A note about writing and a welcome to #30days2019 #30days

Couldn’t decide whether to land on love, lust, magic, or on Saturn for that first story.

Results?

I did a hybrid with a healthy dose of THC. Won’t blow your back out, but it will make you wonder if this is part of a longer tale. Could be.  Go read it and tell me if it turned you on or if it turned you off.

Or if it turned you out.

Meanwhile, we will return to the Girlfriend Experience AI, vampires, werewolves, and witches. We might even see a few aliens show up in a sex dungeon looking for love. I really do want to write about a woman who sees everyone on the planet completely nude.

If you stay still long enough, you can see everything.

 

Look for new stories and poetry to show up tomorrow.  Meanwhile, go support my brand here –> $drcat

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There are no spells for love or evolution

Does not feel right in this moment to go back to the routine.

…not quite Phorzhicoan anymore, am I?  Something else… 

Just feeling a bit faint, a bit warm in a hot flash sense.  So different in my youth when it really was more of a singularity in my approach, feed, and departure. I like drifting among groups of happy people and casually drawing out the essence of human fun–dancing, laughing, chatting, sweetness of joyful living.  Phorzhicoa feeding need not be in dark, lonely spaces, but can be in the midst of the action, as long as some semblance of an exchange is met to dampen suspicions of most, save for those few humans gifted with discernment.

As I slowly matured the hunt ceased to be a hunt for many and emerged as a search for one.

Doesn’t seem to feel right tonight to just jump in and feast. Phorzhicoan spells work like anesthesia on the conscious mind, and from what I can see through my Phorzhicoan eyes, our spells tend to bend towards imposing a coma-like state on the targeted object of focus.  Communion remains elusive and distant, and upon awakening, the object departs.  The feeding process itself ends and we move on.  My search for one turned me from this path.

There are no spells or works for this feeling here, and as such, this must be a true exchange that begins with the meeting of eyes.

Given what I’ve sensed, it seems more satisfying to engage in an exchange.  In other words, connect.  Something that could feel mutually consensual and aware as the energy and fluids pass back and forth in those moments before the room melts in hallucinogenic glory of all the Gods passing through you like a flock of birds.  At the departure of the initial wave of pleasure comes the recognition and welcoming of two spirits in communion.  Humans who have not crossed into Phorzhicoan space call this love.  Phorzhicoans like me who progress beyond the feeding dance call this evolution.

There are no spells for love or evolution.

First wave is like a tongue caress.

Friday night. Late. 20 years ago I’d be in Hartford, New Haven, Providence, Boston, or NYC. A bit thinner then. Minidress, blond dreds, 3-inch heels, commando–you know it! And you asked me why I don’t have a husband or kids? My 30s was a time to enjoy grad school and late night clubbing–though if I was still up to it, I could do that now in DC. It’s different, though, the whole scene, my age, my attitude. I like fun–dancing, laughing, chatting. Doesn’t seem to feel right here. But far be it from me to suggest that one should not laugh, dance, sing, or chat during a time of war. And yes, my friends, we are at war. We were born into it. Party for your life, Muffins.  This #30Days aka #30storiesin30days will carry some of these idea strings into fictional landscapes, along with a few revisits to landscapes discovered during previous 30 day journeys.  The erotic never left, but you already know this truth.

Watch this spot.

#30days

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Almost that time…

…for flash fiction, the #30days writing challenge I started with a very good friend of mine who writes science fiction.  Last year I decided to infuse some poetry into this challenge, a flash poetry edginess to inspire me to dive deeper.

You never know what or who you may find wandering the imaginary streets of my fictional landscapes these days…guess you’ll have to read them to find out.

See you soon, readers and fans.

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Poems are like a box of clothes never worn from your brain

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I think my brain treats my poetry writing sessions as an exercise in unpacking boxes from the attic and every once in a while finding a good classic cookbook, or a lovely set of dishes never used. Or a dress worn just once and it still fits. Or even an old, raunchy paperback novel, like The Story of O.

I think I had once of these month long sessions of unpacking some really raunchy novels, and given what I just dreamed last night, I think that analogy fits like a ball gag. Someone asked me about teaching The Story of O by Pauline Reage, a work that should not be taught without matching it with the French Feminisms anthology that tears it to pieces. I pretty much view Reage, du Sade, and other erotic writers of the 18th through the latter 20th century attempting to expel the Church’s repression of sexuality—but not the misogyny that came along with the repression. How is it in the 21st century we are still dealing with repression, misogyny, and fear of female desire?

I did not dream of finding wedding dresses in my closet. I have many more stories and poems to unpack and put on a table to shine or toss. Some of them sound like fragments from a raunchy novel. It’s my way of getting my brain out of writers block as I finish my other writing gig for a deadline later this month. I wouldn’t say it’s better than sex, but given the level of frustration that summer brings me (it’s warm, so I exercise and that definitely gets me aroused), writing about these things helps chase away writers block and depression over my summer blues over my lack of companionship. Love and lust really do matter for us writers—at least for me it does. And vibrators don’t inspire 5000 word chapters. Or epic poems.

Enjoy your morning commute.

thinking of your cock right now

Sunday rain
coffee and buns
reading news
waiting for Sun.

Whew! Thank goodness it’s Friday June 1!

Well folk, this year’s May 30 day challenge is now officially at an end, but not my creative writing. As I am on a deadline for completing a chapter for an anthology on digital humanities plus doing grant workshops to prep for a larger grant on the same topic I will be taking a break for a couple of weeks.  Do read this month’s work—it will be part of a book. I will be back to expand on these works and with new short fiction this summer as I build my manuscript. Please do click on my PayPal button to support me and the build of my collection. And let me what you want more of. Tell your friends to come read my work too.

Thank you for being a very engaged and active audience!

Love, Cherie Ann Turpin aka Afrofuturism Scholar