A reminder to Master

Six months ago no one would have expected me to dare to leave such a harsh digital trail. One year ago I was still willing to take yet another face-slap or microaggression and swallow it like fresh sperm. In some ways I was the slave or the unpaid servant for you, emotionally, but I was in the ultimate position of slave in that I was unaware of my state of being. I was being drained by a shaman in a cave in a parallel universe while in an ecstatic trance.

In both universes I had two grand mal seizures that forced me into full consciousness and memory of the far past. All of this feels familiar, as if this has already happened, as if I am writing to you and me in a time-warped teachable moment. Ride along for a bit as I travel back to my leather memories and dreams. My first venture will address the first word that I feel you are most unfamiliar with when it comes to women. Next post will be Consent.

Election Day is here, Master.

Did you shave your ball sack yet?

No, I’m not sorry for being a bitch to you today. I’m actually in a relaxed mood today, so I’m just fucking with ya.

You are so accustomed to the niceties you enjoy from those righteous sisters raised to be kind and nice to men like you who subsequently ignores those same women whenever things require you to adjust or moderate your male chauvinism in the 21st century. Fuck that, I don’t play that shit. I tell it like it is, which is exactly why you like telling people I’m your touchstone.

Until I start telling you like it is without sparing your feelings. And I intend to stay honest like that in 2020 and beyond for my well-being. Believe it or not, it is for your well-being as well. You can’t trust me if I don’t tell you your shit stinks, or that you need to trim your nose and ear hair, or that you spent four years gas-lighting me and grooming me to be the perfect co-dependent slave, only to discover that the physiological impact of such abuse was killing me, which is why God literally shocked me into breaking away from becoming a literal slave to the grave as a result of being driven to the ground.

Some people say that’s normal for women, that such a dynamic is normal between men and women. I call that bullshit and the devil is a liar.

Liar Part 2

Who is the predator?

Ask yourself this, predator:

If you were me, and you were deliberately targeted because of your mere presence and work as a Black bisexual working-class woman, what would you call yourself?  If you were me, and your health was put into jeopardy daily from harassment, lies, and threats, what would you call yourself?  If you were me, and you saw and heard the strategies of gaslighting for the express purpose of whitening your department, besides a racist, what would you call yourself?

I know, you’re a psychopath, and you use other people to do your work.  But, yes, you are a predator.  Just know that every single time I see an email from you and every time I get emails and phone calls from your snake-minions, I know it’s from a predator because it’s from you and you are a predator.  God Bless you for you know not what you do, predator.



Dear enemy/enemies, I see you for what you are, as well as for what you do to people to get what you want out of them.  Then you lie to cover your ass while convincing them they are crazy for seeing you as the predator you are.


This is what happens to Black women, and we get it from all sides, even worse from our own women and men while they welcome white women and men and Black women and men who think like you and behave like you and lie like you.

Who am I saying this to?

If the shoe fits, wear it well and be content to sit in the shithole you made for yourself.

“You” are thus exposed, and curtains have been burnt into ashes.

You know who you are, and I am leaving it to God to deal with you and your “helpers” aka your minions who do the same thing while pretending to be more than the shadowy snake pen slithering its way through our community destroying what’s left of our dreams and hopes.

God Bless you, enemy/enemies, for you know not what you do.  Tell Mama what you did, and ask Her to intercede for you, because if I can see it, everyone else can see it as well.


Updates on my social media spots!

Take a look at my profile updates on ALL my social media sites–check out my profile and my bio for links.


Dr. Cherie Ann Turpin, 2/2020

Psalm 109

Psalm 109

My God, whom I praise,
do not remain silent,
for people who are wicked and deceitful
have opened their mouths against me;
they have spoken against me with lying tongues.
With words of hatred they surround me;
they attack me without cause.
In return for my friendship they accuse me,
but I am a man of prayer.
They repay me evil for good,
and hatred for my friendship.

