YeahWrite #356- Microprose challenge. Baby Red.


Baby Red


“The fuck is you?”

The wolf licked his lips.

“Oh, you a tenderoni. Come on and give Grandma a kiss .”

Baby Red carried a glock and Nana taught her how to use it.

“What you gonna-?”

Baby Red smiled.

“Not today bitch.”

And the wolf was no more.



Happy Women in Horror Month- Post 1.

Some meandering thinky thoughts.

Hi homies. I’m having a day and y’all know that means I’m just gonna dump my brain until I can focus.

Sooooooooooo horror.

I don’t remember if I’ve mentioned it but, I’ve been working on some new horror stories. As I’ve mentioned before, my fiction work has become the slow deliberate I have a fucking mission type work that my non-fiction used to be.

My new shit is different than what I’ve done before. If you’ve been here a while you may know that my first professional level sale was yonks ago and I made my bones writing a lot of erotic horror. Not sparkly vampire twinks but rough trade I want to rip off your head and fuck your neck monsters. I wasn’t into more classic horror at the time and found that my personal aesthetic was very at home in the porny horror.

Fast forward and I’ve been writing/working on some more classic type horror. Ghost stories, demons, etc. However, these are without a doubt Black stories.

Now I have to confess some things.

I don’t read a lot of horror anymore except very specifically because, frankly I am disinterested. A lot of my disinterest is in a vein of conservatism in horror. For me it started with horror mags for a few years having very eh, narrow ideas of what is acceptable. I don’t know how many guidelines I read that prohibited sex of any sort, naughty words, etc.

At the time, it felt kind of silly to me. I mean, some supposedly scary shit is going down and nobody says fuck? Okay. Upon rear-view, I realize what made me uncomfortable was that we couldn’t have anything too sexy, too cursebirdy but, the anti Blackness and anti womanness and anti non white dude was fine. Totally fine.

We could have booboo ass scary witch doctors and have storylines with suburban white kids going into the scary ghetto and gross outs because zomfg periods!! FAT WOMEN but, don’t have sexytimes or say fuck. I hated it and hate it now.

This is not a new feeling. Here is an excerpt from an essay I put at Medium about being a horror nerd. (Also peep the awesome photo of me screaming)

As an adult I think about some more of those stories and realize I was trying to see myself in those very White worlds. I didn’t have the language to express my hunger to see Black people populating the fictional towns or saving the day.

When I wrote my first novel in high school, it was a vampire epic in a very Anne Rice style, my vampires weren’t pale and smooth as marble. They were dark and smooth as my Mom’s living room table. They didn’t come from France they came from Egypt, not movie everyone is White Egypt, they came from the Haitian Revolution and from Zululand. Their history was my history told and learned through the lens of the vampire mythos.

This is what drove me/drives me out of horror. I feel like I’m disinterested because any bit of Blackness is King style magical negro or white kids triumph or or or…it is just so fucking boring.

So what AM I doing?

First thing is I’ve bit the bullet and changed how I write genre fiction visually. For a few years, because of how I like to space things, I just couldn’t stomach trying to re-format to manuscript format. Aesthetically, I tend to use line breaks etc as part of how I’m telling the story. That has been rough for me. I’m trying because so many places that publish genre fiction in print or online still use it.

Second thing, I’m being very deliberate in what I’m making up. Being that it is women in horror month, my stories (I’ll give you a taste soon) are women heavy.

Black women specifically.

Here is a taste of a ghost story I’m working on. Central to this is to understand this is happening in The Hood. This is a Black Ghost Story. For reference, somebody in this passage is dead:

At home my wife and I sat with our horde of cats and dogs going over the events. “I guess we should probably tell him.” I knew she was right but, we’d only just started working with the guy. “I know but I don’t want to. You remember what happened with the last two. I mean, he was crying babe.” She turned her big dark gaze on me, I bravely resisted the urge to cower. “Don’t start with that super masculine shit Pablo. The first time something reached out and touched you, you couldn’t speak English for an hour and you cried. Don’t.” 

She was right. I didn’t want her to be, not that I wanted to keep secrets but some things are just too much to explain. Something walloped me on the back of the head and two of the dogs looked behind me, tails wagging. The voice was loud and clear as always. “I heard you was talkin shit.” My sister Letiticia was the most irritating and amazing dead person. She had the uncanniest timing, she made herself comfortable on the floor with the big dogs and I sighed. “Hi Letty, so nice to see you. Oh, what no come in. No bother, it’s not like I was trying to get some alone time with my wife.” 

