Cosmic Storm has arrived …

Our Bloodline Has Returned … Queen your essence, the frequency of your electrical powers, charges me up when it’s the perfect moment to intercourse the
canal to your inner core—to the path that leads to your very soul. Heavenly stars begin to fall, even the moon turns blood red …

Poet and artist Quinton Veal has returned and he’s bringing the fire! Cosmic Storm is a delicious medley of erotica, Afrofuturism and romance, guaranteed to satisfy the reader’s mind, body and soul. Get swept up in Quinton’s Cosmic Storm.

Purchase at Smashwords

Purchase at Barnes & Noble Cosmic storm preorder

Are you ready to Slay?

Mocha Memoirs Press is proud to present SLAY: Stories of the Vampire Noire — a revolutionary anthology celebrating vampires of the African Diaspora. SLAY is a groundbreaking unique collection and will be a must-have for vampire lovers all over the world. SLAY aims to be the first anthology of its kind. Featuring anchor stories by award winning authors Sheree Renee Thomas, Craig L. Gidney, Milton Davis, Jessica Cage, Michele Tracy Berger, Alicia McCalla, Jeff Carroll, and Steven Van Patten.

Additional Contributing Authors: Penelope Flynn, Lynette Hoag, Steve Van Samson, Ekpeki Oghenechovwe Donald, Balogun Ojetade, Valjeanne Jeffers, Samantha Bryant, Vonnie Winslow Crist, Miranda J. Riley, K.R.S. McEntire, Alledria Hurt, Kai Leakes, John Linwood Grant, Sumiko Saulson, Dicey Grenor, Lisa Woods, LH Moore, Delizhia D. Jenkins, Colin Cloud Dance, and V.G. Harrison.

Preorder your copy today!Slay


A Writer’s Musings

“And shards of gold flecked violet split the air with sound and fury! With laughter love and tears I pressed my lips to these spirits and freed them to walk across the page,”
–First Breath, Valjeanne Jeffers

What is it that drives our characters? Their humanity. And this is more important than their preternatural powers. Their strength. Or what they look like. It even takes precedence over the wondrous plots we, as writers, devise–that our characters are human and driven by the same emotions and quests that drive us as writers, and which drive our readers– even if they are sociopaths or mad men. The need for love, shelter, money. The emotions of desire, rage, melancholy. . .

The same qualities that make us, the writers and our readers, identify with them and love them. Or hate them.

I have created characters so loathsome that I couldn’t wait to kill them off. Others I loved so much, I used all sorts of plot machinations to keep them alive. Our characters are spirits who walk across the page: women and men who mirror our struggles.

I hope I’ve done justice to my characters. I hope my readers will be pleased.

Speaking in Tongues

Speaking in Tongues

You don’t speak for me
You can forgive. You can absolve.
You can embrace oppression
kiss the ropes that choke
and strangle, lick the boot
that crushes your windpipe
That’s your choice

But you don’t speak for my ancestors
whose rage boils in my veins
you don’t speak for the collective unconscious
of black folks
for the trauma inherited by millions
for nightmares of the lash that tears my flesh

you don’t speak for those who
threw themselves from slave ships
rather than face bondage
for the bodies torn, defiled,
bloodied, raped
burned, their body parts traded
off like party favors
Their torture recorded for posterity

You don’t speak for black folks whose
lives have forever been silenced
by a pig’s bullets,

For my body, my pain, my tears,
my rage

My voice, my voice, my voice

You. Don’t. Speak. For. Me

–Valjeanne Jeffers

San Francisco has an anti-Blackness problem

Sumiko Saulson

San Francisco’s Black population reduced by more than 50% to 6.1% from 12.7% between 1980 and 2010. In 2016 the Black population was only 5.7  Comparatively, 13.4% of the National United States population is Black.

37% of San Francisco’s homeless population are Black.  My family and I were homeless in San Francisco in late 2005 and early 2006, before we like so many Black families moved out of the City. We moved up to Vallejo, where my brother Scott still lives. My mom moved to Berkeley in 2013 where she lived out the remainder of her life. I have lived in Oakland since 2010. My brother’s older daughter moved back to San Francisco in 2011.

Black people are 7.75 as likely to be arrested in San Francisco as white people. Black women, 5.8% of San Francisco’s female population, represent 45% of the women arrested in that City.

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A Steamfunk tale
by Valjeanne Jeffers

Copyright Valjeanne Jeffers 2013,
all rights reserved

Other titles by Valjeanne Jeffers
Immortal II: The Time of Legend
Immortal III: Stealer of Souls
Immortal IV: Collision of Worlds
The Switch II: Clockwork (includes Books I and II)
Grandmere’s Secret
The Visitor
Colony: A Space Opera
Mona Livelong Paranormal Detective
Colony: Ascension

On the island of Saint-Domingue, in the dead of night, thousands of slaves crept silently along the path through the trees and wiry brush to Bois Caïman. In the clearing the Houngan Dutty Boukman, a huge, self-educated slave with a fierce countenance, and Mambo Cecile Fatiman, a mulatto slave woman, waited to led them in ceremony. They petitioned the Loa for protection, for deliverance from slavery’s lash—calling upon the darkest spirits of their Ancestors to help them in their battle.

