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.



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.

“Rehab” #27 by Cherie Ann Turpin (30 Stories in 30 Days) #30Days

“Rehab” #27

by Cherie Ann Turpin

(30 Stories in 30 Days)

So, I’m on a plane headed to Santa Fe, New Mexico.  Mind you, I’m in my traveler’s coffin, the one with the tacky sky-blue lining and extra pillow to help me sleep (I have neck and back issues).  I don’t want to go, but my vampire posse staged an intervention and threatened to kick me out of the group house and report me to my maker, something I fear more than being homeless in a city known to be hostile to derelict vamps.

My drug of choice is heroin, or more accurately, heroin addicts’ blood.  The first time I got high I was at a party and I ended up feeding on this frat boy who I thought was drunk.  I didn’t realize he’d snorted some heroin/oxy party powder in the kitchen earlier.  I almost puked the blood out the first time, but after a few minutes I felt like I was floating into space.  He didn’t even feel me biting him again, but I was careful not to drain him.  I wanted to keep my drug cow healthy enough to keep me high.

It worked for about two months.  He’d score the drugs, and I’d pay him to let me feed on him after he snorted or injected himself.  Then, after a two month run, the frat boy dropped dead from an overdose.  According to one of his frat mates at the frat house where they found him, he thought he could do more of the drug and not get sick because he believed I was sucking away his addiction.  Maybe I was, but if I did, I ended up with an itch that burned through my core stronger than my urge to drink blood all by itself.  It set my hunger on thermonuclear, and made me a danger to not just humans, but other vampires who smelled like they recently fed on addicts.
When my friends found me I was staying at a motel with a recently deceased prostitute who, like my frat boy supplier, OD’ed after spending two weeks with me on a heroin binge.  He sat on the toilet with a glassy-eyed stare, the needle still stuck in his arm.  I’d already fed on him, but I guess he wanted to top off his waning high to augment what my feeding had done to him.  He looked disappointed, a corpse not happy to be a corpse.  The vamps quietly wrapped him in sheets and dumped him into the river.

Clearly, I am not the only one dealing with this issue:  human junkies have been showing up in ER with gaping bite wounds and severe loss of blood by the dozens over the last six months.  The human authorities still don’t know we exist, but it’s only a matter of time before that changes.  If that happens, the Vampire Council will put me down like a rabid dog for sure. That’s why right now I am packed away in the baggage area, waiting for the plane to land so I can be transported to the vampire rehab facility just outside of Santa Fe.

I hear detox feels like you’re being exposed to the sun.  So not looking forward to that.

No bloody sunscreen.

“Quitting Smoking” #11 by Cherie Ann Turpin (30 Stories in 30 Days) #30days

“Quitting Smoking” #11

by Cherie Ann Turpin

(30 Stories in 30 Days)

2012-07-29 20.24.50


The first thing I noticed the night after I turned vampire was that I no longer felt a need to light up a cigarette.  That was stranger than having to sleep in my walk-in closet to keep out the sunlight.  Contrary to the myth, the sun rays don’t kill vampires, but it makes us weak, sleepy, and more than a bit itchy.  I work as an online writing instructor for a virtual university, so it’s not like I have to worry about missing work time.

I sat up, walked into the bathroom, and looked into the mirror, expecting to see nothing.  Instead, I saw my twisted hair in somewhat of a mess.  My eyes were bloodshot, and I looked somewhat gray in skin tone.  I opened my mouth and saw….nothing but teeth and a tongue.  Okay.  A couple of other myths destroyed there.  I jumped into the shower and washed quickly.  I found some jeans, a tee-shirt, and a pleather jacket, along with my usual lace-up boots.

I thought it odd to not feel a need to smoke.  I grabbed the gray pack of American Spirits and stuck a cigarette at the corner of my mouth.  I lit it and slowly pulled smoke into my lungs.  And held it.  After about ten minutes I blew a cloud of smoke into the dark room. Well, it seemed I discovered two things: 1) I no longer felt a buzz or tasted the cigarette and 2) I no longer needed to breathe.

Instead, I felt a craving for something else, something I could not satisfy from my kitchen or even from delivery.  Suddenly, I felt a hunger so painful it seemed to turn my insides into liquid metal.  Falling to the carpet, my body began to shudder and twist.  I felt my teeth sharpen and push out from my gums, as a strange, beastly growl emerged from my throat.  Cold hands suddenly grabbed me and calmed me, while a warm, coppery liquid filled my mouth and throat.  I swallowed greedily, wondering if the hunger was always this painful.

