years of solving impossible problems and steering the ship through storm after storm, everyone -including the leader - starts believing the organization simply can’t survive without them. But isn’t that the opposite of leadership? If your kingdom collapses the moment you leave, perhaps you haven’t built a kingdom at all.

You’ve built dependence.

The best leaders don’t just build organizations. They build successors.

Which brings me to Chapter Five in The Thorns of Atlanta: The Heir and the Spare.

Without revealing too much, Chapter Five isn’t about a man who failed to prepare for the future. Quite the opposite. William Thorn Sr. planned carefully and deliberately.

He answered the question every leader must eventually answer: “Who comes after me?”

The problem wasn’t having a succession plan. The problem was that the people in it didn’t necessarily agree with the plan.

That’s where the real drama begins in The Thorns of Atlanta.

Because the true measure of a leader isn’t how long they can hold onto the throne.

It’s whether the kingdom remains standing after they’re gone.

Earlene, Will, Jonathon and Carlene gathered solemnly in the ornate family library, joined in grief and shock, but all for different reasons.

Lloyd Conway, Senior’s attorney, best friend and confidant surveyed the walnut-paneled library before finally breaking the silence. The famous charisma that filled courtroom and boardroom appearances had given way to unmistakable sorrow. “Earlene, Will, Jonathon, and Carlene, please accept my deepest condolences. Your father was a remarkable man, and as you know, I considered him not just a client, but one of my dearest friends.”

He paused.

“Last year William executed a new will. Today I’m here to read it.” His gaze shifted between each family member. Every gut instinct told him to close the leather binder, apologize and walk away. Instead, he dutifully opened it, knowing the words inside would forever change the Thorn family.

William Thorn could have lived in exclusive Buckhead with Atlanta’s old money. Instead, he built his kingdom on Southwest Atlanta. The Thorn estate stood at the end of a canopy-covered driveway overlooking pristine Niskey Lake – a monument to both his success and his loyalty to the community that made him.

Directing his attention to Earlene, Lloyd cleared his throat. “Of course, I’ll leave copies, but I wanted to go over the most important points concerning William’s estate.”

Earlene sat in an overstuffed chair; her hands tightly clasped as she held on to her whirling emotions. Her lips were pressed into a tight line, betraying the storm brewing within. Frankly, she was ready for all this death business to be over and done with. The expansive tributes from the mayor, local and national press and even a note from two former presidents were wearing thin. They all extolled her husband’s many accomplishments, with their lengthy marriage as high school sweethearts being one of the main talking points. Not once did anyone dare to tell truth, which was that her husband, the great William Thorn Sr. was a lying, cheating adulterer who couldn’t bother to keep his pants zipped. It was bad enough that she’d suffered the quiet indignation of his affairs while he was alive, but for that whore Candace to publicly humiliate her as he lay dying was unforgivable.

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Having survived Stage 4 cancer, bombs planted on planes departing Gatwick, quicksand off the coast of Senegal, a cat burglar in the South of France and three divorces, I can honestly say that some of life’s most trying experiences can lead to its most beautiful beginnings.

My first novel was born from one of them.

In my thirties, I fell victim to a con man in New York. Once I caught on, I arranged a sting operation at a Midtown restaurant involving mutual friends, acquaintances and one special guest: a member of the NYPD.

As he was led away in handcuffs – and before the ensuing “Post-Shaun” party - he looked me dead in the eye and spat:

“Revenge is best served cold.”

I probably should have been a bit terrified.

Instead, full of creative energy and equipped with an exceedingly active imagination, I thought:

That’s a great book title!

His parting threat became the title and central premise of my first novel. What was intended to frighten me helped launch my career as an author.

Years later, another ugly encounter would inspire a chapter in The Thorns of Atlanta.

The mob scene depicted in Chapter 4: The City Too Busy to Hate, was based upon an incident I witnessed in downtown Atlanta in 2016. I was in the city for The Bronner Bothers International Beauty Show, which coincided with a political rally at The Georgia World Congress Center. It was the early era of MAGA, though its seeds had taken deep root.

Atlanta may be celebrated as the Chocolate City, but it remains a small blue dot surrounded by a bright red state. I learned that during my first job out of college when Xerox hired me in sales and assigned me territory outside of the city.

One of those territories was Kennesaw, which remains distinct from Atlanta today, so imagine it 46 years ago! I naively made cold calls in areas where I was sometimes as regarded as an alien: A Black female in a business suit – speaking the queen’s English, no less.

Despite the discomfort, I still managed to make President’s Club.

Vikki Page does me one better.

In Chapter Four the raw ugliness she encounters during a confrontation between MAGA supporters and a Hip-Hop crowd creates an unexpected opening. Out of that nasty dust-up emerges Ron, her Knight in Shining Armani.

Happy Reading!

William Thorn Sr. had been dead less than twenty-four hours, and already Atlanta was reorganizing itself around the void he’d left behind.

For Vikki, however, the loss felt deeply personal. Partly because she’d witnessed his collapse from the mayor’s table and had held his hand as paramedics lifted him onto the stretcher. The other reason was that it resurfaced painful memories surrounding her own father’s recent death. She’d been at the hospital holding his hand on the night he took his last breath. She’d prayed that there would be a different outcome for the legendary leader who’d touched so many lives in Atlanta’s community. When Pastor Hill announced Thorn Senior’s death it felt to Vikki as though she’d lost her father all over again.

