“Shadows” [fragment] by Cherie Ann Turpin Story #16 (30 Stories in 30 Days)

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“Shadows” [fragment]

by Cherie Ann Turpin

Story #16

(30 Stories in 30 Days)

720498-narrow-brick-alleyway-with-lamp-in-historic-center-of-toledo-spain

Most of the textile factories and thread factories in Willimantic shut down in the 70s and moved abroad to China and Bangladesh.  One would not be surprised at the condition of Willimantic by the twenty-first century.  Once a sprawling, working class community with huge Victorian homes, ancient buildings but bustling businesses on Main Street, and a steady influx of factory workers, many houses now stood empty or became drug havens for heroin junkies. Many of the businesses had gone bankrupt or moved to the strip mall down on I-195.

Ironically, the mall a venture put forward as a generator of new jobs during the recession in the late 80s, had actually killed what was left of downtown life.  Here and there a few storefronts attempted to breathe life, and actually did survive, albeit piecemeal.  Several restaurants actually maintained good business, drawing in the yuppies and college students who lived on the outskirts of Willimantic, or who lived in Mansfield near the state university set in the midst of cow pasture and patties.  But it was nothing like what it was in the past.  Such was the state of economics in Southern New England.

And what of the lost souls who wandered up and down the street, search for the last opium hit, or the latest high flowing from dirty needles that would surely take them from the everyday misery of the memories lurking behind the empty theater across from cracked, crumbling Hooker hotel (actually J. C. Hooker, who never imagined himself being known as a junkie swatter’s haven, a hooker’s hotel?)?  Or the greasy spoon still serving fat burgers and gravy fries to truckers traveling through from Providence to Hartford, to New York, to beyond?

Nestled in the midst of this slow death was a fledgling cafe, once a fledgling bookstore specializing in feminist studies and other such subversive material.  The ghosts of the bustling city lived in the alley between the cafe and Greenleaf lamp shop, and moved through brick and wooden walls, creating cold spots in storefronts and restaurants.  Most of the living did not notice the dead among them as the locals shopped and ate with their children on Main Street, preferring familiar small town comforts.  Students from Eastern State and Connecticut State, looking for cheap beer and a change of scenery from the desperation of campus life tended to be far too inebriated to notice any signs of haunting. 3841511193_9ae3eb35e5

Not all of the ghosts existing in the alleyway were metaphors; some of them were actually dead.  Rumors on top of rumors gathered on this ghostly “hot spot.” Without fail urban tales of its evil past borrowed heavily from a mostly true account of a vicious, bloody murder of a prostitute by a drifter in the early 1900s.  Most people walking past the alley assumed the shadowy figures to be heroin addicts.   Police officers who routinely chased away and arrested regular loiters failed to notice that some of the criminals they were chasing disappeared into the surrounding walls, or just around the corner.  Some of the more sensitive types, unaware of their own abilities, instinctively avoided walking near the dark alley by crossing the street or doing a swift walk-around with averted eyes.

Tourist ghost hunters are a pain in the ass. [to be continued]

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“Flip” by Cherie Ann Turpin Story #15 (30 Stories in 30 Days)

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“Flip” by Cherie Ann Turpin Story #15 (30 Stories in 30 Days)

1987
gentrification_washington_dc
She was an ancient one, sleight of physique, but oddly swift as she glided from her modest, run-down house on a narrow, dark street to the local Bodega two blocks away on Georgia Avenue.  Long rumored to be a root-worker, most of the locals avoided talking to her or looking too closely at her wrinkled, ebony face for fear of being bewitched by her eyes, which were of a startling greyish blue tint.

Some of the younger elders, remembering what their own elders said to them as children about “devil eyes,” whispered things about the “witch who would turn your soul into dust if she catches you” to their grandchildren, at the ones who were still listening.  Most young folk these days had little to do with those stories of the old times from the South.  In fact, few paid attention to the tiny old lady going to the corner store to buy supplies for her one meal of fried bread in bacon fat for the day, as well as to buy canned food for her orange tabby cat who was in cat years just as ancient as her mistress.