“For young ones, yes, but not for long,” spoke my rescuer, reading my thoughts.  He pulled me up as he stood, a tall, balding man with dark, piercing eyes and full lips.  His fangs flashed as he smiled at me, warmly.  “I don’t abandon my children, and you have much to learn before I send you on your way.  I will teach you how to live among humans without drawing attention to your true nature.”  He gestured to my laptop.  “You already know how to support yourself without stealing or killing.  You won’t have too many issues living among them in this city.”  He walked to the door and held out his arm for me to take.

“Let’s take a walk.  I feel like eating out for a change.”

#Afrofuturism The Newest Hottest Spike Lee Joint by Spike Lee — Kickstarter

I’m posting this to my blog because I like the sound of this film project–and it tastes like Afrofuturism!  Read on:

The Newest Hottest Spike Lee Joint by Spike Lee — Kickstarter.

“Human beings who are addicted to blood. Funny, sexy, and bloody (and it’s not “Blacula”)…


July 21, 2013

Dear Faithful,

I say my Prayers every night because I have been able to do what I Love and I Love what I do. I am a Filmmaker and I’m blessed. Most people on this God’s Earth go to the grave hating the occupation they had. When you Love what you do it’s not a job, it’s something you would do for free because it brings True Joy to your Heart and Soul. When you are blessed to do that especially if you’re an Artist it can bring those emotions of the Human Experience to your Audience (if you are Lucky). The catch is Filmmaking is an Artform that costs M-O-N-E-Y. That is why I’m appealing to the Kindness in your Hearts, to the Faithful who have given me the much needed Love and Support over my 3 decades of Spike Lee Joints. You have been there from BACK IN DA DAY with my Feature Film debut SHE’S GOTTA HAVE IT (1986) to the present with RED HOOK SUMMER. Your support has been instrumental in helping to launch the Film Careers of Halle Berry, Rosie Perez, Martin Lawrence, Queen Latifah, Samuel L. Jackson, Giancarlo Esposito, Tisha Campbell, Jasmine Guy, John Turturro, Robin Harris, Anthony Mackie, Mekhi Phifer, Kerry Washington, Bill Nunn and Delroy Lindo who were showcased in my Films.

With the current climate in The Hollywood Studio System it’s not an encouraging look for Independent Filmmakers. I’m not hating, just stating the facts. Super Heroes, Comic Books, 3D Special EFX, Blowing up the Planet Nine Times and Fly through the Air while Transforming is not my Thang. To me it’s not just that these Films are being made but it seems like these are the only films getting made. To The Studios it seems like every Film must be a Home run on a Global scale, a Tent Pole Enterprise, able to spin off Sequel after Sequel after Sequel after Sequel after Sequel after Sequel.

I have a different vision of what Cinema can be, a different vision of what some under-served Audiences might want to see. That is why I am here on KICKSTARTER, to raise the Funds for The New Spike Lee Joint, to get this BAD BOY financed. Nothing in Life is Free and if you want something you got to pay for it. If you have liked any of my Films in the past, this is the price it costs to see another one (which can be less than the cost of one Movie Ticket). We feel the different levels on contributions make it affordable for everyone to GET DOWN FOR THE CAUSE.

Do you wish to see Human Beings dealing with each other on a Human Level? How many more explosions with Ear splitting Sound Effects can you take? C’mon People, please get behind this Joint.

As I stated in the Video, I promise on my Mother’s Grave and Right Hand to the Almighty – every Red Cent, every Wooden Nickel, every Dollar will go up on the Screen and not into my pocket. I’m not taking a Fee, your generous contributions will get this Film made.

Kickstarter is an all or nothing venture. If we don’t attain our goal of raising $1,250,000 in 30 DAYS all pledges will be released and it won’t get made and we can’t let that be an option. So tell yo Friends, Relatives, Co-Workers, everybody to chip in LET’S GET DOWN FOR THE CAUSE.

In closing I will continue to do My Thang and this Joint, which YOU THE PEOPLE financed is gonna be HOT and DAT’S DA TRUTH, RUTH. Ya-Dig? Sho-Nuff.”

Spike Lee – Filmmaker
Da Republic of Brooklyn, New York

Mark Undone (Continuation of “Meet Mark”) [a fragment] Story #14 (30 Stories in 30 Days) by Cherie Ann Turpin

Mark Undone (Continuation of “Meet Mark”)
[a fragment]

Story #14 (30 Stories in 30 Days)

by Cherie Ann Turpin


Tall, dark, and willowy, she was a striking woman with almond-shaped, fierce eyes, and the walk of a thousand-year old vampire. She had the ability to blend into masses of people or shine like a neutron star at what could only be described as “her will.” Daylight delighted her, as did chocolate and strawberries. When it came to humans, she fed on something much more delicious than blood.

