Yeah Write Entry #298- Desiderium For RG

 

Desiderium*

by

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. 

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PS

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.

Yeah, Write #280- Meeting God

Meeting God

By Shannon Barber

CN murder, choking.

I remember everything. Her soft hands, the look in her big black eyes, the sound of my breath entering her- I remember every centimeter of her. Her hands closed around my throat, she whispered her love against my lips, I knew she was God. She guided me into the promise of love and immortality with those hands. I died gasping,gape mouthed and in love with God. As she kissed my last breath away, I entered her to live inside her sweet mouth forever.

I was never a religious person. I never prayed, I barely hoped. I only survived. There was never a need to pray  until she was on top of me.

There was no goodbye. There was only her hands and heaven inside her thieving mouth.

And finally-

Peace.

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The Goddess Cycle#2

Sekhmet

 

Them women raise hell. That’s what the bartender told me when she caught me giving a brick house butch the eye.

“You seem like a nice girl. Stay away from them, especially tonight.”

I nodded and thanked her. I found an empty back booth and posted up to watch. It wasn’t my town or my crew. I knew well enough that I was fresh meat and fresh meat causes problems. I have sense so I stay in my corner.

Two jukebox songs later, a beer appeared at my table, followed by a cat who sat in front of me meowing in my face.

“Well, you’re a pretty girl.”

The cat rubbed her face against mine and made herself comfortable laying half on the table and half on my tits. I stroked her back and felt her rusty purr.

“Just like back home.”

She murred at me and I murred right back at her. I do love my little sisters. More beers slid onto my table, the waitress leaned down to speak in my ear, her lean body radiated lust.

“These are all from Vic. The big bitch with the fade. Careful baby.”

She turned away and I lifted my mug to Vic, the same brick house butch I’d been eyeing earlier. I’d wait her out. I saw the narrowed eyes from a few other femmes in the room.

After another few beers Vic sauntered over and slid into my booth.

“Hello Victoria. Thank you for the beers.”

I watched her squirm and tilted my head. Outside there was ruckus going on, the sound of glass shattering. A red faced woman ran inside, her face streaked with tears.

“They fucked up my car.”

Victoria and I rose together and she grinned at me, I saw in her eyes that she knew me finally.

“To battle.”

I pounded the last of my beer.

“Hail unto me.”

We went into battle armed with bats and chains and blades. The fight as battles go was small but glorious. We drank the shrieks of pain as we would drink rich dark beer later. Those girls did indeed raise hell and I was the demon at the head of their pack.

In the grayness of dawn sated and my need for destruction softened to blunt hunger, I went on my way. My blessings had been given.

Look for me in the corner of your favorite bar and when you know my name, I will come.

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Yeah Write# 272 entry- The Goddess Cycle #1

The Goddess Cycle #1

Innana

by

Shannon Barber

When the sweet brown girls call, she comes. She weaves herself from their dreams and candles and incense smoke. The sweet brown girls know her when she moves into their circle. They call her Mother and Lover and General.

Her body made them feel good. Her pot belly and jiggling thighs and sagging breasts takes their breath and fear.

“H-hello sweet children.”

Their tongue feels strange on her lips, but she can manage a greeting. She understands their words, their language comes to her in song and prayers.

She dances with them, all naked and in love and free as wild weeds.

The girls know her names and respect the old dead tongue she knows intimately. She stops their dancing and settles each one to hear her prayers.

The first is lovely and shy, her cock lays half hard on her thigh and she lowers her eyes.

“What is your prayer?”

The girl murmurs,

“I want to be a Mother.”

She is blessed with the cupped palm of the Mother against her groin.

“Get your wife with child.”

The rest of the girl children ask for similar things. One wants to change her body to be fertile, another wants to grow her garden, another to be a nurse. Each gets her blessing until she gets to the last.

The last child does not sing nor does she grin. She stares at her Mother, her Lover and General, calls her with the scent of blood and need.

“Yes, Child?”

The girl has her fists clenched into tight little chubby brown balls and her body vibrates with rage.

“Mother, my Lover, my General. I want to fight. I want to go to war.”

“If you want to go to war child, can you name me?”

They stand up together and the child puts her fists on her wide hips.

“You are the Queen of Heaven.”

The Goddess nods.

“Louder.”

“You are the Daughter of  Sin and Ningal.”

“More.”

The girl’s heart thumps and she pounds her chest with one fist.

“You are she who descended into the underworld and returned. You are my Mother. You are my Lover. You are my General and we want blood.”

The Goddess howled and the divine light of war blazed from her eyes.

“My sweet child. Come, I will teach you the ways of war and the sacrifice of your enemies shall be my glory. Eli baltuti Ima’ ‘idu mituti.”

