Quirky or Cosmic: An Ode to Soft, Magic, Nerdy, Alternative Black Girls

FeaturedQuirky or Cosmic: An Ode to Soft, Magic, Nerdy, Alternative Black Girls

I often wonder why,

People do not like me,

You’re happiness offends me,

You challenge concepts,

You cannot be,”

And I wonder too,

What must they do,

When I weave roses through my hair and do,

A dance across the living room,

In rainbow crochet braids,

Or a violet afro hairdo,

And they say,

You can’t do these things

This can’t be you.

Too dark,

Too big,

Too tall,

Boohoo black girl,

Boohoo, that is all you’re good for,

That is all you should do,

Boohoo,

And I laugh,

Cause I’m the original petty,

Softer than a brown little teddy,

In my teddy,

Getting ready for a night out,

Or the lights out,

With the right mouth,

But I digress,

Because my happiness can show in every breath.

My sorrow raises seas,

My pain rattles the breeze,

My love topples mountains,

My wit so sharp I.Q takers are still counting,

And where I walk the ground splits open,

Head held high to do more than just coping,

The trees bare fruit and you hear satyrs on the lute,

And Yemaya and Oya and Hera,

And Mary,

And Maya,

Sing,

Because black freedom ain’t just one thing.

 

It’s cosmic tonic curing wounds,

And making them,

Giving breath,

And taking them,

Reading comics,

Writing poems,

Bedazzled in lisa frank,

Or leaving nothing to imagination,

But the bones.

Black girl magic to be caring and carefree,

A cosmic swimmer of femininity,

A cosmic start that’ll forever be,

Brown, black, and beautiful as an open smiling sea,

So what must those people think of me?

 

After all aren’t most people afraid of eternity?

 

*******

Being an alternative black girl in any way shape or form results in critics. It’s not us being over sensitive. It isn’t that we’re all lying, as some suggest. It’s the fact that people are afraid of black women. Across the world we’ve been through that which would break most, and we survive. Wounded and hurting, we survive. Men think they’re entitled to us, other men want to degrade us, and use excuses to justify their internalized racism. Women openly mock us while copying our hair, our nails, and the features that once landed black women in zoos and keeps so many from not being on magazines or billboards. We’ve been taught to hate each other and be suspect. The world has been taught to put us in a box, to keep us oppressed and control what the very concept of blackness is or should be.

And we laugh in their faces, and as more and more soft, original, punk, afro-centric, nerdy, geeky, brilliant, and beautifully soul’d black women support each other we’ll just laugh harder. We’re not black enough? I make my own blackness, and how dare they try to define it for me or anyone else. I’ll put color in my hair, I’ll read my comics, dress up as She-Hulk, write my stories, read about technology, date a white, date an asian boy, date whomever I please, and all the while I’m still black.

All the while I and all the other black girls who embrace themselves and their loves are still cosmic.

 

*Artist will be tagged on request…namely because google won’t back search

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Leading Questions: “I Love You, Lois Lane. Until The End of Time.”

A wonderful example of analysis of the hero and the importance of relationships.

Sequential Pictures

This article was originally published at Comics Bulletin on May 26, 2016.

Love - All-Star Superman #12

Every two weeks in a new installment of “Leading Questions”, the young, lantern jawed Mark Stack will ask Comics Bulletin’s very own Chase Magnett a question he must answer. However, Mark doesn’t plan on taking it easy on Chase. He’ll be setting him up with questions that are anything but fair and balanced to see how this once overconfident comics critic can make a cogent case for what another one obviously wants to hear.

So without any further ado…

Why are the best superhero comics love stories?

I just got out of The Lobster, which is arguably a love story. Love isn’t a genre of story though. I’m not sure what exactly you’d call it, maybe a mode or a goal? But I’m certain it’s not a genre. Romantic comedies aren’t a genre, they’re just a trope…

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Weighing Justice With a Jury of Her ‘Peers’

Weighing Justice With a Jury of Her ‘Peers’

This is such a visceral and potent piece. I highly reccomend you read it.

Longreads

Susana Morris | Longreads | September 2017 | 20 minutes (4,997 words)

I received the notice for jury duty with mild annoyance. I hoped I wouldn’t get picked as I put the date of the summons on my calendar. I thought about how jury duty would throw me off my work schedule; how I didn’t want to participate in this particular part of civic life in small town Alabama; how I didn’t want to help someone, probably another Black person, go to jail.

But I didn’t spend too much time worrying. It was summertime and the date, during a week in the middle of September, seemed an unpleasant blip on the road far ahead. I pushed it out of my mind and tried to enjoy the remaining pieces of a waning summer in my sleepy southern town.

Eventually the summer break gave way to the fall semester, though the weather…

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Fiction– hopefully one of many short stories inspired by my travels and work over the past few years dealing with themes like identity and cultural exchange

Source: Fiction– hopefully one of many short stories inspired by my travels and work over the past few years dealing with themes like identity and cultural exchange

A writer I know rather well with an enjoyable writing style has put out this awesome read, and I’m so excited to read him again. Go give a little love, why don’t you?