They prayed for freedom.

“Bon Dje nou an ki si bon, ki si jis, li ordone vanjans!” Dutty shouted. “Se li kap kondui branou pou nou ranpote la viktwa! Se li kap ba nou asistans. . .! Koute vwa la libète kap chante lan kè nou!”
“Our God, who is so good, so just, He orders us to revenge our wrongs! It’s He who will direct our arms and bring us the victory! It’s He who will assist us. . .! Listen to the voice for liberty that sings in all our hearts!”

There was a clap of thunder. . . lightning flashed in the dark sky. A swirling rush of wind stirred the trees.

Cecile’s green eyes rolled back in her head. Enraptured she began to dance wildly. She’d been possessed by the Erzulie Seven Kout Kouto—the most deadly embodiment of the Loa, Erzulie Dantor. She sang and the slaves—beating upon the drums in rage—sang with her:

“Seven kout kouto, seven kout ponya
Prete mwen ganmèl lan pou mwen al vomi san
Prete mwen ganmèl lan pou mwen al vomi san
San mwen ape koule!”
“Seven stabbings of knives, seven stabbings of daggers
Lend me the ganmèl, so I can vomit blood
Lend me the ganmèl, so I can vomit blood
My blood is running!”

Seven days later Dutty led his people in revolt against their slave masters. . .burning plantations to the ground. For this rebellion, he was captured and beheaded by the French; his head was publicly displayed with a placard reading: “Boukman, Chef des Revolutions des Escalves,” Boukman, Chief of the Slaves Revolution. The French thought killing Dutty Boukman would frighten the Black slaves— thus halting the tide of revolution.

But the fires of liberation Dutty and Cecile ignited were not the first, nor would they be the last.


Monique, a tall, young woman with chocolate-colored skin, a long face, and slender build, made her way through the tall brass structures of Saint-Domingue, past red flowering Hibiscus blooms toward the fields. She was dressed in a wrapped skirt and bustier, her braided hair coiled in twisted beads atop her head. She wore a brass-handled musket on a holster about her waist. A grip of interwoven cloth and metal, encased her fingers and entire arm up to her shoulder to minify kickback from her pistol. She carried a water flask in one hand and her breakfast of a partially-eaten boiled plantain in the other.

She stopped at a well on the outskirts of her township. Monique finished the last of the plantain in one bite, and dropped the peel in the cloth trash-bag beside the well: a conveyer belt made of cloth and woven wire. Half the belt lay above the soil; the rest, on her left and right, was buried underground. Monique knelt before the clunky machinery attached to two metal legs above the conveyor belt. She turned the crank, the belt jerked and scuttled forward: carrying copper vases full of water, screwed to caps on its underside.

Monique twisted one of the vases off, filled her flask and turned it up her full lips: drinking deeply. She poured more water into the flask, and reattached the water vase back onto the belt. Refreshed and ready, the young woman made her way to the field on the edge of town. There she found thousands of men and women, aged sixteen to sixty, preparing for tomorrow.

When they would go to war with France.

After Dutty’s rebellion, General Toussaint L’Ouverture had led a revolution from the island of Saint-Domingue—allying himself with Napoleon to end bondage in his homeland. Now, ten years later, the mad French emperor had made a clandestine deal with plantation owners to enslave them once more.

Napoleon had promised Toussaint and the island of Saint-Domingue that bondage was forever ended on their island. But, he secretly supported the white planters’ greed—their greed for wealth earned on the backs and from the blood of slaves. He sympathized with their loss of financial gain from the cane, coffee and cocoa plantations.

So the Emperor betrayed his promise. He didn’t care that slaves were treated worse than dogs, that they were not paid for their back-breaking labor, that the lash and torture was used to keep them submissive.

Napoleon would attack at dawn. They would be waiting for him. . .beside their brass cabins, in the tall grass and in the fields.

Monique merged with the crowd of warriors on the field, wearing embroidered grips like hers on their shoulders. “Bonjour. . .” she greeted them and a volley of salutations greeted her in return. She saw women, who had fought under Toussaint, moving through their ranks, offering tutelage and support. These women were among his most trusted generals and would fight alongside him, helping him lead the Saint-Domingue warriors to victory.

She pulled her musket from its sheath and began practicing with them: aiming the revolving muskets with brass grips. She aimed and fired at a clay target blowing the figurine to bits. The muskets had three barrels that rotated and fired. Other warriors were practicing with copper-bayoneted rifles that fired bullets and, if the solider run out of ammunition, the bayonet as well.

There were also those perfecting their use of the whirling-bird machetes: a brass and copper rendition of the Black-capped Petrel bird. These men and women wore gloves made of heavy cloth, interwoven with pounded-brass to protect their fingers, as well as top hats with scopes to enhance their sight and track their birds’ flight. Directions were dialed on the Petrel bird’s belly. Once aimed and fired the whirling-bird flew to the target, and transformed into a deadly machete.