While most parishioners lingered to gossip and speculate after church, Ron took Vikki home so she could decompress while he prepared an early Sunday dinner.

Ron lived in an 8,000-square-foot neoclassical home in Cascade’s prestigious Guilford Forest. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed an infinity pool that seemed to disappear into the trees, while museum-quality contemporary art quietly announced that this wasn’t merely wealth – it was cultivated wealth. His life was as carefully curated as his art collection, perfectly matching his reputation as Atlanta’s consummate man about town. Ron had the kind of complexion that let him play the Black card when it helped and blend into white Atlanta when it didn’t. He knew exactly how to navigate both worlds – and had built a fortune doing it.

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Sunday mornings in Atlanta were the original social network, decades before Facebook, LinkedIn or Instagram ever existed. Churches weren’t simply where people went to worship. They were where Atlanta went to catch up on itself.

One Sunday morning could tell you everything you needed to know:

“The Jones’ bought a new car.”

“Juanita looks like she’s expecting – again.”

“John finally got promoted.”

Unlike the Mayor’s Masked Ball, however, the real socializing doesn’t happen during intermissions. It begins the moment the pastor says his final “amen.” So, socializing had to wait its turn, since no self-respecting Black Southern preacher is about to offer a quick sermon or a one-minute benediction; too many final thoughts and announcements before members can congregate for a side of hot gossip to accompany the Gospel.

Long before there were group chats, churches served as Atlanta’s bulletin board. Business relationships were formed there. Political alliances were quietly reinforced there. Reputations were made - and occasionally dismantled there.

And of course, every influential Atlanta church has its own unofficial constellation of women - the very gravity that keeps the holy operation afloat. I call them the Holy Harem. They are philanthropists, socialites, first ladies, committee chairs, board members, hostesses and cultural gatekeepers of a swath of Atlanta society.

Church isn’t simply where people seek salvation. It’s where board members were recruited, campaigns quietly launched, introductions made, mentors found, and future spouses occasionally discovered.

Which is precisely why William Thorn Sr.’s death announcement at the close of Chapter Three: The Gospel According to Atlanta was preordained. Before congregants reached the parking lot, the news has already traveled across pews, down hallways and through hugs into Atlanta’s invisible, yet premiere information network.

Stay tuned for more Gospel – according to Atlanta.

By eleven o’clock Sunday morning, Atlanta had already rewritten William Thorn’s dramatic collapse at the Mayor’s Ball a hundred different ways.

Vikki’s phone hadn’t stopped buzzing since the previous night. The first wave came from those who had been in the ballroom and wanted some insider details to add to the version of events they were already telling. As word spread beyond the Hyatt, reporters began calling for statements from the mayor’s office. Soon came local notables and Nosey Nellies, all wanting a beverage to go along with their popcorn.

After Thorn Sr. was whisked off to Grady Hospital, Vikki and Mayor Powell joined the family in a show of support, until it was clear that standing vigil at the hospital was neither helpful to the patient or his family.

“If there is anything that I can do, please don’t hesitate to call me or Vikki. We’re here for you,” the mayor told Earlene while holding her hands.

“He’s in God’s hands now,” Earlene intoned, as Will stood by her side in a state of shock and disbelief.

The unfinished business between father and son suddenly felt permanent.

Then there were the more religious among those transfixed by the tragedy who exchanged fodder at Southwest Atlanta’s premiere Sunday morning social, better known as Cumberland United Methodist Church. According to Dr. Martin Luther King Jr, “Eleven o’clock Sunday morning is the most segregated hour in America.” So, unlike the Mayor’s Ball there was only a sea of African American faces present.

Since services during her youth, Cumberland had begun to feel more like of a God-sanctioned night club. The main difference was that its imposing double doors opened at 7:00, 9:00 and 11:00 a.m. on Sunday mornings instead of in the p.m. on Saturday nights. Vikki couldn’t believe the way some women, young and old, flocked to service dressed like they were shopping for a husband with maybe a side of Holy Ghost. The men peacocked around in tailored suits, designer ties and spit-polished shoes searching for opportunities to climb the city’s social ladder, or worse case, land in an attractive woman’s bed.

Like the Mayor’s Ball, the real excitement occurred before the sermon and after the benediction, when parishioners lingered in the wide hallway to posture, proselytize and socialize. The gospel could wait. Atlanta had news to discuss.

The topic du jour was William Thorn Sr.’s impending demise - and what it might mean for the city, the Black community, Thorn Enterprises and, naturally, Cumberland United Methodist church, where he served on the Board of Trustees and whose generous tithes and offerings greatly contributed to the church’s impressive coffers.

With Ron at her side, Vikki took her seat in the opulent sanctuary. Behind the pulpit was a vast wall of windows, offering parishioners a serene, landscaped view of the church’s beautifully manicured grounds. To the sides of the grand room were stained-glass windows that had been commissioned in Venice, shipped over and installed by master craftsmen. The pews were made of beautiful meticulously designed and carved white oak.

A creature of habit, Vikki always sat on the left side of the church, in the third pew from the front and attended the 11 o’clock service, just as her parents had. She had been baptized at Cumberland UMC, attended Sunday School there and always found peace within its walls. After the previous night’s drama, she desperately needed the Word, and to pray that Mr. Thorn would pull through.