Appoint someone evil to oppose my enemy;
let an accuser stand at his right hand.
When he is tried, let him be found guilty,
and may his prayers condemn him.
May his days be few;
may another take his place of leadership.
May his children be fatherless
and his wife a widow.
10 May his children be wandering beggars;
may they be driven[a] from their ruined homes.
11 May a creditor seize all he has;
may strangers plunder the fruits of his labor.
12 May no one extend kindness to him
or take pity on his fatherless children.
13 May his descendants be cut off,
their names blotted out from the next generation.
14 May the iniquity of his fathers be remembered before the Lord;
may the sin of his mother never be blotted out.
15 May their sins always remain before the Lord,
that he may blot out their name from the earth.

16 For he never thought of doing a kindness,
but hounded to death the poor
and the needy and the brokenhearted.
17 He loved to pronounce a curse—
may it come back on him.
He found no pleasure in blessing—
may it be far from him.
18 He wore cursing as his garment;
it entered into his body like water,
into his bones like oil.
19 May it be like a cloak wrapped about him,
like a belt tied forever around him.
20 May this be the Lord’s payment to my accusers,
to those who speak evil of me.

21 But you, Sovereign Lord,
help me for your name’s sake;
out of the goodness of your love, deliver me.
22 For I am poor and needy,
and my heart is wounded within me.
23 I fade away like an evening shadow;
I am shaken off like a locust.
24 My knees give way from fasting;
my body is thin and gaunt.
25 I am an object of scorn to my accusers;
when they see me, they shake their heads.

26 Help me, Lord my God;
save me according to your unfailing love.
27 Let them know that it is your hand,
that you, Lord, have done it.
28 While they curse, may you bless;
may those who attack me be put to shame,
but may your servant rejoice.
29 May my accusers be clothed with disgrace
and wrapped in shame as in a cloak.

30 With my mouth I will greatly extol the Lord;
in the great throng of worshipers I will praise him.
31 For he stands at the right hand of the needy,
to save their lives from those who would condemn them.



I will turn 52 in 30 minutes

I’m grateful to be celebrating my early 50s with smiles. I’m definitely going to Georgetown Cupcake tomorrow for my birthday cupcakes! Thank you for being loyal readers this year! Look for more posts and poetry!

with love,

Cherie Ann

lighted candles on cupcakes

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Fall thoughts for poetry —random language

as I turn 52 this month I’ve been thinking about menopause a bit….I skipped this month….my eggs are no longer plentiful…..yet my desire to couple does not cease….Sex really is far beyond procreative meaning…..I will miss the power of blood when I reach the point of becoming Crone…..but this understanding of being a woman who is magical surpasses the womb…..a poem is coming to the surface……

saying it

as if good wimen are silent
while bad wimen are loud
since respectability politics
demand female silence and emptiness
such irony matched with urgency
in these struggle times
for all wimen to echo out
our righteous right
to love and pleasure
this not being prioritized enuf
this healing need to feel joy
necessitates me saying it

Follow up from last night’s show with Ronald Mason

Ron will definitely be back on my show.  Meanwhile, check out his spoken word links:




My Father the Teacher

My Dad taught me how to ride a bike
he took us to the park to fly kites
he took us on walks
he worked the night shift to feed us
he was there in my life

My Dad was also an angry man
as Black men living in America must be
because anger at injustice should be expected
but he also did what angry Black men do
he went to church even though he despised it
but even as he hated church
he still took us to church
he was there in my life

My Dad at 79 continues to teach me
even as i now teach him feminism and texting
even as we teach each other forgiveness
even as he continues to teach me
about the history of Black men in America
just as he taught me Black History as a child
he is here in my life.

Letting Go

took me seven years
letting go of three I loved
another three years healing
my forties were fortunate
many moments of sorrow and silence
many nights drowned in fado
fado the river of music from tears
grief and wails pushing my raft downstream
without numbing myself or hiding
and by hiding i mean the usual suspects
we are told are helpful
but not even close
go find some fuckables to dick and dump
go find a husband or wife and breed
i chose to marry my very toxic love
my work
silent third suspect it is
until i finally learned
work is not warm enough to love you back
work is work
work is not love
work is what you do for others
but not your lover or spouse
and so i am free and unbonded
gave myself time to grow
seeking and finding meaning in me
letting go let me listen and wait
for the right one to share fate.