What I want to point you to here is that we are not using the Black body as the vehicle of fear. Blackness is not the mysterious scary other. It just is. This is the intimate vernacular the way (something I LOVE about Daniel Jose Older y’all know) folks talk to each other. These are people I know, if you are also a POC you probably know them too. I’m taking the haunted house trope away from the burbs and the seemingly always Victorian or whatever ghosts and bringing it into my community.

In terms of how I’m writing the women. In a lot of horror, the women are either fat ugly and scary (unfuckable and therefor support “the scare”) or they are super fuckable. She’s pale as milk with a long graceful neck and sweet brown eyes with a narrow waist and hefty titties and OH she speaks forty languages and is innocent and horny and shrieks with terror when a thing goes bump in the night.

Y’all know.

And if you are the writer, suddenly the question is are U FUCKABLE? EW NO U R NOT SO UR STORY IS UNREALISTIC.

We’ll talk about that shit more later.

My women are the heroines. As the maker of this myth, I’m giving them the power that women tend not to get in these stories. And yet, they aren’t ass kicker barbies.

I want to say more but I don’t want to spoil it also I’m not done yet.

This story is Black y’all. It is Blackity Black Black Black. It is a love note to my fellow Black fen. And to women.


I’ve babbled a lot.

I’ll do more through the month.

For now how about some of my other woman centric, WOC centric horror?

From my Yeah Write Archives a few favorites from my experimental horror series.

Beautiful Pit Vipers.

Black Pharaoh in the Morning. 

Down home.


I Dream of Doormen. 


How about my Wifey’s fave?

I can be funny bros.


Next time we’ll talk about things I want to see more of in  horror and how race and gender can be included in how we view what is or isn’t horror as a thing.

A Peek into the Daiyuverse

Hello darlings.

Here I present you with part of a more difficult part of the Daiyuverse Cycle 2. Writing and introducing this character was really hard for me. In this section we meet Daiyu’s first ex wife Nanita. In this cycle Daiyu and folks in her world are youngish, not quite total adults yet.

Here’s the chunk and after we’ll talk some about Nanita and her magic.

She winced when she felt the cold bony fingers of her mother’s shade pinch her ear. 

“Girl, don’t you sass me. Now, you know what you need to do. Get to work, she ain’t ready and things are comin’ on.” 

She smiled at the reflection of her Mother. 

“Yes ma’am.” 

Later after Nanita’s baby had been fed, settled in a warm place and was asleep they sat on the back porch. The air was warm and pleasant, the night gently noisy.  

“Did you have a nice conversation with your Daddy?” 

Nanita tipped her head back and closed her eyes, listening to the chatter of bugs and the soft lap of the water. 

“Yeah. He said he’s about done for the month and is coming home. Y’all gonna try again?” 

Her cautious tone hurt. Her Mama sighed heavily. 

“It’s not that we gotta try honey. Your Daddy and I love each other very much we just, can’t live together. I won’t bullshit you, sometimes loving each other ain’t enough. It is better for all of us if he and I don’t live together.” 

Nanita nodded, frowning.  

“So, can I ask you something?” 

“Mmhmm go ahead.” 

“You can do that? Like, you don’t have to get a divorce or something?” 

Mama shrugged. 

“I don’t see what good that would do. Neither of us wants to be dating other people. Since we worked out how to get along, things have been good. We don’t fight no more, we make good decisions about you. When we do spend time together it’s good. I think things are just fine.” 

“But how can you be married but like, not together?” 

“Because we grown. Our marriage is what it is and it works for us. Nobody gets to tell us how to be married.” 

“But there’s rules and shit isn’t there?” 

Mama shrugged, made a dismissive gesture. 

“I mean people can say there are rules but, they ain’t my rules so I don’t care. You want to hear the best advice I ever got in my life?” 

Nanita sat up and nodded. She really loved it when her Mama decided to dispense her lessons. 

“If they ain’t fuckin you, paying your fuckin’ bills, or otherwise in a position of power over you, fuck ’em.” 

Nanita clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide. Her Mother did not habitually curse, muchless drop the F Bomb in conversation at least not in front of her.  

“Wha- who said that to you?” 

Mama smiled. 

“Your grand mother, my Mama. Mama Jay. First time I came home cryin, because a bunch of light skint fake voodoo queens made fun of me at a gathering. I didn’t have fancy cards or crystals or nothin. I was so hurt and upset. Mama Jay let me cry a while then she made me some coffee and sat me down for one of her come to Mama conversations.” 

Mama smiled as she remembered and as she looked at her daughter’s bright face she saw her own Mother’s eyes. 