Just over a year earlier, her own father had suffered a massive heart attack, only a few years after her mother lost a lengthy battle with breast cancer. Both of their funerals were held right here at Cumberland, making their favorite pew feel less like a seat and more like a sanctuary. Even though she and Ron had only been dating a few months, having him beside her brought comfort. Ron was one of the city’s biggest movers and shakers known publicly for his toughness. With her, though, he’d revealed an unexpected gentle side. She was sure that her father would have approved.

Deep in thought while enjoying the musical prelude, she hadn’t notice Pamela’s late entrance into the sanctuary. She couldn’t miss her a moment later, though, as she sashayed toward the front pew and literally side-stepped half a row of worshipers, including Ron, with a barrage of “excuse me’s” until she finally wedged herself between Vikki and the poor woman to her left in the already crowded pew. It was just like Pamela to cause such a commotion — anything to get some attention, Vikki thought. The two women met decades ago during their freshman year at Spelman, so Vikki had witnessed Pamela’s meteoric rise through Atlanta society, as well as her equally spectacular fall.

“Good morning,” Pamela half-whispered to Vikki, nodding to Ron.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Vikki whispered back. These days Pamela was a special-occasion-only member of Cumberland, showing up mainly for Easter and other high-profile services guaranteed to draw a full audience. When she was married to Bennie Conway, the son of the esteemed Lloyd Conway, she treated the entrance to the church like a red carpet, regularly basking in the attention of being married into one of Atlanta’s first families.

“I wanted to find out what’s really going on with William Thorn Sr.,” she half-whispered, not even bothering to mask the gaucheness. “I heard his wife and mistress were fighting in the middle of the street outside the Hyatt and that Earlene had Candace barred from entering the hospital.” Pamela’s eyes lit up like brown light bulbs.

Vikki was saved by the bell, which tolled signaling the beginning of service, followed by a particularly soulful rendition of Kirk Franklin’s cross-over hit Stomp, which brought everyone — especially those women along the first two center pews — to their feet. Many were dressed as though they’d just left the real nightclub. They seemed to hear none of the inspiration behind the words of the song, only the funky beat that had some of them picking up where they left off the night before. Vikki privately referred to the more aggressive members as The Holy Harem. A few had been known to cross and uncross their legs temptingly until their skirts rode high enough to leave very little to Pastor Hill’s imagination, all the way from the pulpit. Since he was on the young side, single and not too bad on the eyes, these women saw him as fair game.

When the pastor took the podium, his resonant baritone filled the sanctuary. “Let’s thank the choir for that rousing musical praise, which surely brought the Holy Spirit into this place.” He closed his eyes theatrically and lowered his voice a few decibels. “I feel his presence in the house of the Lord today. If you do too, say amen.” The musicians backed him up with a soothing melody.

The church complied with a soft chorus of amens.

“Say amen again,” Pastor Hill implored, for no apparent reason other than the fact that he could.

There was another, more enthusiastic round of amens forthcoming.

“Now turn to the neighbor on your left.”

The flock again did as told.

“Say neighbor…”

“Neighbor,” they said in unison.

“God loves you and so do I,” Pastor Hill exclaimed with exuberance.

There was a bit of a pause as members dutifully mumbled, “God loves you and so do I” to people beside them, many of whom they could barely stand.

Once the congregation had obediently taken their seats, Pastor Hill began his sermon which — given the display on the front row — was appropriately titled “The Temptation of Christ.”

“Brothers and sisters, please pray with me as I preach from the Gospels of Mathew, Mark and Luke.”

After a long pause, the pastor slowly shook his head and wrung his hands before asking, “How many of you are besieged by temptation on a weekly, if not daily, basis? Whether it’s in the form of the cute or handsome neighbor whose smile is always a little brighter when your spouse ain’t around, or the double scoop of vanilla ice cream over warm chocolate cake flirting with you from the dessert menu? Or it could be the lure of a little white lie. Or sometimes, children of God, we are tempted to join in destructive gossip about our neighbor, and later might even smile right to her face. The fact is, we all face temptation, but we are not alone. Our savior Jesus Christ faced not one, not two, but three temptations, after forty days of fasting in the desert, when surely he was at his weakest.

“Knowing that Jesus had been without food for 40 days, Satan tempted him to make bread out of stones to relieve his own ravenous hunger. The appeal was a challenge to Jesus’ faith and dedication, and to his ego. ‘If you are so powerful, show me by turning these stones to bread to save yourself.’

“Jesus replied by quoting Deuteronomy, Chapter 8, Verse 3, where it is written: ‘One does not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceeds from the mouth of God.’ In other words, the Word of God supersedes all worldly matter, including nourishment.”

Pamela’s stomach growled as her mind wandered from the message directly to her most reliable source of pleasure since being ostracized from Atlanta society: food! Though she’d padded on an extra twenty-five pounds since then, she still had curves, so it didn’t bother her too much. Besides, plenty of black men in Atlanta loved the thick sisters, more to hold on to, they said. But she couldn’t let it get too out of control, so it was a good thing that she didn’t finish that carton of ice cream after receiving the bombshell that William Thorn Sr. had a heart attack and that his wife and mistress were catfighting in the streets. Oddly enough, she and Will ran into each other a few weeks ago at a cigar bar and had hooked up a few times since. With Will Thorn, who could be the next CEO of Thorn Enterprises, on the hook it was time for her to get back down to her fighting weight.