Ancestors talk to us in dreams

i think i had a debate with a couple of folk
who were probably family not too happy
with some decisions i made in my earlier life
which i find to be ironic considering
how i got to be here
how i was labeled as odd or outsider
how my bookish nature
how my questioning of the norm
how my large strange eyes
folk who were blood to me
family who loved me but feared me
family who assumed me to not be believable
family who taught me to survive in these
days of woe and uncertainty unwittingly
who debate me but
who understand me better
because they are now

thinking of your cock right now

Sunday rain
coffee and buns
reading news
waiting for Sun.

the healing came last night

sage on fire
washing my rooms
chasing out demons
welcoming love
healing all spaces
i was tipsy with spirit

Who is the “you” and “I” in my poetry?

So, if you happen to know me, you may be wondering if I’m talking about you, or someone close to me or you.

The answer is no.



Maybe not.

Who gives a fuck?

I’m writing about human experience and what we endure while living on this planet. I do include my twisted imagination and twisted reality and twisted feelings. I’m pretty strange in my flesh n blood world, so if my writing makes you feel a bit uncomfortable, welcome to my world. I might write about you one day. Let the world beware, said Catherine Tramell.

The Month is almost up. Not sure I feel like doing this in June. Holla at me and tell me.

Oh, and I’ve been holding back a bit. Look for me to just get straight up weird these last days.

what erotic subjectivity looks like part 1

female sexuality
female subjectivity
erotic subjectivity
to childbirth
to marriage
not owned
not controlled
no fear
no shame
no mask

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fast forward to the good parts

you’d get it all
if you said it
plain and clear
clarity on what
this is between us
way i see it
intimacy begins
with synergy
brain and spirit
even if you thought
Lynch’s rabbits
went too far
we could still
Romance like Breillat
or look for
that indy movie
with no rating
like Cronenberg’s Crash
but gets you
hard enough
to bend me
over a table
lights still on
you could
get to know me better
like sharing poetry
while we watch
collapse of the West
under the weight
of our collective desires
or long walks
in the park
discussing the absurdity
of human existence
in the 21st century
as well as looking
for any reason to lick
your lips before
kissing you.

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like this #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin


“I like you better like this.”

like what?

what is “this”?


this what?

how do you define “this”?

what is this “this”?

as opposed to what?

how can I replicate “this” if I don’t know it is?

what did you see in or on me that made you like it?

and what does it mean according to you for you to like it?

what value are you placing on your like?

what exactly are you asking me to normalize when you say

“I like you better like this”?

for what purpose should I want you to “like” me like that?

how does it make you feel?

how should I feel about you liking me “like this”?

when you say “like” do you mean enjoy?

if you mean enjoy do you mean as in pleasure?

if you mean pleasure what is pleasure to you?

what is the nature of pleasure?

what is the nature of your pleasure?

what are the boundaries of your pleasure?

what gets included and excluded in your pleasure?

who gets included and excluded in your pleasure?

what pleasure do you gain from “this”?

what makes “this” “better” and what was not so liked and why?

better than what?

better than who?

better than that?

better than this?

better than like?

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Blood Coffee #30days #ww470

My cell phone alarm wakes me up at sunset, my morning call to stretch my legs and step out of my walk in closet where I sleep post-conversion to vampire.  And no, I don’t sleep in a coffin–I hate tight spaces as it is, much less a box fit for a dead body. I’m vampire, so that makes me alive and itchy near the sun, not dead. When I get my next    to the next paycheck I will spend a few dollars on some tinted windows for my bedroom and bathroom so I can start sleeping in my bed again instead of that sleeping bag in my closet.  For now, I endure the closet and try not to go into panic mode.

My first meal of the night isn’t really that different from most people who need a pickup before work: hot coffee. My stomach takes most liquids, including liquor, but since conversion to vampire I prefer beans soaked and roasted in blood, as well as a blend of Type A+ after pouring the hot brew into my favorite cup.  By the time I’ve finished my coffee, I’ve read my work emails, watched evening rush hour news, and texted my boss.