“So, we sat just like this, and she looked me dead in my eye and said, fuck those bitches. Then she spat, you remember Mama Jay chewed somethin’ terrible, she spat over the railing and said it again and clapped her hands real hard.” 

Nanita was bug eyed but nodding. She didn’t have many memories of Mama Jay but enough to be able to picture the conversation. It made her smile. 

“She taught me that our magic, don’t come in a pretty package. All the expensive shit in the world is no substitute for what’s real. So, fuck em.” 

Now in my magical system I have Nanita labeled thusly:

Sorceress, mastery over water, unknown

For my purposes, sorcery and witchery are two very different things. For my world here, sorcery is where magic starts to go beyond the known edges of the worlds. In this world sorcery and magic are related like adding and theoretical physics are. They are both math but one is in my brain, way way out on the edge of the universe and the other is right here in my hand.

In my magical system, there is space for the theoretical and the every day practical and that is what as we travel through this verse, will keep us all in the same world. I personally find the idea of incorporating these various magics in a way that gives voice to things that resemble Hoodoo and things that are more like the mythos of various cultures. I want witches who run the gamut and as I imagine it, will represent magic on a very grand scale.

Let’s talk Nanita herself.

So, Nanita started out in my original material as a whole other woman and as Daiyu’s bestie from Brazil. I decided against that because I really want Cycle 2 to be a bit of a coming of age AND some romance and other young adult shit that is hard WITH the magic and stuff.

Now Nanita could have been a very cookie cutter light skint voluptuous Voodoo queen but, I really didn’t want that. I was inspired by hearing her in my head. I’ve talked about this before but a good number of my characters speak in my brain and I was hearing a very broad, slightly slurry Louisana back country accent. It’s a very particular sound and I was thinking of her as a young adult, awkward. Very different from Daiyu in both her upbringing and how she learns her magic.

The upbringing of Nanita and how I want to illustrate her relationship with her parents was really hard for me to figure out. Nanita is very sensitive, (OKAY here is another bite) this tidbit will be one I hope folks think of later on in the verse:

Nanita must have been out there for an hour, she came in, tears gone and cradling a tiny alligator. 

“Mama this one is sick. I gotta see if I can get her to eat. She wouldn’t take the marshmallows, we got any of that fish wet catfood?” 

Her Mama frowned at her from where she stood at the stove dispensing dirty rice onto plates. 

“Don’t tell me you want to bring that gator into the house.” 

Nanita’s plump light brown face sagged, her chin started to quiver and her huge black eyes filled with impending tears. 

“But Mama, Hubie is just a little baby and Delicious can’t take care of him. I can’t just let him die.” 

Before her Mom could respond, Nanita was blubbering and holding the little alligator to her cheek, she keened about how it was so defenseless and just a sharp little baby bunny and how she just had to rescue it. Had to. The dramatics weren’t really necessary but she was her Father’s child. Mama rolled her eyes. 

Writing that level and type of sensitivity with some humour and gentleness. I want you the reader to feel the sort of amused love, a firm support system for Nanita to be a weepy baby sorceress. I really want to set her up to explain and illustrate how her magic works later on and as a counter point to Daiyu emotionally speaking.

Daiyu will have to be a tragic magical Black girl for a while because she needs to learn.

I’ve been experimenting with Nanita for a while and you can read some standalone adventures with her. I’m using some standalone stuff that links to/is adjacant to the Daiyuverse. I mainly use these are exercises and character sketches.

If you want to know more, you too can get monthly Daiyuverse served up hot for as little as a buck a month. A DOLLAR for about three thousand Daiyuverse words and now, a featured essay or extra thing per month so that’s like around five thousand words.

Check it out here.


Updates, Stuff n thangs.

OH hey y’all.


If you’ve been rolling with me for a while you know sometimes I save up good news and then I throw it all at you like confetti. Get ready.

First up, Y’ALL Y’ALL Y’ALL!!! My baby is born!

Gasoline Heart my lil poetry book baby is available for pre-order. Looky here. She is so pretty and ugh fuck. Y’all.

ALl I could do when my publisher said it’s gone to print is respond as follows:


Ahem. Holy shit. Holy shit HOLY SHIT.

If the FCC hasn’t burned the internet to the ground I am working up a virtual tour/readings and will let y’all know.


Next thing is, y’all I got one more publication for the year. It is a bucketlist item. I GOT PUBLISHED IN THE MOTHA FUCKIN WANDERER Y’ALL!!!!!!!!!!! See my poems here.