“Next, Satan tempted Jesus to show off by jumping from the highest pinnacle and relying on mere angels to break his fall. The devil even quoted Psalm 91, Chapters 11 and 12, which read: ‘For he shall give his angels charge of thee, to keep thee in all ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone.’ In other words, if your God is so true to you, you have nothing to worry about; and what an impressive display it would be for you to jump from such a high place and be carried to the ground by angels.

“Again, Jesus quoted the Word, this time it was Deuteronomy Chapter 6, Verse 16 saying: ‘Again it is written, You shall not put the Lord, your God, to the test.’ How many of you would have been a little tempted to don your designer clothes, jump in your new Benz and make that grand entrance for all to see?” Pastor Hill chastised.

Pamela thought about all of the muckety-mucks who did that just last night at the Mayor’s Ball, proudly parading around the Hyatt Regency displaying their power and prestige. A quiet rage filled her, knowing that they all thought themselves to be better than she was. What hurt her more than the fall from grace (and no, angels did not bear her up) was how viciously her husband’s fancy family and friends turned on her.

“The third temptation was the most alluring of them all,” Pastor Hill continued, gleefully. “Satan took Jesus to the highest point in the land and pointed out every kingdom and said, ‘All these things I will give you if you fall down and do an act of worship to me.’ The devil offered all the kingdoms in the world, along with their gold, silver and adulation to Christ, in exchange for his worship. Just kiss my ring and all the riches of the world are yours.”

But Jesus replied, ‘Get way, Satan!’ Again quoting Deuteronomy, Chapter six, Verse 13 and Chapter 10, Verse 20, he continued, “ ‘It is written: You shall worship the Lord your God and only Him shall you serve.’ ”

Pastor Hill paced the pulpit looking from one side of the sanctuary to the other, followed by strategically placed cameras that projected his image onto 10-foot screens before being live-streamed to the masses, enabling him to direct his message all to whom it might apply. “Think how tempting this would be for many of us sitting in God’s house this very morning,” he implored, pointing his finger into the audience. “How tempting it might be to simply kiss a little a—, I mean, ring, in exchange for control over all domains from Bankhead to Buckhead and Washington, D.C. and beyond?”

Ron squirmed a little in his seat. As a business leader in the city there were times when compromise was necessary to further one’s cause. That was the nature of business in the Black Mecca.

Fidgeting in his seat as Pastor Hill wrapped up his sermon, Ron glanced at his watch when it vibrated to signal an incoming text message. He touched the screen and took in a breath. He looked around to see several others also looking at their watches and phones, as though a digital virus had spread through the congregation.

Before Pastor Hill could bring his sermon home, he was interrupted by an assistant pastor who scurried to his side and whispered in his ear.

With his head hung low, Pastor Hill intoned, “Brothers and Sisters of the congregation, it is with deep sorrow that I inform you that our friend, brother, benefactor and the Son of God, William Thorn Sr., has gone on to Glory to sit at the feet of our Savior Jesus Christ, Our Lord.”

An audible gasp echoed throughout the vast sanctuary. While some clutched pearls and dabbed mist from their eyes, others began coldly calculating the social, political and financial implications of William Thorn Sr.’s death.

Pamela smiled to herself. Before the congregation had even finished mourning, she’d already decided on her first move. She reached for her phone and sent a text to William Thorn Jr.

Before We Turn The Page…

Thank you for being among the first to read the opening chapters of The Thorns of Atlanta.

After sixteen years away from fiction, I wanted to return in a way that felt more personal by sharing this story one chapter at a time and experiencing it alongside readers each week, rather than waiting months to hear what they thought.

What you’ve read is only the beginning.

The Thorns of Atlanta is a completed 52-chapter novel, with a new chapter delivered every Sunday and a companion Tongue ’N Chic essay every Tuesday exploring Atlanta and its traditions, people, and culture which inspired the story.

If William Thorn’s death and these characters have captured your imagination, I promise you… the biggest surprises are still ahead.

Beginning next week, the journey continues with Chapter Four and becomes available exclusively for paid subscribers.

Later this week, I’ll be sending a special invitation reserved exclusively for readers who joined during these opening chapters. I hope you’ll watch for it.

Hope to See you next Sunday!

If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider sharing it and recommending The Thorns of Atlanta to a fellow reader.

© 2026 Tracie Howard Dickerson. All rights reserved.

The Thorns of Atlanta is an original work of fiction. No part of this chapter may be reproduced, distributed, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in reviews, commentary, or other uses permitted by applicable copyright law.

The Thorns of Atlanta premieres exclusively on Substack by Tracie Howard Dickerson. New chapters are released weekly.

The Fear of Missing Out

One of the “rites of passage’” after turning 65 – besides the arrival of a Medicare card – is losing FOMO. My Fear of Missing Out now shares housing with the f%cks I no longer have to give.

When I was in my 20’s, 30’s and 40’s I prided myself on being “in the mix.” Or at least when I chose to be. These days it takes bait, blackmail, or an act of God to lure me out of my peaceful home.

Of course, social media has given FOMO an elevated platform. From the comfort of my couch, I can pick up my phone and scroll leisurely through the lives of friends and family. Weddings. Vacations. Dinners. Concerts. Promotions. New grandbabies... Whether those carefully curated moments represent real life is anybody’s guess, but they can still make us wonder if everyone else is having more fun than we are.

The funny thing about getting older is that FOMO doesn’t disappear because the parties stop.