No one who met her could provide a clear picture of her identity, or even a clear description of her up close. She was more like a distant figure in a candid photograph with blurred, distant faces. He proved to be the exception to that rule, not that it gave him much comfort. Her rare physical presence produced a familiar, phallic hunger, but her absence cut through him like a raw, flayed sensation, a longing that could not be abated.

He could barely type out a word without recalling the first moment of hearing her low, vibrating voice as she breathed out “hello.” Months after that moment he felt as if he had been marked by her, as if he were to be later retrieved for purposes or uses unknown. A growing realization of this marking left him shaken to his core, even as he found his hands spending more time below his waist than on his keyboard as his obsession with her engulfed his psyche.

She frightened him.

She excited him.

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Cheating Hearts (Story #2 – 30 Stories in 30 Days)

Cheating Hearts

By Cherie Ann Turpin

“Uhm, hon, why do I smell blood in the back seat of my car?”


“Uhm, don’ t ‘huh’ me like you don’t know.  Wake up.  Why do I smell blood all over the back of my car?”

“Who is she? I know it was a woman, and I know the difference between male and female hormones when I smell it, so don’t try to play that over on me. She smells young, like less than 50 years young.  Who is she?” Precious-Hearts-Romances-My-Cheating-Heart

“S-s-s-she’s Rob’s girl, Caroline.  They were making out in the back.  He must have nipped her in the neck.”

“Rob??? Since when did he slow down?”

“She’s a prodigy he turned a few years back–she just got back from Atlanta.”


“Yes.  really.”

“And you just, well, sat in the front and watched them kiss, right? They did more than just kiss, David.”

“I was hunting, dear.  I didn’t wait around to see if they were buck-naked.  Sorry about the smell–I’ll go to the all-night car wash and get the interior cleaned.”

“You must think I was turned yesterday.  You are lying.”

“Stop it.”

“Stop what, David? Stop trusting you? Stop not trusting you? Stop trying to understand why you keep playing me like a tool? Stop wondering why you think you can sleep in that coffin I paid for and lie to my face?  Stop wondering why I don’t turn you to dust myself and just start over with a new consort?”

“What’s with the silver knife, Carla?  I didn’t cheat on you.  I told you, it’s Rob’s woman, not mine.  We were cruising around looking for dinner.  They got high on some raver who was on E, then they got horny.  That’s it.  Nothing happened.”

“What do you mean nothing happened? You let Rob fuck some ratchety bitch in MY car? Sure you didn’t join in? Why didn’t you get high?”

“I didn’t get high because I didn’t join in the feeding.  I saw a guy creeping around the woods–”

“You saw a guy in the woods. And what did he look like? Was he high, drunk?”

“He won’t be missed. I think he was looking to rob somebody.  He had a gun.”

“What kind of gun?”

“A stun-gun.”

“Who uses a stun-gun to rob people?”

“People who don’t like bullets, I guess. He tried to use it on me.  You should have seen his face, Carla–”

“Look, I’m not playing with you.  It’s almost time for me to get to my job, and the bar won’t open by itself.  And I don’t smell Rob ANYWHERE on the leather or carpet in the backseat–or the front, for that matter.  So, unless you want to see me use this knife on that limp, undead lump of flesh you call a dick, I suggest you come clean NOW, and just tell me. WHO THE FUCK IS SHE, DAVID?”

“My wife.”

“What you mean your wife?  I’m your wife!”

“My dead wife, as in Sharon.”

“She’s not dead.”


“Who turned her?  When did this happen? And how?”

“You did.”


“You aren’t as old as you claim to be, are you Carla? Youngsters do tend to make those kind of mistakes.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You turned us both that night, you conniving little minx.  She didn’t die.”

“Why are you smiling like that, David?”

“Like what?”

“Like you are right now? It wasn’t like that.”

“Who’s the liar now?”

“What does she want?”

“She already has what she wants, Carla.  You’re just now noticing it because you’ve been too busy fucking and sucking Hector the Bouncer to care about where I plop my sexy ass.  What you should be asking right now is what do I want, as in how does sweet little killer Carla find a way to make it through the next twenty-four hours without Sharon the wronged wife removing her pretty head from her shoulders?”

“What makes you think I can’t take her down myself?”

“You’d kill your own prodigy?”

“Sounds as though I have no choice but to do just that.”

“You have a knife pointed at my heart.  You have many choices.  Make a move.”

“I don’t want to kill you.”

“But you want to kill her.”

“I want to live.  I want to know how Sharon rose from the ground without me sensing it.  I want to go to work before I lose my job.  Most of all, I want you to still be here when I return.”

“Go to work.  I’ll be here in the morning.”


“I’m here, aren’t I?  She hasn’t challenged you.  Yet. Go on, you’re almost late.  We’ll talk about it, no weapons, okay?”

“Bite me.  Hard.”

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