The naked girl  repeats the ancient words with pride.

” The Dead Will Be More Numerous Than The Living.”

The others cheer and rise, dancing again. Their ululations and sweat and love will carry their goddess and their sister into battle.

The other Gods look and see and smile.

Even old Delight of Frigg smiles at this new crop of prayers and songs.

“God Speed dear Innana. Goddess speed.”

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A Confession from your Problematic Fave

Y’all.

I have a terrible confession to make.

Most of my Yeah, Write entries have been not just funsies flash, but, I’ve been experimenting on your readers.

This has been a little bit of a long long con.

I’ve long held the theory that a lot of what makes us not read particular genres isn’t necessarily subject matter or levels of say gore or terror but, in how it is presented. I’ve known people who refuse REFUSE to read anything that looks even pulpy or horrory or romancey because EW I don’t read those genres.

My experiment has involved presenting the reader, you- a thing that is either snugly or loosely genre fiction.

I have given you noir, fabulism, horror, quiet horror, slipstream, Non Western style literary fiction etc.

This week for yeah, Write I presented Lovecrafty fiction. Specifically, it was the quietest of Nyalathotep stories. Folks liked it. A friend of mine asked if it was from my archive of ideas for short scripts.

I was trying to satisfy both the literary reader, the quiet horror and on another level the Lovecraft nerd.

Here is what I did.

One of the hallmarks of Lovecraft (racism and fuckery aside) is the language he used and the names of things. Working from both memory and some resources like this website, I took some of his favorite words and used them in modern contexts:

The Gibbering Loon.

Somewhere deep inside his antediluvian self,

ululations

The next Lovecrafty clue was in how I referred to the mysterious Vivian.

When he lifts his face to look into her eyes, he sees, he sees the secrets of the Sleeping, Dreaming Gods and the black notice of the Outer Gods.

References Lovecraft fans know well.

I also decided to make her unmistakably Black. I have had an ambition to use Blackness in these Lovecrafty stories in a way that heals that particular wound for my inner baby nerd.

And Vivian herself tells us who she is:

“See inside me, I am the Crawling Chaos. I am reborn. Be mine, Detective St. Pierre.”

We Lovecraft dorks know what the Crawling Chaos is without having to invoke the name Nyarlathotep.

What interests me more, is that folks who I know aren’t necessarily Lovecraft dorks, got the terror.

Folks from Yeah, Write and some others I’ve spoken to have not totally understood, but y’all understand without the need for the genre restrictions that might make your eye as a reader skip it because, horror.

I have always believed that how we’re presented with things matters deeply, perhaps more deeply than a lot of folks like to think of themselves, as to how we take in and appreciate a thing.

As a reader, this is just human nature. I don’t think it is good or bad, it just is. And we can recognize it and make the decision to do something else. Read POC, do the year of no cis hetero White male authors.

As a creator, I’ve found that because this is where I live. In these inbetween places. In a place where I just write the shit. Trying to squirm around the constraints of genre work, has played a huge role in my development as a writer.

On one hand it does make it harder to get published sometimes.

On the other, I get to engage in Quiet Horror and sneak into your brain or your bed and live there for a bit.

Ultimately, as an artist the latter is far more satisfying to me personally.

It feels better for longer when someone says, I was thinking about this thing you made for three days.

I also get the satisfaction of representing what I’d like to read.

I get to fully plumb the depths of my own brain without worry or feeling like because I am writing X genre, I must do X thing.

I’m considering my experiment to be successful.

I am writing what the fuck I want to write.

Sometimes I have readers who feel it.

Sometimes I have readers who are like, I don’t know what the fuck is happening, but I’me with it.

I’m into it.

So now that you know what I’ve been doing, I hope you come back to see where else I go.

Thanks y’all.

Thank you for helping me get to this place, I’m eternally changed and grateful.

I was going to do a shout out list, but it got too long. Y’all know who you are.

 

 

 

Yeah, Write #269- A Rookie No More

A Rookie No More

by

Shannon Barber

“The fuck is this?”

One of the two men frowns, the other smiles and leans over to kiss the smooth brown cheek of the Black woman sitting on a pussy pink couch.

“Viv, this is my new partner, Detective Nathanial St. Pierre. Nate this is Vivian.”

Nate offers his hand and Viv offers hers ready to be kissed. He does so and shifts uncomfortably. Something about her big eyes and accent he can’t place makes him uncomfortable.

“What you want? I have shit to do. Drinks?”

Both men shake their heads.

“No thank you mi amor. I need your skills and the rookie needs to learn. Usual fee, we’ll meet you at The Gibbering Loon.”