Y’all, most of my favorite poets are/have been in there. The poems published there were each rejected from a LOT of places, essentially thanks but no thanks rejections. Most of my poetry (in case you’ve ever wondered) has traditionally gotten that type of response from the pobiz. Thanks but no thanks, thanks but we don’t do confessional/personal/blabla. So this is huge for me. Especially with the baby on the way. I have an essay in the works about it but yeah huge deal.

What else?

My much rejected essay about some of my literary influences is up at Medium behind the paywall. Here’s a taste:

I did what I’d taught myself to do. I read every word JT wrote that I could get my hands on. I studied it, I read about it, I remember writing in a journal why I liked it, how I liked it. And then I wrote my very first personal essay. It was, of course a hot mess, scrawled in a red glitter Wizard of Oz diary. It was a gory blow by blow about a terrible relationship-ish situation I’d found myself in.

I wrote it with gusto and terror. I wrote about how, as terrible as being abused was, I was happy to be wanted sometimes. My language was simplistic, I relied heavily on using vulgarity and explicit sex to hide my real emotions. It took me several weeks to write and I was so proud of myself when it was done. I typed it up on a computer at the library and printed it out, I read it in secret late at night alone and hid it deep inside my mountain of things.

Find it here. Feel free to throw claps or pass it along to friends who are down with Medium paywall.

That’s pretty much it for pub news.

In side hustle news. GOOD NEWS!! Patreon decided not to go ahead with the terrible fee schedule change. SO that means, Imma be expanding that shit.

More about that in my end of year wrap post later.

You can read some standalone Daiyuverse here at wattpad.

Um yeah. I think that’s all in the news you can use.

I have been grinding in the background, trying to get ready for large life changes. Writing like a motherfucker.

Hopefully before the end of the goddamn year I will finish my new pro website AND shit.

As usual I’m flailing into the future fully hype and terrified.

That’s it for now. Coming soonish, my end of year wrap up, some news and whatnots. And I’m gonna do one last giant link list so y’all, drop them links to your stuff in the comments.


Further Fuckitlist things and comforts.

Comforts first.

I really love audiobooks and stories. I have some faves y’all should know about.

First one right now I’m listening to one of my favorite voice talents read a story I have been into since it came out. Buried Eyes by Lavie Tidhar.  That swords n sorcery n guns n shit stuff is pretty awesome. You should buy all of Lavie Tidhar’s work cause it is really friggin good. The reader is Graeme Dunlop who has a lovely voice and is very emotive and really good.

Actually just dive in at the linked podcast site and find stuff.

Another fave is this story called Gig Marks from Pseudopod. Y’all it is so damn good I think of it all the time. I love a great ghost story and it is perfect.

In my backpack I have copies of Narrow River, Wide Sky: A Memoir by my beloved friend Jenny Forrester. Bukowski in a Sundress: Confessions from a Writing Life by Kim Addonizio.

All nice things I am enjoying.

What am I writing? I started a weird bird person story here’s a bite:

Mr. Peach White likes to walk with his wing just around my shoulders. He forgets how short my legs are compared to his and I must always adopt a rolling bird waddle to keep up with him. He speaks a mile a minute, informing me about the children, trouble in the local rookery, the gossip from the cranes who fly the river and return with mail and messages. He snorts and shakes his crest when we pass a seabird colony full of the howling of the gulls and cormorants.

“So you see, Mary of Brown skin, it must be quite impossible to make peace with these strange creatures. These odd drab birds that fly with misery from the north. What need of them, have we? Our city is a place of-” He stops talking, distracted by something or other and I catch my breath a bit. I would never deliberately slow him down, he is one of my regular customers, but I do appreciate it when something catches his eye. “Mary, Miss Mary of Brown Skin, look there.”

He points one white wing and I have to stand on tiptoe to follow the direction of his pointing. “Um, can you lower your wing a little bit please?” I sound like a mouse but, Mr. Peach White burbles an apology and lowers his wing so I can see over it. Across the river there was a dust cloud full of ruckus of some sort. Squawking, rough shouts from working laboror human humans. Mr. Peach White is notoriously and insatiably nosy, he gathers me under one wing and hustles me to the nearest weaverbird.

What the fuck is this? I don’t even know. Except that the end is gonna be kinda gory but romantic? I like the idea but why bird people? I find the idea so terrifying I can’t stand myself.

What else?

I’m working on this literary, memoir related, observational thing and I CANNOT for the life of me figure out how I want to write it and I’m getting on my own nerves. My first attempt started out way too academic, the second was closer ish but not there yet. My head is SO FUCKING FULL and I just….