Rumors of her being a witch seemed to be just that–rumors, and nothing more.  No one saw any unusual activity coming from her house, or strange visitors.  In fact, no one ever saw any visitors approaching her house, a somewhat rundown wooden structure with peeling white paint and crumbling stairs with faded green mats.  She never received mail, nor did she have social worker visits.  Surely someone her age needed a nurse from time to time, but no, not even Meals-on-Wheels.  It was as if she was invisible to the entire world outside of Chelton Street, NW.  Who was her family?

2011
gentrification
Most of her neighbors were now young, white professionals, some of them with growing families.  Most of the houses had been sold and renovated, attracting a wave of affluent buyers looking to live closer to the city and anticipating a completion of the gentrification process that would eventually push out poorer, older, browner residents like her.  The real estate firm handling the sale of the now expensive, neo-modern townhouse to her left sent a broker, a short yellowish man with reddish-brown hair and beady eyes, assuming their best guy could secure a quick buy and subsequently, a profitable flip.

Before his hand could reach the doorbell, the wooden door abruptly opened, and she stood behind the screen door, smiling.  The real estate broker jumped back, startled by the sudden movement of the old woman now staring at him with her strange smile.  He seemed frozen in place, unable to move or even think.  Without a word, she opened the screen door, and with a wave of her hand, motioned for him to come inside.

2013
chancellor-row
Chelton Street, NW, now an up and coming fashionable street for ambitious professionals working on the Hill, sits lined with expensive, foreign cars. The rundown white house, long gone, has been replaced by a shiny new townhouse much like its neighbor to the left.  On rare occasions the owner can be seen through the tall windows cradling her tabby kitten, a tall, slender woman with coal-black skin and greyish-blue eyes observing her quiet narrow street, watching the change of time, seeing the new replace the old.

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Mark Undone (Continuation of “Meet Mark”) [a fragment] Story #14 (30 Stories in 30 Days) by Cherie Ann Turpin

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Mark Undone (Continuation of “Meet Mark”)
[a fragment]

Story #14 (30 Stories in 30 Days)

by Cherie Ann Turpin

Scan12

Tall, dark, and willowy, she was a striking woman with almond-shaped, fierce eyes, and the walk of a thousand-year old vampire. She had the ability to blend into masses of people or shine like a neutron star at what could only be described as “her will.” Daylight delighted her, as did chocolate and strawberries. When it came to humans, she fed on something much more delicious than blood.

No one who met her could provide a clear picture of her identity, or even a clear description of her up close. She was more like a distant figure in a candid photograph with blurred, distant faces. He proved to be the exception to that rule, not that it gave him much comfort. Her rare physical presence produced a familiar, phallic hunger, but her absence cut through him like a raw, flayed sensation, a longing that could not be abated.

He could barely type out a word without recalling the first moment of hearing her low, vibrating voice as she breathed out “hello.” Months after that moment he felt as if he had been marked by her, as if he were to be later retrieved for purposes or uses unknown. A growing realization of this marking left him shaken to his core, even as he found his hands spending more time below his waist than on his keyboard as his obsession with her engulfed his psyche.

She frightened him.

She excited him.

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Emergency Kit Story #13 (30 Stories in 30 Days)

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“Emergency Kit”

by Cherie Ann Turpin
(untitled fragment/treatment)
[not a complete story] Antique-frame-mirror-3

Emergency kits come in many forms for many reasons.  The best ones come from improvisation, imagination, and sheer panic in the midst of crisis.  Exactly one year after moving into a roach-infested apartment above a vegetarian restaurant, Alexia found herself in the midst of a very big crisis.  It was 1994, one year after she moved out of the apartment she shared with her obsessive, meth-addicted ex-boyfriend who dropped out of grad school after failing his exams.  As he grew obsessed with exacting revenge for what he viewed as betrayal, she began writing her dissertation, a creative memoir.  Despite her efforts to maintain distance and secrecy, he found her apartment building and number; he and a male friend would drive to the front of the building late at night and repeatedly pound his fist on the doorbell, only to disappear into the trees across the street at the sight of the occasional police squad car rolling down Fallon Boulevard.