It disappears because you finally stop measuring your happiness by someone else’s invitation.

Which brings me to our friend Pamela Conway.

In Chapter Two of The Thorns of Atlanta, Pamela is devastated because she’s missed the Mayor’s Ball. Not long ago she would have reigned supreme, yet here she is sidelined, with a second bowl of butter pecan between her and the next size up.

Curious whether Pamela stays home with butter pecan … or starts plotting her comeback.

We’ll find out Sunday in Chapter Three.

Welcome to the After Party!

The first time Pamela Conway’s phone rang that night she was propped up in bed spooning with a large bowl of butter pecan ice cream while watching the popular dating show, The Bachelor. She ignored the intrusion and slid another heap of heaven into her mouth. She couldn’t imagine anything more important than finishing the bowl, other than deciding whether to have another. When it rang the second time, she paused briefly, but still didn’t bother reaching for the device, since she didn’t get many important calls these days. It was used primarily to stalk who’s who online or to gossip with her few remaining friends. But tonight, she wasn’t in the mood since she knew that soon Facebook would be peppered with photos of folks skinning and grinning at the Mayor’s Ball. Instead, she’d thrown her own private, invite-only pity party.

At one time, Pamela was at the epicenter of Atlanta luminaries. Tonight, she would have been in Zone One at the Mayor’s Ball, since she had been a card-carrying member of the clique. That was all before her in-laws — and her ex-husband — sacrificed her reputation to save their own. The rest of the clan had subsequently fallen in line, shunning her presence. She rapidly descended from A-List socialite to the dark realm of the social wilderness. These days the same people who’d once courted her shamelessly rarely bothered to pick up her phone calls and would rather cross the street than be forced to acknowledge her existence. Down but not out, Pamela was still hopeful for her day of redemption.

The phone rang again. Then it buzzed repeatedly, indicating a stream of text messages, before she reluctantly sat aside the near-empty bowl and picked the phone up to see that she’d missed several calls and text messages from one of her few remaining friends. She and Allyson met attending Booker T. Washington High School and had remained friends even after Pamela’s fortunes changed, then changed again:

Allyson: Call me back ASAP!

Allyson: OMG! You’re not going to believe what just happened. Call me!!

Allyson: Call me immediately!!

Of course, as the mayor’s executive assistant, Allyson attended the Mayor’s Ball, so she was probably calling with some juicy morsels of gossip, but what could possibly be so important that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow? Reluctantly, Pamela climbed back in bed and hit redial.

“You’re not going to believe what just happened!” Allyson shouted breathlessly, skipping all greetings and pleasantries.

“Try me?” Pamela had seen all varieties of shenanigans at the Mayor’s Ball over the years, so she couldn’t imagine anything that would be a surprise. In fact, one year, the newly minted, single mayor’s three girlfriends had a Bravo-worthy dust up in the ladies’ room, as they were all under the impression that they were the new first-lady-in-waiting and were all nudging each other out of photographs trying to take their wrongful place.

“William Thorn Sr. collapsed at the mayor’s table!” Allyson relayed the table location as if it was as shocking as the tragedy itself.

Pamela popped up straight in bed. “Heart attack?”

“That’s what everyone’s saying.”

Even though the revered icon hadn’t been declared dead, Pamela’s mind raced with a million questions, her left-brain in overdrive. She couldn’t help but wonder: If William Thorn Sr. passed, who would take over his company? Would it be his namesake, her new hook-up Will? How would this impact her ex-in-laws, who had always been so close to the Thorns? Her father-in-law and William Senior were thick as thieves, their families even vacationed together at the Vineyard every year. She also wondered whether she’d be able to squeeze into her old black St. John suit for the funeral or be forced to wear some of her recent non-designer purchases. She reluctantly decided to forgo that second bowl of ice cream, just in case.

Phone calls and text messages ricocheted across the city as news of William Thorn’s potential demise spread like kudzu from the Hyatt’s grand ballroom all the way to palatial homes in Buckhead and row houses in Bankhead. By midnight half of Atlanta knew William Thorn Sr. was dying. By sunrise, the other half would swear they’d witnessed it themselves. Though many people were deeply concerned about the great man who’d broken so many barriers for African Americans, there were plenty of others whose main interests were the soon-to-unfold drama should William Thorn Sr. actually die.

Then there were a few others with a more vested interest in his impending fate. First among them of course was his long-suffering wife, Earlene. William and Earlene were childhood sweethearts who’d both grown up on the sketchier side of Simpson Road in Atlanta. While the longevity of their marriage was often celebrated as a shining example of Black Love, ala Michelle and Barack, the truth was a lot less glowing. William was by nature a striver; a man never satisfied with the status quo and always looking for the next opportunity. While this quality propelled the growth of his business, it had also tainted his marriage. Not only did he strive for a better life and a bigger bank account, but he also had a weakness for the fairer sex. Had it not threatened his carefully cultivated legacy, William would have traded in Earlene years ago for a cute size 6 with long legs and a perky round derrière. Over the years, he’d had his share of those, but had settled down with his long-term mistress, Candace.

Also deeply affected by his impending death were his kids, particularly his oldest son and namesake, William Thorn Jr, known to all as Will, whom he envisioned waiting in the wings anxious to take the center stage that he alone had built. Then there was his doting daughter, Carlene, still daddy’s little girl even though she was forty-four in years and waist size. And of course, there was the spare to the apparent heir, his younger son Jonathon, whose only passions appeared to be computer games and fried food. Last but by no means least there was the ever-faithful mistress Candace. Their swanky Buckhead love nest was more home to him than the huge multimillion-dollar estate that he shared with Earlene.