Viv looks up at Nate, her large eyes unblinking, Nate resists squirming barely. She smiles and dismisses them with a wave.

In the car Nate starts bitching right away.

“Man Martinez, this bitch better be worth it. Something is wrong with her. She some kind of strawberry? And tonight? What is the Gib-“

Martinez chuckles.

“Shut up. Just be ready. I’ll pick you up at 9 and wear black. We gotta look nice to be out with Vivian. Don’t fuck this up with your bullshit. Now let’s get lunch.”

Martinez dresses carefully, black linen long sleeveless tunic over butter soft leather. While he lotions his big brown, heavily tattooed arms, he imagines Vivian stroking his skin with her long soft  fingers, can almost hear her huge deep laugh. He drapes himself in her favorite medallions. There are four each with a likeness of her in various forms. Yes, he feels fine.

Nate is not so careful. He pulls on a pair of black pants and a slightly too small black button up leftover from his waiter days. He waits for his partner, storing up his gripes. He hates being subordinate to Martinez. He’s so smooth with his whole Latin lover schtick.

Martinez arrives driving his matte black 300 and Nate hates him more.

“Well, I guess you tried.”

“Fuck you. What are you trying to be?” You look like Fuckin Blade.”

Martinez laughs and pulls away from the curb, he says nothing else.

The Gibbering Loon is the kind of place you wonder about when you drive by. The black facade is plain and almost seems to brood. At night it comes alive, beautiful and strange people ease in and out past a single black door.

Inside two headed bats and faceless sphinxes hold court from the walls and corners, Nate stands, nakedly gaping at everything.

“Listen, I worked hard to cultivate this. Don’t fuck it up, rookie.”

Nate can’t understand how he hears Martinez’s words above the din of laughter and music. Somewhere deep inside his antediluvian self, some unutterable terror rears itself up and cackles and makes great ululations of protest. The fear pops a sweat along his bald head, he wants to run.

 A few drinks in and Nate is outside of his body and fear. His mouth smiles and when he sees Martinez fall to his knees he follows suit. Vivian emerges from deep shadows clad in yellow silk and clearly naked beneath the thin fabric.

Nate feels his body rise, he feels it walk towards her open arms and lay his cheek against her dark breast. When he lifts his face to look into her eyes, he sees, he sees the secrets of the Sleeping, Dreaming Gods and the black notice of the Outer Gods. He understands.

She holds him softly and whispers in his ear.

“See inside me, I am the Crawling Chaos. I am reborn. Be mine, Detective St. Pierre.”

Nate breathes in the tenebrous darkness of her, he is hers.

She leaves him and Martinez is there, grinning his smooth grin.

“Somos hermanos. Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”

Detective St. Pierre nods.

“Somos hermanos. Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”

###

Yeah Write #266- Beautiful Pit Vipers

Beautiful Pit Vipers

Through the blood of my Mother I am Thai. I have her round moon face and nasty disposition. My Father gave me his dark brown skin and gap toothed smile. I wish I was sweet like him, back home, he always greeted every other Black man he saw with arms wide open, a big smile and a “hey brotha, how you doin?”

Everybody loved my Daddy. Even them boys, the ones who hung out drinking tall boys all day. When something good happened to them, my Daddy was the first person they told.

My Mama on the other hand. Most everyone in our neighborhood gave her a wide berth. Daddy always said we were his jungle vipers. His brown spotted green pit vipers, nocturnal and deadly. He never knew about The World, even when it came for him. He only knew that my Mama taught me to fight the way she learned to fight.

Mama taught me the same Muay Thai she learned. Hours outside kicking saplings, Mama with me at the gym barking at me,

“Elbow, like axe! BOOM! CHOP! KNEE KNEE KNEE!”

At home, she would wait until Daddy left for work or just elsewhere, and we would sit together in our training area in the basement. We sat cross legged on the cold floor, knees to knees, eyes to eyes. She taught me the ways and hows of The World. She hypnotized me with her low voice.

“We do not give quarter. We are made for bringing death. We will protect the Innocent, like your Daddy. Okay?”

I always said yes ma’am. Or screamed wild as any beautiful pit viper should, “YES MAMA!”

Now I’m alone.

I’m sitting in the basement of my parents house with their ashes cradled in my arms and tears streaming down my face.

The World took them.

For that there is no forgiveness, I will take no quarter.

The World will learn.

I get my shit together and stop crying over their ashes. I get the house closed up tight, mirrors covered, furniture sent to neighbors and friends. I get my weapons and head out into the night to find a Door and walk out of the world until The World bleeds, as I shed tears.

The world will forget us. The World will wish it could.

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