The phone calls began with a barrage of back-to-back hang-up calls from pay phones across Kent, Providence, and Washington Counties. Rhode Island State Police and Providence Police were concerned, but unable to do much more than document the incidents.  He never spoke or screamed at her; he listened, and sometimes he breathed, as if to inhale her smell through wires and wavelengths.  She sometimes wondered if he slept at night anymore, or how he continued his campaign, only to remember that his co-dependent parents continued to support him and his drug habit.  She wondered if they knew of his haggard state, his refusal to bathe, shave, or change clothes–or of his spiral into madness.

Alexia’s decision to consult with a spiritual counselor came as a result of her discovering half of her Chevy Nova awash with what she hoped was animal blood and offal.  The windows were smeared with obscenities and bizarre sigils written in dark, dried, and clotted blood.  She wondered if the animal was still breathing when he did it.  The police took pictures and finally questioned her ex who, of course, denied everything.  No fingerprints were found, and since there were no eyewitnesses, he was released with a warning.

Alexia realized time was running short; she needed to construct an emergency kit.

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Back to the AfroFuture: Help Kourtnie @WackLikeThat Fund Her Summer Internship! | Indiegogo

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Back to the AfroFuture: Help Kourtnie Fund Her Summer Internship! | Indiegogo.

Back to the AfroFuture: Help Kourtnie Fund Her Summer Internship!

Kourtnie Aileru, Director:  “I have received the great opportunity to intern with the AfroFuturist Affair in Philadelphia. I am in need of support in order to actualize this opportunity.”

Short Summary

“I have been granted the amazing opportunity to intern with the AfroFuturist Affair this up-coming summer. This grassroots organization utilizes an AfroFuturist framework of liberation as a mechanism for social justice. They aim to promote creative expression, education, and autonomy in partnership with local, underserved communities of color. As the summer intern my general responsibilities will surround but not be limited to communications and networking. As the first intern of the AfroFuturist Affair my position not only alleviates the work load of the Creative Director and Assistant Coordinator, but I will be offering necessary assistance for operating the organization within its fullest capacity.

I am kick-starting this campaign because I am in need of additional funding in order to sustain myself during this summer. While I am the recipient of Hampshire College’s Community Partnerships for Social Change (CPSC) Social Justice Scholars’ Award, the CPSC grant isn’t enough to cover the costs of living and transportation for a full time unpaid internship. Additionally finding a job in an unfamiliar city during the summer is not a guarantee.

About Me: I am a Nigerian and Narragansett (Native American) queer woman at Hampshire College. My concentration pursues an in-depth critical analysis of speculative fiction and media studies from the lenses of race, gender, class, and sexuality within American popular culture. In addition to my academic pursuits, community engagement activities have played an integral part in advancing my studies and interests. By way of volunteering, and internships have I been able to observe and participate in translating theory into practice.

I believe interning for the AfroFuturist affair will greatly enrich and inform my senior thesis upon returning to Hampshire for the fall. It would be a shame if I couldn’t access this amazing opportunity due to financial circumstances.

What I Need & What You Get

What I Need: I will need an additional $1000 to sustain myself during this summer. The majority of this funding will be used for medical expenses because I am a student living with a disability.

The greater portion of this amount will be used for medical expenses because I am a student. Although my student insurance covers most of my medical expenses being of lower socio-economic status makes it difficult to afford co-pays. Being able to afford co-pays this summer is integral to my performance as a summer intern for the AfroFuturist Affair.

My next major expense after co-pays is transportation, specifically purchasing a bike. Although much of my transportation costs are already covered, I need a bicycle to supplement public transportation in order to ease access to the city of Philadelphia.

The remaining balance of this funding will be used for groceries. My award covers some food expenses but only for a thread bare meal plan. A well balanced diet is important to sustaining not only my physical health but to maintain my disability. Below you will find an itemized budget of the requested funding. Please contact me if you have any questions, comments, or concerns.

What You Get: First and foremost, I would like to let all, that are willing and able to contribute, to know what I am eternally grateful. I understand that not all are able to contribute financially, but I also deeply appreciate those who are able to assist me with this campaign in other ways. As a token of my appreciation, I would like to offer perks to everyone who is able to contribute.