Earlene, Will, Vikki, the mayor and an assortment of partygoers stood by anxiously as a team of paramedics worked to save Senior while simultaneously loading him into the idling ambulance. Suddenly, Candace pushed her way through the throng of well-dressed lookie loos with tears streaming down her face, wailing incoherently.

“William, William!” she sobbed, desperate to climb into the ambulance with the man she loved. The semi-discretion they’d maintained through the years be damned! William was the love of her life.

For a brief moment the two women locked eyes.

Neither had ever stood face-to-face.

Yet each recognized the other instantly.

Like a bull seeing a sudden flash of red, Earlene launched toward Candace, pushing her away from the doors of the ambulance and climbing into the back of it herself. Throwing a withering look over her shoulder, she said, “Why don’t you crawl back into the gutter you came from?”

The two women had never come face to face, though Earlene knew exactly who she was. She was the hussy that had been creeping with her husband all these years. Pretending not to know about the flagrant affair had been the only way Earlene was able to face knowing that everyone else probably did.

“Please let me see him!” Candace begged, tears streaming mascara down her cheeks.

“Over my dead body,” Earlene sneered. “But since I’m not the one knocking on heaven’s door, I wouldn’t count on it.”

She forcefully pulled at the door handle, while the paramedics stood by shocked, not knowing the proper protocol for a catfight over a celebrity patient who happened to be circling the drain.

“You hateful bitch!” Candace screamed, clawing desperately at the door as emergency personnel held her back, anxious to draw the curtain on the unseemly debacle.

Before they slammed the doors shut, Earlene spat “I’d rather be a hateful bitch than a desperate whore!” The crowd of onlookers gasped and clutched pearls while watching the demeaning spectacle play out.

The ambulance raced away under a swirl of red lights to Grady Memorial Hospital, as Candace fell to her knees, her sobs echoing through the night air. Only hours ago she and William had made love, lingered in bed and planned an island getaway to Bora Bora.

Thank you for reading

If you enjoyed this chapter, please share the link with a fellow reader

© 2026 Tracie Howard Dickerson. All rights reserved.

The Thorns of Atlanta is an original work of fiction. No part of this chapter may be reproduced, distributed, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in reviews, commentary, or other uses permitted by applicable copyright law.

The Thorns of Atlanta is published exclusively on Substack by Tracie Howard Dickerson. New chapters are released weekly

.

Every city has one invitation that quietly separates the merely successful from the truly connected. The invitation that signals you aren’t simply logged in – you’ve become part of the city’s operating system. Maybe you’re not in “the clique,” but you’re at least clique-adjacent. In Washington, D.C. it’s the Correspondent’s Dinner. In Los Angeles it’s the Oscars. In Atlanta, for decades, it’s has been the Mayor’s Masked Ball, which is the inspiration for the Mayor’s Ball depicted in “Balling Out,” Chapter One of my latest novel, The Thorns of Atlanta.

The UNCF Atlanta Mayor’s Masked Ball was founded in 1983 by Billye Suber Aaron, baseball legend Hank Aaron’s wife, and Mayor Andrew Young during his first term in office, building upon the civic foundation established during the Maynard Jackson era. Its purpose was to raise scholarship dollars for the United Negro College Fund and Historically Black Colleges and Universities and has since gone on to raise millions for Black higher education.

Over the years it has also evolved into the signature event on Atlanta’s social calendar, attracting business leaders, politicians, entertainers and those just hoping to see and be seen.

I attended my first Mayor’s Masked Ball in my early 20s. I was fresh out of college and had just started my first professional career at Xerox. Although I’m an Atlanta native who’d spent countless days in Andy and Jean Young’s home – their youngest daughter, Paula, and I were best friends – that evening gave me a different view of my hometown. Though I was a babe in the woods at the time, I quickly grasped the importance of the event and its place in Atlanta culture and lore.

Over the decades, I’ve enjoyed a front row seat from which to observe Atlanta’s social, political and corporate ecosystem, sometimes from thousands of miles away while living in New York, Los Angeles, Dakar and now Cape Town, South Africa. Ironically, I’ve noted that distance often sharpened my perspective.

Sometimes you must leave the forest to truly appreciate the trees.

What I’ve also noticed is that the forest itself has changed.

The identities of Mayors Maynard Jackson, Andrew Young, Bill Campbell and Shirley Franklin were largely shaped by the Civil Rights Movement and public careers. The next era of mayors including Kasim Reed, Keisha Lance Bottoms and Andre Dickens ascended to office from a generation mirroring a city that had become younger, faster-growing and more connected to entertainment and media, just as Atlanta began making its mark in both music and film.

By the early 2000s Atlanta had become the entertainment capital of the South. It was now home to a booming music industry, major film productions, Fortune 500 headquarters and a generation increasingly influenced by celebrity culture.

Today’s Atlanta represents Old School and New School and the Mayor’s Masked Ball is where they mix and mingle in black tie.

Every Sunday, The Thorns of Atlanta will tell a fictional story and every Tuesday, Tongue ‘N Chic will take you behind the curtain to explore the real customs, traditions, power dynamics and unwritten rules that inspire it.