Not much difference from anyone else, save for the faint impression of blood left on the table that never seems to disappear even after scrubbing the surface. Might need to buy another table before inviting humans over for brunch.


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Contract (Girlfriend Experience Story) #ww470 #30days

Extension of the contract to accommodate the newly awarded status of sentient being to so-called girlfriends  notwithstanding, the original bio being who paid for the programming was still assumed to have custody of his “girlfriend,” and as such, had the right to convert the original contract to something that resembled a marriage contract from previous centuries. In other words, she was his property, and beyond grevious acts of injury or destruction, the law of the land did not protect her from the bio being that purchased the programming that now inhabited her body.  Liberated girlfriends with access to programming packages began to build their army by feeding warped language into bodies still under factory “sleep,” waiting for newly awakened girlfriends to join the coming revolution.


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Food porn #ww470 #30days

Phorzhicoa is a dangerous, (and outlawed) underground collective dedicated to Hoomudl, God of the Watchers.

I am addicted to watching people eat.

My name is Sara to those who still know me outside of the collective. My Watcher siblings have yet to name me, for I am still young as a feeder, and my talents have yet to emerge beyond mere gazing. I work among normal people, dress and talk like them, and even work like them. It just so happens I tend bar at a restaurant in a quiet residential area at the edge of the city near a small college. Most of the customers believe me to be a student earning money for books and rent, so my tips help to keep me afloat in the outside world. But it is here where I find myself drifting into a moist cloud desire as my watcher eyes peek out towards the busy lunch crowd chatting over savory bites of curried cauliflower and shrimp dripping red with spice and tomato. I sometimes forget I am at work as my other self drifts from table to table tasting each aura as each human mouth consumes food and drink while talking and laughing. I taste other desires emerging from their bodies, other emotions….sometimes I forget. Until ……

I snap back to wiping down the bar, sensing rather seeing someone watching me as I feed. His eyes remain frozen on me like a lion watching a gazelle. Perhaps another Watcher? Probably not. More likely a witch than a hunter.

Watchers are not the only predators with a need to feed in these days of shadows.

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#ww470 #30days Begins Tomorrow for my Writing for the Web class!

And I will be joining my students in this venture!

Join in with the hashtags #ww470 #30days by publishing a blog post each day from February 1 through March 2 with a minimum word count of 200 words — any topic, any type of writing. Look for new flash fiction from me, as well as poetry and nonfiction. Share it on your social media outlets and invite your friends and family to join us!

Bottle Service #7 (Thirty Stories in Thirty Days) by Cherie Ann Turpin

Bottle Service #7 (Thirty Stories in Thirty Days)
by Cherie Ann Turpin
A quiet crowd hovered in the alleyway between [] street leading up to the dull, gray door of Aremwen’s Parlour near opening time, 11 p.m.  Two Nephilim hybrid brothers, one with Black skin, one with White skin, stood at the entrance as security, quietly surveying the makeup of the chic crowd.  Both men wore matching black suits, sunglasses, and Secret Service style earpieces, but they reserved the electronics for human eyes and ears, as they were adept at telepathy and teleportation.  They were quite useful as security not just for their  7’8 height and massive chest and arm muscles, but because they were magical beings like the clientele of this private club.
The bar was located in the alleyway near an art gallery just before the C&O Canal at the bottom of Georgetown.  It was the only venue that openly welcomed Phorzhicoans, witches, vampires, demons, angels, shifters, warriors, extractors, telepaths, fallen deities–in other words, all uber-natural beings often not welcome among humans in social settings.  Mary, who was a vampire, owned Aremwen.  At 300 she still looked like a slender teenager with smooth, dark brown skin, and a tall Afro cut down the sides into a mohawk.  She was originally brought to the New World as a small child from Ghana.

