Watch the tide


This is the wane of the full moon
the time to toss to the sea
that which must be discarded
that which no longer serves you
that which no longer comforts you
she or he who is toxic to the spirit
now banished from sight
such is life
these are people you forget exist
revert to distant strangers
cast into the sea
burn the letters
wipe away all paths to you
burn the sage
salt down the steps
arise renewed
I am released.

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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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May 2018 #30days #30Days2018 Flash Fiction 30 Day Marathon Begins Today #CherieAnnTurpin

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Expect me today.  Rules? Look for the hashtag #30days #30Days2018, and help support me in my push to write 30 stories (200 words or more) in the month of May. I will make the entire month this year!  Look for recurring themes and returning/continuing fictional universes, look for sex in lit, lit that shocks, lit from tweets, lit from odd places like messages, hashtags, dreams, fantasies, masturbatory fixations, and yes, lit from headlines.  I promise to not censor and at some point have you fixated on who or what is making a guest appearance.  Please comment, and if you really like what you are reading, please leave a tip in my PayPal Donate link on the left sideline.

Stained Glass

It was in a nondescript flat, wooden box in the basement, a leftover from previous tenants now long gone. Or the tenants who came of left before the last couple who lived here. Rosalind couldn’t really tell, nor was she particularly interested in dragging that heavy box upstairs to take to the corner for trash day. Something about the box piqued her curiosity, though, especially the light that seemed to shine through one of the uncovered edges.

It took her an hour to pull and drag the box up the wooden stairs.

After finding a hammer, she flipped it to the prong side and began pulling out the nails, carefully tossing them in a neat pile. The wood seemed old, and gave way to her strength as she pulled out a large, round pane of stained glass. Looking at the wooden walls in the living room and dining room and the square window panes, it occurred to Rosalind that this could not have been installed in the house because it was too big for any house. It belonged to a church, perhaps a church long gone.

As she studied the design and colors, she noted the familiar image of the Virgin Mary and Child, how the pane seemed to capture the sunlight coming into the kitchen as if to store its ray like a solar panel. The room began to fill with a warm glow, and the air was suddenly fragrant with the smell of fresh roses. As Rosalind began to fill with a certain and familiar quiver of her state of “tipsy,” it occurred to her that no church would have commissioned such a work for their sanctuary, for it would not have been deemed acceptable for the masses.

What was once thought to be basement junk was now a center of attention in her living room as found art to outsiders who visited her as it hung on her wall seeming to have its own source of light even as the sun set outside.

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Selfie #30days #ww470

01765891-E8C4-402A-B3F7-FED89750D6C8It borrowed my phone while I slept and took a selfie.

“It” started visiting my farmhouse five years ago, not long after I retired from teaching college and relocated to Kent, Vermont.  My cats would become more skittish than usual right before the appearance of bright lights, and I’d smell an odd metallic odor in the night air when I dared to peek outside my front door. As with previous visitations, I would lose about six hours of time between the metallic smell and waking up on my living room couch as the sun came up.

This was the first time “It” left evidence of a visitation, however.  The selfie itself was oddly familiar:

”It” had my facial features, save for the huge black eyes that seemed to be reflecting stars and the absence of a nose bridge.  Studying the face and grayish brown skin, I realized that “It” was more than just familar, and the visits had not been just a part of my new life in Vermont.  Indeed, “It” was a manifestation of an earlier series of visits from nearly 30 years ago when I last lived in New England in yet another rural small town.

As tears began to run down my cheeks, I clasped my phone and whispered “I love you,” to my daughter’s image.

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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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