Reblog: The New Trend that Kills

…wherein this story gets a cliché title…

via Microfiction Monday #7: The New Trend Kills. — my Lit Corner

I highly reccomend that everyone try to incorporate reading three micro fictions a week. They’re quick ways to get your imagination engine running. For writers they’re amazing ways to learn and practice how to condense a story. For readers, especially of genre fiction, this gives you a quick potent fix of your favorite stories. We don’t always have time to sit down and read a whole chapter, needless to say a whole trilogy. Seeking out micro fiction can be a great way to get a wonderful story into your day’s schedule. They’re short enough for lunch breaks or coffee breaks. They’re great for when you just can’t concentrate on anything for long periods of time. Being mom or dad or gran, or babysitter means you do a lot of running around, but you just might be able to read a whole piece of micro fiction before someone needs their next cup of juice because they changed their mind about wanting the glass of milk you poured five minutes ago. By searching blogs for short fiction, or buying collections on kindle or nook you may find exciting new authors and stories that stick with you forever.

Trust me the right micro fiction by the right author is totally worth it!

Second Draft Share: The Hell I Burn Through (Chapter One: Part One)

Second Draft Share: The Hell I Burn Through (Chapter One: Part One)

Continuing with the Southern Gothic theme of the last post, here is the current opening of the novelette I mentioned, The Hell I Burn Through.

Chapter One: Part One

Incense mingled with the smell of soil, salt, roses, and graveyard dust, filling Sula’s nostrils, as She sat in the darkness of the parlor. She exhaled, holding her hands out over the water bowl in front of her with her eyes closed. She inhaled again, and got a strong whiff of the graveyard, mossy, yet almost like rotten thyme and cooked spinach. Maybe it was strange she’d come to like it, but growing up around goofer dust,taken from old cemeteries, had that effect on those who’d grown up in that world. Miss Faye hated that word, goofer. Apparently it sounded far too low country for her tastes. No matter what you called it, Sula found its comfort. Somehow it still didn’t feel like she could breathe the air, despite this being her element, her birthright. The tension in the house was already thick, and it felt all the thicker when Miss Faye gave her work. But that was simply what life in the house entailed, and always had.

In her mind, Sula saw the room as though her eyes were wide open. Sula knew which way the flame of each of the twenty seven white and black candles around the room flickered, and she knew what direction Miss Faye, in her ocean blue headscarf and yellow flowers chose to pace. She could see herself too, sitting at the little table at the center of the room with the bowl in front of her, the woven dime bag satchel of whatever bodily matter brought to use to the right of the bowl, and the burning incense in front of the bowl. The bowl held filtered rain water and her reflection, which was almost perfectly still due to the bowls construction. Supposedly, according to Miss Faye, it’d been a gift for Sula though Sula was only allowed to use it when Miss Faye asked. Some people called helping themselves a gift, Sula knew, and Miss Faye had always been one of those. Well, at least, as long as Sula had been alive. Sula peered directly at herself, and realized she still had some sleep dust in the corner of her eye and that if the shoulder of her blouse fell you could see where Miss Faye had taken a switch to her shoulder yesterday. The bruise was a deep purple against her brown skin.

If Sula couldn’t do what Miss Faye wanted today? Well, then she’d be in for a world of hurtin. She had to focus. She had to breathe. There was nowhere else. No one else. There was life and there was death. There were no borders except the ones she’d been taught, and she’d been taught to break them down to find the universal connections between past and present; here and there. Somewhere a distant ancestor’s breath matched her own. Somewhere a flower blossomed. Somewhere became everywhere, and Sula breathed. From the recesses of her mind her grandfather whispered “Let yourself fall,” and she, ever the obedient girl, slipped down into everything. Before her eyes, in the dark, glitter began to flicker and there came her target, Mr. Johnson. He was a kind man to children, and often gave Sula fresh fudge from his cart for free every Christmas, and whenever he’d been by to see Miss Faye. His bald held gleamed, his once muscular body stretched from a yawn so big his fifty year old round belly jiggled. Once upon a time Miss Faye had been crazy about him, but she’d been crazier about the social club Mrs. Johnson headed.

Sula was gonna miss that chocolate and gooey fudge.

**Chapter One Part One of Draft 2**
The Hell I Burn Through is a southern gothic of intriguing whimsy and fascination with the world of southern high society, african american conjure, mojo, sensuous affairs, innocent loves, and good down home  cooking. 

The Hell I burn Promo
The promotional cover! Coming this Fall to a Kindle near you.

The Launch of Murder at the Bijou by Teagan Riordain Geneviene — Fiction Favorites

Announcing the Launch of Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I Introducing the second “three things” serial, in novel form — Murder at the Bijou — Three Ingredients I. Yes, that’s the cover. (I love making covers!) I kept it similar to the one for the first serial, The Three Things Serial Story, but […]

via The Launch of Murder at the Bijou by Teagan Riordain Geneviene — Fiction Favorites

I found this a really interesting read, serials are so fun to experience.