If I Don’t Reach My Goal: If I am unable to reach my entire goal, it still remains that all of the funds will go towards my medical expenses, and groceries.

The Impact

This project is important because I will be interning for a community grassroots organization that promotes social justice and works toward change. However, in order to do so successfully I am in need of additional funding. I know how important the activist work of the AfroFuturist affair is because of my social status and lived experience; It is my hope that you do too. Please be a part of the solution and help an individual who believes in social justice to help an organization promotes social change!

Other Ways You Can Help

I understand and recognize that not all are able to contribute, but there are other ways to help. Please spread the word about my campaign! Help with promotion is of great value and it greatly appreciated. Don’t forget to make use of the share tools to get the word out!”

 

“doll,” by Cherie Ann Turpin – Story #12 (30 Stories in 30 Days)

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doll

by Cherie Ann Turpin

Voodoo+1

She bought the red felt for a dollar from a big metal basket of assorted cloth pieces a local fabric shop maintained.  She paid another 25 cents for the tiny square of white cloth she would use for the eyes, and a dollar for the spool of black thread she would use to sew up and seal the poppet doll.

The clerk took the three dollars from the mildly disheveled woman wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, and tried without success to not react to the large purple bruises surrounding her eyes that peeked out from the frame of the aviator sunglasses. When she arrived home, she glanced at the clock and began to work quickly.  The herbs and paper strips were already sitting in a basket waiting to fill up the felt doll.

The spell sat on a small wooden table next to a black and red reversing candle dressed with run-devil-run powder, black arts incense, and black pepper.  Just before she began the ritual the phone rang in the kitchen.  As soon as she picked it up the voice on the other end began a staccato of chattering before she could get a word in.

Finally, she broke through–

“Look, I already filed the restraining order paperwork.  The court date’s been set for the domestic assault charge.  What more can I do?  He still hasn’t posted bail.  They told me I can’t do anything about the stalking unless he tries to kill me.”

The voice on the phone continued its staccato sounds.

“I’m already on it, Liz.  And yes, this is the last time I ever do a love ritual to draw somebody I don’t actually know into my life.  I get it now–no more manipulative magic.  Gotta go, the sun’s setting.  Bye-tell Chris I said hello!”

Click.  She turned off the ringer and walking into the living room tossed the phone into the big red easy chair in the corner.  She winced as she instinctively blinked her left eye and considered the throb of pain on the left side of her face.

Picking up the doll, the yellow lighter and a box of pins, she spoke to the red felt doll, imagining the white bits of cloth to be his eyes:  “Love shouldn’t have to hurt.  Not like this, Adam,” she whispered, tears flowing from her blackened, brutalized eyes.  Lighting the candle, she spoke the words of the spell to break the chain.  The first pin pierced the red felt fabric version of Adam’s left leg.

Somewhere in one of the cells within County lockup, a man’s blood-curdling screams could be heard.   A bone specialist was called to the Emergency Ward after he was air-lifted to County Hospital:  he would need a body cast and tests to determine the cause of so many fractures without physical trauma from guards or other inmates.
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Afternoon Tea: Story #11 (30 Stories in 30 Days)

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Afternoon Tea:  Story #11 (30 Stories in 30 Days)

 

By Cherie Ann Turpin

 teacup_01

“Would you like lemon and honey with your tea?” asked the waiter, a waif-like lad with long, blond hair pulled back in a bun. Dressed in a standard waiter’s uniform, he looked far younger than his deep, baritone voice. I nodded quickly, and watched at he disappeared behind the double doors.

 

Lunch rush ended two hours ago, leaving the main dining room and bar empty, save for an elderly couple in a booth near the back. The restaurant was housed in a narrow, white brick building near the corner of Connecticut Avenue and Nebraska.  Named after an obscure Civil War general, John Buford Tavern, the dark wood and red brick interior was dimly lit with dark orange lighting, casting odd shadows throughout the dining space and bar. 