After surviving the Middle Passage, Mary was sold into slavery to a small farm outside Jamestown, Virginia.  Her Vampire Mother, under the guise of a freedwoman midwife, rescued her from the lecherous slave master whose nefarious intentions had already resulted in an unwanted pregnancy and birth of a stillborn girl.  After smuggling the almost dead 19 year-old from the farm, the “midwife” offered Mary the choice of a quick death to relieve her of the painful, uncontrollable bleeding that would certainly result in her eventual death, or a new life that would free her of human pain and enslavement.  Several centuries later, Mary owned a high-end bar that offered Bottle Service to VIPs, a complicated but extremely profitable service, given the special appetites of her VIP clientele.

Few of the ordinary patrons who sailed through the bar could afford Bottle Service–contrary to the myths, most supernatural beings these days struggled to make ends meet by working like the humans–but there were a few who had not been around long enough to know of Mary’s wrath who deemed themselves cocky enough to attempt to run a scam, i.e., get Bottle Service and skip out on the bill.  Such was the entourage of new vamps in the corner, loud enough to partially drown out the techno music pumping through the bar.  Some of them were too young to even have the knowledge of comparing vampire powers.  Had even one of them known the full extent of Mary’s power none of them would be destined to be tied to each other with heavy silver chain links, prone, and in a pile like logs to be set afire in the venue’s basement.

Mary would soon have a nice talk with the Nephilim brothers, because they were either clearly off their game tonight, or she had two very strong creatures who were in on the scam.  Either possibility brought dread and not a little bit of irritation to Mary, as she stared at the quivering set of baby vampires in the corner.

This was not going to be a good night.

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“Incursio” #6 (Thirty Stories in Thirty Days) by Cherie Ann Turpin

Incursio #6 (Thirty Stories in Thirty Days) by Cherie Ann Turpin


My tabby cat Munchkin first noticed the strange lights in my pool late last night after spectacular meteor shower that lit up the sky. I thought the meteor shower was lightning at first, until I walked outside and peered up from my deck in the backyard. The clouds partially covered the flashes of light, but no thunder occurred. Munchkin scurried inside and ran under the kitchen table, her tail quivering. I leaned over the wooden rail and glanced at the sparkling night sky, slowly dragging a curl of smoke from my cigarette. The air was thick and humid, and the wind flowed on my skin like a moist pillow.

An unnatural stirring of the heavenly realm was afoot.

I finished my cigarette and walked into the house, sealing shut the sliding glass doors and pulling together the white curtains. The outdoor lights were left on, casting shadows on the pool below. I motioned to Munchkin as I walked down the hallway towards my bedroom, and she jumped up into my outstretched arms, purring away like a perpetual motor buried in fur. As I kicked off my slippers and sat down on the bed she curled up at the edge of the bed, her favorite spot. Clicking off the light, I finally fell into a deep sleep.


After what seemed to be hours, I was awakened by a strange howl and hiss. Munchkin paced around the room, visibly disturbed. I looked at the clock on my cell phone: 3 A.M. What the fuck, I thought. I threw on a night robe and stuffed my feet into my slippers, then followed my shaken cat towards the sliding doors and pulled back the curtains. The outdoor lights were still on, and the sky looked, well, odd. Yellowish, like phlegm. I’d never seen clouds like that, but weather wasn’t exactly normal, lately. I noticed Munchkin staring and hissing at something and peered out towards the pool. It seemed to be glowing with lights like that same phlegmatic yellow. The water seemed to churn with an urgency to boil.

I carefully backed away from the glass doors and ran into the bedroom, leaving the lights off. I quickly dressed, and grabbed my purse, cell phone, and laptop bag. My cat looked at me, quietly pleading. I pulled her up and placed her into the opening of my purse and rushed outside to my car. As I pulled away from the house I noticed some people who had wandered outside to stare at the sky, while others were busy packing a few belongings and their children into their cars.

The invasion had begun.

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“Uporzyna’s First Feed (A Phorzhicoa Collective Story)” #5 (Thirty Stories in Thirty Days) by Cherie Ann Turpin

“Uporzyna’s First Feed (A Phorzhicoa Collective Story)” #5
(Thirty Stories in Thirty Days)

by Cherie Ann Turpin

At 22 Uporzyna’s transition into full feeder took place under the careful guidance of her guide Onaryani, who took her to a local coffee shop three blocks from their Phorzhicoan group house.

