Possible themes?

sky space dark galaxy

According to the Washington Post, UFOs are a reality for our military pilots and have been for some time. Why do I get the sense that we are about to learn that we are not the only ones watching our planet become a trash bin for greedy politicians and billionaires?  At least one of my flash fiction stories and at least one poem will dip into ideas about ufos, humanity, and care of our planet Gaia aka Earth.  I like spinning reality into fiction, so look for a flash fiction story to be posted on this site describing a strange object appearing in the summer night sky on I-384 (Connecticut) late at night…….we are not alone.

earth space cosmos

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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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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. Yes. Maybe. 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.

Northern Gothic (part one) #30days #30days2018 by Cherie Ann Turpin

 

Willimantic is a small blip of a town between New York City and Boston. It used to be called Heroin Town.

Considering the fact that most of the textile factories and thread factories shut down in the 70s and moved down South (as in Central America, since even Southerners were insisting on union wages), and considering the larger fact that Connecticut was no longer home to the big insurance companies, you would not be surprised at the condition of Willimantic by the late 90s.

Once a sprawling, working class community with huge Victorian homes, ancient buildings and bustling businesses on Main Street, along with a steady influx of French Canadians, Puerto Ricans, and Irish-Americans, many houses now stood empty, became occupied by UConn students, or became drug havens for heroin junkies, and many of the businesses either went bust or else moved to the strip mall down on I-195. It was said that 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. Two restaurants actually maintained good business, drawing in the yuppies who lived on the outskirts of Willimantic or from Mansfield, near the state university set in the midst of cow pasture. But it was nothing like what it was. 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 hit, the new high that would surely take them from the everyday misery of the memories lucking behind the empty theater across from cracked, crumbling Hooker hotel (actually J. C. Hooker, who never imagined himself being known as a swatter’s haven, a hooker’s hotel?)? Or the greasy spoon still serving cholesterol 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 through their descendants who, not imagining any other place to live, continued to shop and eat on Main Street, continuing to take their children downtown, choosing the desolate scenery over the larger yet still desolate city of Hartford. Or the students from either Eastern State or Connect State looking for cheap rent and privacy from the desperation of campus life.

Such was the woman who stepped out of the back of the building where the vegetarian cafe was located. As she walked down the narrow pathway she tried not to notice the ever watching eyes behind the windows in the slum apartments to the left of her, the barely painted exterior of the back of the next building that did not look like an apartment building from the front, but just another office building. She had not been surprised at its decrepit sate when she was first shown the apartment in the building next door, nor was she particularly afraid of the young men who occasionally wandered out to fix their rusty cars.

She was cautious, silent, hoping that their stares were more of caution than of interest. Two years were gone, and yet no act of revenge, no smell of sulfur, no evidence of a hex. Yet.

For the last three years she was living with her head ready to turn at a second’s notice to look back, to the side, looking for the change in temperature, the spirit that she knew to be lurking somewhere, for the face of the man who drove the energy towards her, who she knew to be motivated only for one purpose: to drive her up to and beyond the limits of her sanity.

She looked around the parking lot to see if the red 1987 Subaru station was still sitting in the parking lot before unlocking her car and settling into her driver’s seat. Looking in the rearview mirror, she saw herself and grimaced at her already melting hair in the evening humidity of late summer heat.

The moon already lurked in the shadowy sky, but it would be late in the night before the cool night air would give relief from the July sun. She softly touched her face, noticing how her coffee brown skin seemed to glow in the rays of moonlight. Seemingly pleased with herself, she started the engine of her gray 1988 Chevy Nova and sauntered out the parking lot. The adjacent parking lot was nearly empty, save for a stray taxi, and two police cars which were each occupied with white male officers. They seemed engrossed in deep conversation. The road seemed to carry the gray Chevy towards the stop sign.

She watched a thin woman entering the small gym the right of the intersection, and felt a slight sensation of guilt. As in response, the thin woman flipped her hair and turned to look her. The gray car zoomed across the intersection and up the hill, rushing pass the overhanging trees and looming Victorian houses, threading through the narrow streets and parked cars. She kept her eyes on oncoming cars at several intersections, expecting some fool to ignore the stop signs she crossed, as if an accident was tomorrow’s promise. When she reached the Route 6 highway she began to relax, settling into the monotony of highways connecting to highways, connecting and collecting cities.

Her eyes never the left the road, but her mind swayed back and forth from the road to her apartment in Willimantic, to the bedroom where she knew her lover was waiting, her moment to raise energy she needed to do battle, to focus on the inner shrine she built in her belly, the womb where she wished to fill with more than sperm. All of this she would try to spill forth to her spirit guide in Glastonbury in an elaborate ritual that could help cast out for the good of many the enemy now pursuing her destruction.

“Will he cure you?” asked her lover, as they later lay entwined, their love juices still pouring from their bodies. “No,” she answered, “but he will help me break down the walls that protect him and allow him to continue to work against me unchallenged.”

And so soon she shot off onto I-384 to Glastonbury in her tony car, where her elf-like spirit guide sat waiting for her arrival.

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