What inspired your winning piece? What did the writing process look like?

“Hallelujah” came from being tired. I’m all for redemption, but I was just tired of watching broken men be called brilliant, of strategically-placed men be given platforms to be cruel, offered forgiveness, and then more platforms with no revision. I was sick and tired of the manosphere world preaching that for boys to become men, they ought to cut away every soft, honest, human part of themselves. Hallelujah, in Christianity (or at least my Mama’s church), is understood as the highest praise you can give God. I wanted to ask what kind of praise becomes possible when violent masculinity falls from the high places we have built for it. But I did not want to write a story where these men simply “fall from grace,” because that phrase can make destruction sound accidental, almost romantic. In “Hallelujah,” these mufukahs are leaping—being carried off by the momentum of their own harm. The piece was also, with great humor, inspired by The Weather Girls’ 1982 “It’s Raining Men” video.

The woman’s outfit and nickname social media gives her in the story, come from the song and the video. I loved the idea of taking something joyful, campy, and iconic, and bending it into something more dangerous. Because in the world of the story, when unhealthy masculinity falls, the response is not only horror. It’s praise and relief.

The writing process started with anger, but anger by itself ain’t enough. Righteous anger can open the door, but craft has to walk through it. At first, I had the image: men falling from places where they had been too comfortable for too long. I kept thinking about how we stamp tenderness out of boys until they become harmful, then act surprised when harmful men harm people, even after they have told us exactly who they are. So I followed that image. The process became about tone. I didn’t want it to be a revenge piece. I wanted “Hallelujah” to feel like a sermon, a viral video, a public spectacle, a judgment, and a joke you feel bad for laughing at. I wanted it to be strange, but not random. Funny, but not light. Violent, but not careless. I wanted the surreal parts to reveal something true about us.

What were some of the factors that influenced you to submit to our Festival?

I submitted “Hallelujah” because I felt like TWF might understand a story that was trying to do several things at once. I wanted the piece to be read in a space that valued stories with teeth. I submitted because TWF has always felt like a place where bravery could live.

Describe the moment when you found out you were the winner!

I’d just pulled up outside a building to facilitate a storytelling and podcast workshop for young incarcerated boys on healthy masculinity and reintroducing themselves. When I found out “Hallelujah” won, I cried a bit in the car. This win was a deep breath after a few months of holding my breath inside the insanity of life. So when I found out it had won, I took a deep breath and felt grateful and seen. And honestly, I felt hella’ proud of all the drafts, all the second-guessing, all the times I almost softened the thing because I was afraid it was too much. I was glad I didn’t. After I wiped my face, I danced into the building, and those brilliant boys and I roared in the healthiest of celebrations. They wrote scripts and jumped on the mic to reintroduce themselves. I listened as they unpacked trauma that led to hope and thought, “If not this…I don’t know a damn thing else worth a hallelujah.”

What were some of your favorite memories from attending the Festival? 

Some of my favorite memories from TWF 2026 were the conversations happening between events and after readings. Some of my favorite memories were these deep-reaching talks with people just trying to make something beautiful that still interrogates. Hearing other writers like the captivating and brilliant Maurice Carlos Ruffin, the wild genius of Chris Romaguera, listening to the depth of Marguerite Sheffer, and the way Skye Jackson brings grace to every workshop were also longstanding memories for me. These sessions and readings reminded me that writing is lonely, but literature is community.

What are you working on now?

Right now, I’m close to shopping a short story collection called Let’s Do Black People Shit. (“Hallelujah” is part of this collection.) The stories lean into satire and horror. Some are rooted in realism. Some get more speculative. But all of them are asking what it means for Black people to be fully human in a world that keeps trying to flatten us into symbols or lessons. It’s a conversation with black people on how “black people shit” is everybody’s shit. I’m also proud that another story from the collection was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, which has been deeply encouraging as I prepare to take the full manuscript out for representation.

 

In addition to his short story collection, Té continues to revise and submit new work for publication. Latest publications can be found at teiswriting.com.