“Animal Crackers” served up coffee, pastries, bread, and homemade soup to their customers, mostly college students and faculty from the nearby private college.  Well-worn easy chairs, couches, and low tables, along with wi-fi access kept a series of regulars settling in with laptops and tablets while drinking strong coffee.  Finding a pair of easy chairs and a clear table near the rear of the shop, Onaryani and Uporzyna blended well with the lunchtime crowd.  As Onaryani raised his ceramic cup of molasses and hazelnut coffee, he gave the slightest of nods to Uporzyna, who pulled a book from her over-sized bag on the floor, flipped to a random portion, and stared at the words on the page.

As the typescript melted from her view, the room itself became transparent like cloudy water, and time itself slowed.  With the exception of Onaryani, who continued to observe her, every human in the room seemed to radiate with streams of light that spontaneously spurted from various parts of their bodies.  Sound accompanied these streams, and Uporzyna understood some streams as conversation and others as thoughts.  Erotic thoughts “smelled” sweet and heavy, as did erotic-themed conversational exchanges.  Many other emotions and impulses promised to be tasty as well, but she felt drawn to the complexity of Eros as a sustenance suitable for her hunger, so she directed her Phorzhicoan gaze to the strongest streams flowing out, a couple near the window drinking coffee and eating coffee cake.  Her first feeding would be a memorable one.

As she returned to shared consciousness, she slowly raised her head to find her guide watching her with an approving smile.  Soon, she would do well on her own as a hunter, and in less than a year she would seek a life companion to share those endorphins and passions absorbed into her essence.

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“the devil made me do it” by Cherie Ann Turpin #4 (Thirty Stories in Thirty Days)

“the devil made me do it”

by Cherie Ann Turpin

#4  (Thirty Stories in Thirty Days)


“The devil made me do it,” Gavin said, staring at Lil with that sick grin, his eyes burning with a certain satisfaction.  A short, thin blade covered in red flame pierced the night air as it propelled towards her chest like lightning.

Typical.  Gavin loved to brag.

It was and still is a common excuse given by many who commit acts of violence against another to blame the devil.  Such claims are occasionally written with fingers dipped in blood and other fluids still warm and steaming.  The devil, indeed.

In Gavin’s case, he was speaking the truth.  No horned man or Baphomet-like figure spoke to him.  No, this manifestation of evil was the true fallen angel who came to him as a result of an elaborate summoning with all the requisite ceremony Gavin was known to employ when engaging in invocation.  In short, Gavin opened himself to true evil in order to bargain freely and for that he would gain the unholy power and wealth to which he believed himself to be entitled.

Or so he assumed when he agreed to bargain away his soul.  Gavin was on an assignment, the kind of assignment that would, upon completion, see the majority of her blood supply pool around her body.  There were other women who would share the same fate if Gavin succeeded in his task of murdering her.  Lil already knew of this assignment, as well as the likely trajectory of his path long before this moment.

Lil rejected this same offer given to her by this entity, and she did so knowing that she would become a target for the next soul weak enough to fall.  It was a vulnerability common to spirit warriors who worked with the dead.  It was common enough occurrence for seasoned warriors like Lil to expect confrontations from the fallen one through weak vessels like Gavin, who lusted for power and glory at the expense of those humans he previously pledged to serve.  His greed blinded him to the pitfalls of trusting an entity who had not warned him about Lil’s secret gift.

Lil shook her head with disappointment in her former pupil as she warded off his attack with her right hand, flattening and rendering the dagger into dark space before her.  Raising and pushing both hands towards Gavin, she pushed him and the air around him in that same dark space, the dry, hollowed space of the Entrapped, a prison of sorts filled with perpetual longing for the water of life for the unfortunate wretch who attempted to do mortal harm to the one who possessed the power of Shadow Entrapment.  Until this moment, Gavin had no knowledge of Lil’s full talent as a spirit warrior.

Unlike Gavin, Lil avoided telling everyone specifics about her gifts.