Think of Tuesday as the after party.

See you next Tuesday

!

Allyson Strand, Mayor Powell’s executive assistant, had already downed her third caramel macchiato and it was only 9:00 on Friday morning. She’d been bombarded all week with desperate pleas from other C-suite assistants, PR reps and random Joe Blows all clamoring for last minute access to the hottest ticket in town. The Annual Mayor’s Ball.

“No, we can’t move Lil’ Boozy to the mayor’s table,” she repeated to the frantic PR rep on the other end of the phone. Seconds later she adds, “I don’t care if he’s nominated for a Grammy.”

Click.

Before she could take another sip, in walked Vikki Page, the mayor’s Chief of Staff. “Where is Ron Blaylock’s table?” she asked, towering over Allyson’s desk.

“He’s at table 10 in Zone Three,” Allyson answered, checking out the elaborate seating chart that commandeered a wall of her office.

“We need to move him to Zone One. Remember, he was one of the largest donors to the mayor’s last election.”

“I’m aware,” Allyson said, holding on tight to her last nerve. “But those tables have all been paid for by Platinum Sponsors.”

She couldn’t wait for tomorrow night to come and go.

At 6:00 p.m. on Saturday evening the doors to the Grand Ballroom at the Hyatt Regency opened to welcome Atlanta’s elite to the illustrious Mayor’s Ball. The annual event began decades ago as a fundraiser but is most noted as the yearly gathering of the city’s power players. They came in black tie and long gowns to revel in their positions, jockey for repositioning, or simply to bear witness to it all. The cast of characters always included assorted local and national politicians and celebrities, C-suiters at the city’s Blue Chip companies and old-school ATLliens, all in attendance for various and sometimes nefarious reasons.

The storied event signaled the official beginning of the city’s holiday social season and provided the ultimate opportunity for social climbers to see and be seen. For the ladies of HotAtlanta, the occasion is the Academy Awards of African American social events. Hair appointments are followed by eyelash extension, brow grooming, mani, pedi and waxing sessions, all before having make up professionally applied. Bridezillas pale in comparison to Atlanta women when stepping out for an auspicious occasion, which often is only for a day of brunch and shopping at The Shops of Buckhead.

Sprinkled among the sea of melanin in the ballroom are a few white spots. Although Atlanta is known as the Chocolate Mecca, the big money remains almost antebellum white. While most of the African American attendees would later drive home to opulent McMansions in Southwest Atlanta, Cobb or DeKalb counties, the old, multi-generational wealth was safely ensconced in exclusive estates burrowed along the lush rolling hills of Buckhead just north of downtown.

A few of those in attendance include State Attorney General Mel Prince, who hails from old Atlanta money, and the head of the Atlanta Chamber of Commerce, Brian Kilgore, along with one of the city’s leading developers Steve Bradshaw. Together they sat inconspicuously conspicuous alongside their wives at a table near the back of the room. The perfect place from which to spectate.

While Atlanta’s elite mingled under the glittering chandeliers, corporations also flexed their muscle in the community. Tonight’s Platinum Sponsors were Delta, Coca Cola and AdCor, a leading multinational tech company. As a result, Kenya Jones, AdCor’s recently appointed COO, was seated at a highly coveted table directly next to the mayor’s, befitting her newly acquired perch atop the city’s civic and corporate hierarchy.

Kenya is the youngest woman and only African American to lead one of the nation’s largest tech companies. It’s an unlikely position for someone like her who is neither an Atlanta native nor a member of “the clique,” the not-so-secret society of well-connected families and individuals who dominate black Atlanta’s social, business and political landscapes.

Kenya lacked the Atlanta pedigree and earned everything the hard way. She was a tech prodigy. Beauty and style were simply bonuses.

The silk gown she wore was understated but exquisite. It hugged her in all the right places before draping effortlessly down her 5’9” frame. The look was capped with a Louboutin evening shoe and an elegant crystal clutch. The one accessory she was missing was a date. While her colleagues – the closest people in her life to actual friends or family – questioned her lack of a social life, she was always armed with an arsenal of excuses. In truth, the thought of a serious relationship was terrifying for Kenya. She would never let anyone get too close.

“We’ve not met, so I’d like to take the opportunity to introduce myself to the Kenya Jones. Congrats on your promotion Kenya. And by the way, you are quite gorgeous,” a handsome man said, stopping her in her tracks.

“Thank you. And you are?” she asked, with a curious glint in her eye. He looked vaguely familiar.

“I’m Will,” he said, offering his hand. “William Thorn Jr.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Will,” she said, sizing him up. For African Americans, the Thorn name was as synonymous with Atlanta as Coca Cola, so of course she’d heard it, but associated the moniker with his much older father, not the chocolate, chiseled stranger standing before her.

He held onto her hand. “Can I call you for lunch?” he asked.

“Sure,” she smiled. “Call my assistant next week.” She turned before tossing a smile over her shoulder, suddenly grateful for the extra care she’d put into her appearance.

Once seated, she began the pre-gala sport of taking note of who was there, with whom and what they were wearing. Among the guests seated at Mayor Powell’s table was his Chief of Staff, Vikki Page and Will’s father, who – along with the late Herman Russell Sr. – was one of Atlanta’s first Black millionaires, along with his wife Earlene.

