…reposting old podcast favs for my fans searching my archives…

Yes, folk, I do check my stats, and it seems a few of you are thirsty for the old stuff on my podcast channel.  Don’t fret–here’s a shortcut:

For my listeners looking for old podcast favs!

The Brand is growing!  This summer will be busy with more posts, the launching of a new blog and podcast show, plus guest hosts and writers to really expand on afrofuturism work, as well as digital humanities work and creative writing.  Going to get really busy here, so stay tuned and please do continue to support this channel and the podcast channel –> https://cash.app/$drcat

Cherie Ann Turpin

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Ronald Mason is my guest poet on “At the Edge: Think Culture” podcast 6 pm EST June 12

Poetry, power of language, and social progress for the collective will be the center of discussion in my next podcast June 12 at 6 pm EST.

Learn what I mean by “quantum flow” in the poet’s voice–this episode will have you thinking about the power of language.  Ronald Mason the spoken word artist who came to Washington DC as an educator from New Orleans returns for part three to talk about poetry, spoken word, and making culture. We will chat about the creative process and social progress in poetry. Listen in as we both share our writing, process, and ideas in challenging but fascinating times. http://www.blogtalkradio.com/at-the-edge-thinkculture/2019/06/12/quantum-flow-of-the-poets-voice-ronald-mason

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Losing Time #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin

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My blanket was soaked with urine when I finally woke up on my couch.

The kitchen was filled with smoke from sausage I was boiling earlier; all the water had evaporated out the pan, and the meat was burnt black.

Both sides of my tongue felt like they had been stabbed with pins.  My legs and arms ached as if I had run a marathon.  I cancelled my classes and collapsed on my bed, still dizzy.

When I awoke again it was early evening, and my cell phone was out of power.  My limbs were still sore, my tongue was swollen, and my lower back felt oddly sore, as if I had been punctured in the same spot where I received a lumbar puncture ten years ago.  I had assumed I had a mild seizure from the new blood pressure medication, a sort of reset to get my body readjusted to a slower rhythm.  Now I was not so sure about that.  I was losing time again.

But that was twenty years ago when I had my first encounter with an extraterrestrial.  It was worse then, almost impossible to fathom:  I lost an entire week of time, and because we didn’t have cell phones, no one knew I was missing.  My cat did, and she never really recovered from encountering the visitors.  I was also several states away from my first and last encounter before that day.

I was losing time again, and I realized then that they had not only returned, but that they never really left.
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Starve (Phorzhicoa Story) #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin

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Last time I saw him he stared at me without blinking for 20 minutes straight.  I sat in a low leather chair sipping on an extra dirty martini pretending to not notice him as I read my phone messages.

Starved.

I’ve seen that before.  The last stage before converting to us, the Phorzhicoa.  He’s so far gone he wouldn’t have known the difference between the food and the feeders.  To most humans he is, in urban vernacular terms, “thirsty,” in need of something other than the usual attention given to men and women who are moderately attractive.

You’ve encountered the type before, the kind who were surrounded by sycophants and fans in their younger days, the popular set of folk who were sharply dressed, well-spoken, and of course never missing out on receiving some really delicious sexual heat from lovers and bedwarmers.  But eventually that sort of heat gets cold, and the thirst grows sharper with age.  The young, nubile, strong bodies of hopeful fans are replaced by earnest, desperate, and somewhat shrill voices of men and women who hope to taste a bit of an aging star who begins to realize with more than a bit of panic that she or he is no longer being fed and maintained but in fact is being sucked dry.

Starved.

The makeup is flawless, the haircut is perfect, but the soul is in great need.  The hollowed out eyes of one who is ravenous enough to not know that he is staring at a version of himself is unmistakable and indeed, quite irresistible.  Truth is I’ve kept myself off the radar of the Queen by refusing to feed for some years now, and it has kept me safe from some of the more aggressive types who look to compel us solitaries into joining families to hunt. And yes, he is desirable, but I do not give chase.  I prefer to be chased because the taste of his astonishment is so much more satisfying.  It’s a moment of mutual recognition, that we are more alike than different, that I am not prey but a sister hunter like him.  But he is still in pre-conversion, not quite Phorzhicoa yet.  He may give chase, but I saw him long before he even realized he saw me as a meal to consume.

This fledgling sitting across from me has been semi-stalking me for some months without speaking or even admitting to himself that he hungers, that his body and soul feels the crush and call of the Phorzhicoan way.  The sex itself is beyond words, but the energy that floods you is like a tidal wave of ecstasy that floods every cell of your body for what seems to be an eternity.  Time ceases as you are filled once again.  To be mutually fed by your own is to die and live again in a state of utter joy and relief.

But I don’t chase fledglings, especially not in my own starved state. I feel no motivation to move, much less speak.

Instead, I watch and wait for him to turn.

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Ideas from my dreams coming through #30days #30days2018

quick note: I just had the craziest dream I’ve GOT to get down in one of my stories or two actually: floating metal that’s weaponized to cling to you like glue or like you are a magnet with sudden motion;flying through the air with a rocket propelled gun battling these robot like sentinels who think I’m worth capturing for a rogue billionaire with plans for building a bigger army of invading robot soldiers; I even saw another Independence Day like alien invasion movie set in this dream. Guys—when I’m done writing about my feelings I’m going to get back to my fav topic—space aliens, kickass weaponry never seen on this planet before, and ships I think we might see if we can impeach that idiot trump and get back to scientific innovation. Nice bit of dream work in less than two hours!

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Empty #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin

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Today is May 2 and I have no reason to hope for seeing anyone else on this road, a quiet road in the middle of a forest occupied by no one but me.  It has been May 2 for many, many days and weeks.  I walk forward towards an opening that never emerges, only to find myself right back where I started.

No problem.  No other sound except for the slide and creep of my own shoes that echoes across the dark green forest floor.  No voices, and at this point, not even mine, as I have learned after countless days that no one else is here to hear me or respond.  A bird would be nice, even a fox or two.  I think I grew a bit suspicious many days/weeks ago after I noticed the absence of flies and ants, but that was after I noticed the most glaring absence: change in the daylight, as in there is no sunrise or sunset.

It’s almost as if I am standing in the middle of someone’s screen saver, or a picture frame on a desk in some nondescript office.  My own name no longer registers across my brain as I walk towards nothing.

Empty.

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Ghost Voices #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin

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About six months ago I noticed what I thought to be a faint hum in my work elevator riding down to the street level after staying late to work on an assessment report.  For about three nights I had the impression I was listening to a radio or echoes from another floor, or at least a malfunctioning elevator mic.  I wasn’t sure of the source, and I didn’t get confirmation of its source from security downstairs.  Slightly spooky, but not enough to really care one way or another.

One month ago, I had another assessment project to complete, and this time my late night work sessions lasted until well after evening traffic melted into the night.  This time I noticed two distinct voices engaged in what seemed to be a somewhat intense conversation, only I wasn’t the one speaking, and no one else was riding down 29 floors to the street.  I began to record this strange, disembodied exchange with my cell phone, not knowing if it would make more sense upon playback at home than with me standing there hearing it.

It occurred to me that I was actually not hearing people still walking the planet, but ghosts.  I do know that one sentence emerged from my computer when I uploaded the latest exchange, a distinctly male voice that seemed to carry a quiet sliver of pain as it crossed curtains of existence.  It was a question, actually:

“Are you angry at me?”

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