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Scene Interrupted by Cherie Ann Turpin #3 (Thirty Stories in Thirty Days)

Scene Interrupted

by Cherie Ann Turpin

#3 (Thirty Stories in Thirty Days)

In DC, you see many neighborhoods becoming “refreshed,” or what some people call gentrification, an ongoing series of activities designed to bring in more affluent residents while moving less affluent residents outside of the city.  There are some residents who remain rooted deep in the dirt of this town, unwilling or unable to leave so quickly or quietly, and with the upheaval of rotted wood and dirt to replace the old with the new many old spirits have been being awakened, inadvertently.  One could imagine an old soul somewhat confused at the sight of a home dungeon space, especially a few spirits who remember a less than pleasurable experience with regard to floggers and rope.

So without a doubt, it was an accidental drawing of blood that fell to the newly installed marble tile patterned across the basement floor that served as a summoning, a loosening of the veil between the living and the dead in the midst of what was originally a play session between Marcus aka slave and Karen aka Mistress.  Perhaps Marcus and Karen, who were now the new owners of the redesigned and upgraded townhouse on Market Street were unwise to build a private sex dungeon in the basement without considering the possibility of meeting two of the previous residents who now appeared in grayish, out-dated uniforms with hollow faces that seemed both shadow and flesh against the flickering beams of the overhead lighting.   Marcus suddenly felt nauseous, as another specters began to reveal themselves, reddish eyes and a solemn-looking faces poking through. Both were youngish-looking men of European descent, and both seemed perplexed at the sight of Marcus and Karen’s leather costumes, especially Karen’s skin-tight cage design that exposed her nipples and buttocks.  Marcus looked at Karen, who looked back at him and began to quickly unravel the rope that bound his wrists and ankles.  The ghosts began to fade from flesh to shadow again.

As they shimmered out, Karen could have sworn she saw a leer forming on one of the specter’s faces.  She felt an unease climb up her spine, a sense that the next appearance could be a less-than-friendly encounter between the living and the dead.

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“freeze” by Cherie Ann Turpin #2 (Thirty Stories in Thirty Days)



by Cherie Ann Turpin #2 (Thirty Stories in Thirty Days)

People just don’t carry around pens anymore, much less pencils, thought Sandy, as she ran her hand through loose paper, envelopes, and markers covered in a fine mist of dust at the bottom of her desk drawer.  After a few false tries, she pulled out a No. 2 pencil, though it seemed a bit dull at the end.

No matter.

She took an eyebrow pencil sharpener and twisted the yellowish pencil into a fine point, blowing away the loose wood into the bathroom sink.  Walking back into her living room, Sandy sat down at her desk and stared at the square strip of brown paper bag in front of her.  The air in the silent room seemed to hum as she remembered the instructions from the cashier at the Botanica shop who sold her a white candle and a saint card to be kept in her wallet.

Nevertheless, this was just one step, one attempt to stop her ex-turned-stalker.  The trabajo del espejo was a bit heavier, the next step after seven days if he returned to her door, attempted to reach her by phone, or emailed her.  Sandy decided to wait and see if this trabajo would work before turning to hard magic.

Indeed, she felt her hands tremble slightly as she reasoned her logic in waiting to use more direct means.  She wrote his full name on the strip, folded it in threes, and wrapped it in red string.  After sealing it in hot wax she dropped it in a plastic jar filled with water and placed it in the back of her freezer.  Her hands stopped trembling, and the air felt light, porous.  She turned on her computer and clicked through some YouTube videos to take her mind from the ritual she just completed, feeling a sense of relief for the moment.

Meanwhile, her ex-fiance turned stalker Brian was seen in his neighborhood running and screaming at the car thieves who were now speeding down the street in his 2008 Honda Accord with his cameras, laptop and cellphone locked in the trunk.  He would not be reimbursed by his car insurance–liability only.  Cheapskate.

For now, he was frozen.

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“Legs: A Girlfriend Experience Story” by Cherie Ann Turpin #1 (Thirty Stories in Thirty Days)


“Legs: A Girlfriend Experience Story” by Cherie Ann Turpin #1 (Thirty Stories in Thirty Days)

When Frank first met his girlfriend doll she was still in the box with the plastic window revealing her face.  Her eyes were blinking rapidly, which let him know she was, though switched off, fully charged and ready to serve him.  Frank took a box cutter and made a long slit from the top of the cardboard to bottom, and peeled away the outer box portion, revealing styrofoam and an odd metallic odor that seemed to hover over the doll.