Thorn Sr. was one of the early beneficiaries of construction contracts for Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport back in the seventies. He’d shrewdly leveraged contracts and contacts to build an impressive empire that included shopping malls, condos and office towers. His wife of over 55 years sat beside him while his mistress – Atlanta’s worst kept secret – sat brooding at a table in the rafters. Also at the mayor’s table were City Attorney Vernon Childs and his date du jour, along with noted developer Ralph Phillips and his beautiful wife, April.

Once Mayor Powell had navigated the room, stopping to shake a few hands and receive gloating adulation, he took his seat, prompting the lights to dim and the program to commence. It consisted of one dull, self-aggrandizing speech after another, interspersed with flights of hotel-catered food, lackluster wine and hot gossip. The real fun started when guests played a fanciful game of musical tables. While people on stage gave speeches to themselves, audience members discreetly scoured the room for targets. The second there was a break in the program, players sprang into action, zeroing in on asses to kiss. The room thus became a swarm of busy bees, with most of the activity centered around the mayor’s entourage.

Kenya, much more comfortable with computers than people schmoozed with the best of them after her brief speech, which was delivered with charm and aplomb. The social and political class was intrigued with the attractive new AdCor exec, who’d seemingly flown in from nowhere and landed in the catbird’s seat.

The buzz in the room reached a crescendo following one more coma-inducing speech. Suddenly, the din was broken by a loud thud that sounded like a ripe watermelon hitting a concrete floor. For a few seconds the room stood still until a scream pierced the air, followed by ruckus and pandemonium, all emanating from ground zero: the mayor’s table.

There, next to the mayor slumped the distinguished William Thorn Sr., keeled over with his forehead planted firmly in his potatoes au gratin. “We need a doctor!” someone yelled. And that caused even more chaos, since there’s no shortage of black doctors in Atlanta, most especially at the Mayor’s Ball, and all made a beeline toward the revered and unconscious William Thorn Sr.

The first to get there was Dr. Willy Miles, who carefully lifted the man’s head to discover a foamy white substance oozing from his mouth, and his eyes closed.

He felt for a pulse.

Nothing.

“Has anyone called 911!?” he yelled, panicked. He was regretting his snap decision to step up and play hero doctor. After all, he was only a podiatrist.

He looked around the room desperately as Atlanta’s most powerful people stared back at him.

He suddenly wished he’d kept his seat, because having the esteemed William Thorn Sr. die on your watch was an expeditious way for him to slide back down Atlanta’s slippery social ladder.

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© 2026 Tracie Howard Dickerson. All rights reserved.

The Thorns of Atlanta is an original work of fiction. No part of this chapter may be reproduced, distributed, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in reviews, commentary, or other uses permitted by applicable copyright law.

The Thorns of Atlanta is published exclusively on Substack by Tracie Howard Dickerson. New chapters premiere every Sunday evening.

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It has been sixteen years since Random House published Friends & Fauxs, the last of my seven novels.

Sixteen years since I last invited readers into a fictional world of my own creation.

It has also been sixteen years since I left New York City and returned home to Atlanta.

Just as New York served as a dynamic backdrop for my earlier novels, beginning with Revenge Is Best Served Cold, returning to Atlanta after living in both New York and Los Angeles gave me an opportunity to see my hometown through fresh eyes. That perspective ultimately inspired the story that became The Thorns of Atlanta.

During those sixteen years, I wore many hats.

I traveled extensively and even spent time living in Senegal. I became publisher of The Atlanta Tribune, The Atlanta Daily World, and Who’s Who in Black Atlanta. I watched Atlanta continue the remarkable evolution that accelerated after the 1996 Olympic Games, where I served as Marketing Manager for Entertainment.

Through that lens, I observed power shifting, gatekeepers stepping aside, and a new generation of dreamers, disruptors, politicians, entrepreneurs, and influencers continue to reshape the city’s landscape.

Yet some things remain the same.

As an Atlanta native with a front-row seat to many of those changes, I became increasingly fascinated by my hometown and its uniquely dynamic ecosystem.

So, in many ways, The Thorns of Atlanta has been sixteen years in the making.

Beginning July 5, I will release The Thorns of Atlanta serially on Substack, with a new chapter published every Sunday evening at 6:00 PM EST.

Set against the backdrop of Atlanta’s most influential inner circles, The Thorns of Atlanta explores a world where power, politics, money, ambition, and social status collide head-on.

When the patriarch of one of Atlanta’s most prominent families dies unexpectedly, old rivalries, buried secrets, and hidden agendas emerge.  As the city’s elite jockey for position, a shocking murder on the Beltline sends tremors through corporate boardrooms, church pulpits, country clubs, and even City Hall.

At its heart, The Thorns of Atlanta is a story about legacy—who inherits it, who fights for it, and what people are willing to sacrifice to protect it.

It is also a love letter to Atlanta itself: its culture, contradictions, triumphs, traditions, and enduring influence.

If you’ve ever wondered what really happens behind the velvet ropes, inside the boardrooms, at the charity galas, or around the tables where power is brokered, this story is for you.

In addition to the story itself, each chapter will feature an original black-and-white illustration inspired by classic literary artwork. Every Sunday evening, readers will receive a new chapter as the mystery unfolds in real time.

The first three chapters will be available to all subscribers free of charge.

The journey begins July 5.

Subscribe now so you don’t miss Chapter One: Balling Out, which opens at Atlanta’s annual Mayor’s Ball.

You’re now on the guest list. 🌹