I mean what if I could just reach in, give the ole brain sponge a squeezy squeeze and Voila essay falls out of my nose. Shit, at this point I’d take it if it dribbled out of my butt.

At least I feel like I’d be deeper into this fucking thing than I am. Can y’all tell I’ve about run out of patience?

I’ve mentioned my impatient studiousness but for fuck sake I JUST WANT TO WRITE THE SHIT ALREADY.

But I also kinda don’t because I’m not ready.

OH let us talk of shit I’ve kicked off my Fuckit List.

I wrote this review for ROAR. I feel very good about it. Read it.

I also sent a few like major swing for the fences pitches last week. Baby needs shoes and bylines.

I’m having one of those weeks when part of my fuckit list involves a big ass project that just seems like too much. I’d need:

  • Start up funding (I could likely contribute a bit but I’d need to crowdfund the rest and well…that doesn’t work for me)
  • To stop writing other projects/things for at least 3-4 months.
  • Help with reach from folks who haven’t shown up for me in the past.
  • Opportunity to work on this thing without worrying about how much it is costing me.

Today, I feel like these seemingly few things are never going to all align. I’m frustrated. I don’t -want- to have to make a whole business. I don’t want to work that as an extra full time job because, I’m not in a position to just leap and assume everything will be fine. I’m responsible for another human being staying clothed, housed and fed.

Also honestly, as I’m researching I’m just- I don’t want to. I don’t. I just want to make enough money in life to maybe not be triggered to fuck on payday, or be able to buy vegetables whenever I want some and maybe, MAYBE buy some fucking underwear without feeling guilty or otherwise fucking up my budget.

And no it isn’t that I don’t work. I work hard at maintaining the quality of life I have.

The super extra frustrating thing is I already fucking know that the path above, isn’t the one I goddamn want. I don’t want to try and run a business and write and live. I’m super extra tired of wanting to or needing to feel like I HAVE to try doing this in order to live and maybe come up a tiny bit.

I am not looking for some rags to riches come up thing.

I just want a bit less stress and maybe a nice place to live.

And maybe do some good and make a little coin.

But nah.

This post also brought to you by someone who thought it was helpful to tell me how much I don’t believe in myself or want a better life because I won’t not work my regular job for 6 months to MAYBE find a better position…like.

What the fuck good would coding or other certs do me if I lost my place to live or am unable to provide for my family?

When I asked if she’d like to pay my expenses she got angry and just kept giving me that be your own boss schtick like it is gospel and it pissed me off.

Okay I’m frustrated and upset and I’m gonna not do that for a while.

Yeah Write Entry #298- Desiderium For RG




Shannon Barber


I want.

I need.

Black wings, a flutter against my skull. I see you and can’t stop the thoughts. Is this mania? When I see the skin beneath your ear, all I can think about is how soft it is, how vulnerable. Teeth or blade? Kiss or bite? Predation. Lust.

Thoughts, bubbling like black water. Thoughts red and bloody.

I want.

I need.

Id rattling the bars. I am a shell.

A caress that precedes a slap, your hand around my throat. A threatening squeeze that echoes in my cunt.

I want.

I need.

My nails in your back, dragging skin until thin blood mixes with hot sweat.

Later, when we are spent, bruised and battered we will weep.

Drop salt tears on my breast, your cock hard again in my hand.

I am want.

I am need.

*I am longing for what is lost. 



I will craft nerd about this tomorrow and explain a thing. Also it is dedicated to and inspired by one of my Muses Remittance Girl.

Giving what I have right now.

I can’t be in so much pain and anger today.

That said, I’d like to share some beauty.

First up, please enjoy a little video of me reading my story The Beloved of Colel Cab you may need to crank the volume, my new phone isn’t the greatest for video but here you go. Feel free to share it, like it, subscribe to my youtube channel. I will have more lit vids coming.

If you’d like a copy to read or read along (I am working on a good transcript) click here it is available as a free post at my Patreon. 

I have some new self-care stuff coming. Emergency stuff.

I have a new piece of work a prose-poem thing on Ink Node.

I am very well and truly out of spoons and this is what I know how to do. This is what I can give to my community. Some things from my heart that might be a bit of a respite.

I also offer up the pieces on self-care I wrote a while back and put on Medium. Take them and share them if you know folks who need them. Here and Here.

Check this slipstream flash story. It’s a happy little thing.

And one more, a favorite story of mine. A little Queer Flash fiction love letter to my fellow Brown Femmes. Check the link for the story and an interview.

This is all I have right now. I’m so not okay I have nothin else.

When I have something, it’s yours.

Until then, take care of yourselves and each other and I love y’all.