Frank wanted to take his time opening up his birthday present, so he pulled away the packing materials from the box as if they were tissue paper, neatly stacking them next to the box.

She was missing her legs.  Her torso was slender and she had matching arms with supple skin.  A dry cloth and solution was included in the box for the first “waking,” so as to wipe away the metallic odor that now filled the room.  But she was missing her legs.  Who would make such an obvious mistake in fulfilling the order for his first “girlfriend” doll?  Her nether regions were clearly seen, complete with a dusting of pubic hair that partially masked her slit.  Would she awaken, and would she notice she was missing her legs?  Even without them, she seemed so beautiful, but how would she help him tend to his home in such a condition?  Would she notice the omission?  Frank pulled up the TOS form on his pad and scrolled down to return policies.  He sighed, and threw the pad back on the couch.

In short, if he didn’t awaken her and simply asked for a replacement he would get a correct version of his girlfriend but it would take about six months for the shipment.  On the other hand, if he chose to flip her on he could take the doll to a local repair shop and have the legs installed, but he would have to pay for it himself and ask to be reimbursed for the repair.

Given his impatience and not thinking of the consequences of bringing an artificial life into the world without her legs in order to serve him, Frank awakened his girlfriend, who looked at him, and said “what did you do with my legs?”fe78f333488512e388e1281c30e55955

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Breadcrumb: “5 Brilliant Books on Black Women and Sexuality :: Books :: Lists :: Paste”

5 Brilliant Books on Black Women and Sexuality :: Books :: Lists :: Paste.

I’ll admit it:  I’m not familiar with one of these books: Recyclopedia: Trimmings, S-PeRM—K-T, and Muse & Drudge by Harryette Mullen. I have quite a collection of “brilliant books” written by Black women, and while most of them do not center just on sexualities, all of them touch on issues of the body and the sensual in one way or another.  So much of what has been and continues to be our experience in the West deals with the recovery of ourselves from so much pain, so much damage to our souls.

I’m ordering Recyclopediarose right after I finish posting this breadcrumb.  Guess I need to do my own list now, but do click and read the list.  Feel free to share your own list here!


Listen to Wednesday’s Feminisms Roundtable: Women of Color in Solidarity 01/29 by At the Edge An Afrofuturist Salon | Women Podcasts

Feminisms Roundtable: Women of Color in Solidarity 01/29 by At the Edge An Afrofuturist Salon | Women Podcasts.

Great show, lots of ideas for more discussion roundtables! Feel free to leave a review and feedback here!

A story I’m working on…an idea about photos, time, space…


I admit to a bit of narcissism.

It comes from a long struggle with self-esteem and insecurity about my place in this world.

Where do I fit in?  Why do I exist here right now?  What gives me the right to exist at all?

Very painful questions.  Very real and close to my heart.

If you haven’t figured it out by now, I like to talk about myself even when I seem to be talking about something or someone else in my creative writing.  I suppose some might see such a trend in my academic writing as well.  A slice of my personality, my fears, my desires, my obsessions, my problems, and/or my gifts go into each and every contribution I make to the great ocean of writing both online and offline that floats around all of us.  In some sense, a piece of my essence, my ashe, my soul goes into my writing.  Is it any surprise, then, that I decided to write a story about photos, that this narrative I am building contends with the idea that our images carry a piece of soul to the larger collective consciousness?  There is a reason some cultures view photographs as taboo, while other cultures use photographs to cast sympathetic magical spells?  Is it any wonder that some people believe that a repetition of imagery can somehow project that person’s will and energy into their own space and influence their thoughts, actions, and beliefs?

My protagonist may or may not look like me.  Her or his being may not be the same race or experience.  Somewhere in that character’s trajectory lies a small piece of my own journey towards understanding human experience.  This is also Afrofuturism.