 

This was a spot that happened to be located on an unusually active Ley line in the middle of a city full of spirits, entities, ghosts, and other creatures of the mist.  We were close enough to the edge of Chevy Chase Circle, another energy point, to draw even more energy; being near a crossroad, this restaurant tended to draw an unusual set of customers.  I usually came here to gather intelligence from passing spirits who passed through and wished to talk, and on occasion, to throw a few tarot cards to the few clients who dared to sit at my table.  Save for the occasional hipster or yuppie couple looking for something less expensive than the overpriced steakhouse across the street, most customers were regulars like me, and most of them were magical people–like me. 

 

Those few who were not magical were in search of answers to questions most wise folk would say were best not answered, but nonetheless end up cast into the air in search of an answer that under most circumstances would most likely lead the person who brought up the issue in even more confusion and in need of clarification.  In other words, the questioner would find himself or herself in a perpetually fixed state of confusion, and more or less unable to make manifest his or her desires because of a fear of consequences.  Inaction is also a decision, one that also leads to consequences, my mentor used to say to me many moons ago.  The trick is to act and not look back.

 

The man who walked into Buford Tavern was not a spirit.  He was not a local, however, and from the determined expression on his lined face, he seemed to have a purpose in coming into this small spot in the city.  Rush hour had already begun, and as he opened the door I could hear the cars rushing past towards the Beltway.  I kept my eyes on the card layout on the table while taking note of the stranger’s physical specs. He wore a dark blue suit and black tie, and his gray hair was cut closely to his scalp, revealing the receding hairline and bald spot at the crown.  His shoes were black with a spit shine glow. He wore sunglasses, ostensibly to shield his eyes from the sun, but something about his gait as he walked in made me suspect another possibility, one more sinister.  My spine began to tingle and it shot out into my hands like invisible threads. He was magical, all right, and not of the friendly sort.  I felt my spirit protectors gather around me like shields as he glided towards my table with his odd gait.  Not here, I whispered to myself.  This was neutral territory.  Even soldiers like him knew the rules.

 

“The Mistress requires your presence, immediately,” spoke the soldier in a raspy, hiss-like voice.  I could see the red eyes behind the shades, and wondered how long he could stay manifest in his current form.  I didn’t want to find out what it would take for him to shift.

 

“What for, servant? I don’t like impromptu invitations without a good reason to disturb my days of rest,” I responded casually, without looking up from my cards.  I felt the heat gather in the palms of my hands as the magic began to build momentum.  This would not be pleasant.

 

“She wishes to commission use of your services on a matter of some urgency.  I have been sent to escort you to her estate as your driver and bodyguard,” the soldier hissed, and with that emphasized his intent with a low bow and outspread hands.  His fingers were webbed and I could see a small sigil on his left wrist.  Narmonyamon House. She sent her First Soldier to fetch me in broad daylight.  This was no ordinary errand. 

 

I looked around to see who was watching us, and I noticed the elderly couple staring at us with eyes that were no longer human.  They began to shimmer as both of them stood from the booth, and seemed to grow taller and grayer.  Their bodies grew into twisted bodies with leather-like wings, gray fur, and black talons.  I looked back at the Soldier who smiled at me, revealing two rows of razor-sharp teeth and a red, forked tongue.

 

“Get behind me!” hissed the Soldier, who pulled a Taurus G2 from a holster beneath his crisp suit and aimed at the head of one of the Scavenger rapidly closing in on my table. I heard a series of crackling pops as he rapidly fired two rounds, watching the Scavenger’s head disappear into a cloud of molten grey matter.  The remaining Scavenger sniffed and snarled, “Gold ammo!  The Council will hear of this, Soldier!”  It shimmered and disappeared before the Soldier could respond with gunfire.”

 

The bartender and waiter had disappeared from the scene, no doubt cloaked to avoid crossfire of bullets or magic fireballs.  It was just as well.  I would not be welcome here for a few months.  I swept my cards into a blue felt bag and pulled my wrap around my shoulders.  Standing up at last, I faced the Soldier, who stood at least eight inches taller than me at nearly 6 feet tall.  He seemed slightly surprised at my height, clearly not used to tall women.  I smiled, and focused on the red eyes behind the tinted glasses.

 

“If your Mistress sent you to protect me, then this matter must bear enough weight for her opponents to send assassins before I’ve had a chance to consider her offer.  That, all by itself, is enough to whet my appetite for trouble.  Lead the way, Soldier.”

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