During the first war, President Toussaint had contacted the Black American scientist Benjamin Banneker to help him in his fight against Napoleon. All of the weapons were Banneker’s ingenious inventions.

The airships too were of Banneker’s wondrous design— and powered by both science and sorcery. The ships were cylinder shaped and overlaid with a metal filigreed. A propeller at the stern had a crank that would be turned by human hands. Carved flaps on the port and starboard sides enhanced their buoyancy, as did the steam-filled cigar shaped balloon above it.

Monique paused in her drill for a moment, gazing at the ships. She’d always found an excuse to be near them. She would scrub the port and starboard or, if she was denied this pleasure, pick vegetables in their shadow. Once Monique had crept up a ladder onto the deck to peek through one of the round windows at the ships interior. She still remembered the gleaming buttons and stern.

This treat had earned her a switching from her mother, Isabelle. Women were strictly forbidden from operating ships or gazing at their interiors. The village elders had reasoned, and rightly so, that if women engaged in these activities it might led to dissatisfaction with their own lives.

Women were expected to work the fields with men, and to fight alongside them in the battlefield. This was as it should be.

But the bulk of the domestic responsibilities also fell on female shoulders; such as caring for children, cooking and housekeeping. Monique had no children of her own, although she was twenty and one years. Still she was required to help other women care for their young, in provision for the coming day when she would become a mother herself.

The day she whipped Monique, Isabelle told her daughter she had plans for her which didn’t include piloting an airship. “We worked hard enough when we was slaves, n’est-ce pas? We, women had it the worst!” Isabelle spat. “The white slavers took our children— took us if they had a mind too. They’d rape us right in front of our men. Just for sport. My man, your father, he was killed by slavers.”

“Now, we free to be women. We free to care for our own children. Our own men.” She cupped Monique’s chin in her small hand. “That’s what I want for you, cherie mwen. A husband. Children.” Her eyes hardened suddenly. “And if I ever see you look a woman the wrong way— if I ever see that—I’ll cut your eyes out myself.”

Monique couldn’t say for sure what had prompted her mother’s threat. But she suspected it was because she’d never shown any interest in men. Isabelle was no fool.

She tore her eyes away from the airships and pulled her weapon from her holster. She took aim at her target, a clay figurine. All at once, elation and longing swirling about in her bosom. She looked forward to the dawn, looked forward to hiding in wait for the French—surprising them, when they thought the island would be sleeping.

And what comes, what must come, afterward. I must have her.

The young woman’s eyes found her lover, Simone, standing only a yard away—Simone with her dark skin, wide laughing mouth, large eyes, small breasts and rounded hips; Simone who could dance better and shoot better than anyone she knew: male or female.

Simone felt her lover’s gaze travel down her body and looked over her shoulder. Their eyes met and Monique found it suddenly hard to breathe. Desire like molten honey flowed from her breasts to her pelvis. She tore her brown eyes away, lest the love that burned within them be revealed to her fellow warriors.


The people made their way to the Hounfour. They had spent days in preparation for the ceremony, when they would petition the Lwa once more for victory over the slave masters.

Monique had scrubbed her body clean and wore a head wrap and skirt. The young woman thought of her offering: rose perfume bought with her last money and the sweet potato cakes she’d baked to petition Loa Erzulie Freda.

But will it be enough? Will she answer my prayers?

She watched the Houngan trace the crossroad in the air, the crossroad where all spiritual energy met. This, she knew was in preparation for the Loa, Papa Legba’s, entrance. Everyone had already laid their offerings on the altar. . . rum, tobacco, perfumes, machetes. . . Monique’s offering of among them.

Songs were sung first in French; then a litany was sung in African and Creole. Behind her, young women holding candles danced. Along the walls men beat the drums with brass sticks.

The dance began.

A young man twisted into their midst. . . his face and contortions enraptured, his eyes rolling back in his head. The drums accentuated his movements as he skillfully spun with leaps and pirouette. He shuddered and dropped to his knees. . . his torso shaking back and forth in rhythm to the drums.

He rose slowly and they offered him his cane, straw hat and pipe. For he was now being ridden by Papa Legba: the honored one who is called before all others and is always the last to leave.

Papa Legba, the one who stands at the crossroads of life and death.

Minutes later, another older man gyrated violently in their midst: his face both enraptured and angry. He snatched the machete from the altar and began thrusting it in the air in quick, short jabs. The acolytes stepped back to give him room, rejoicing in their hearts, for they knew that Papa Ogun—a Loa of war— was now among them.

The French dogs will fail! We will not return to chains, non!

The Lwa spoke in a growling, rumbling voice: “Gren mwe fret!” My testicles are cold! The ancient demand for rum.

The Houngan snatched rum from the altar, poured it on to the ground and struck a match to it. . . they watched in awe as Ogun washed his hands in the fire without his flesh being burned. More Lwa flew among them possessing their favored. . . riding their human horses.

Moments later, Monique felt her coming. All anxiety and worry vanished. A cool breeze pervaded her spirit. . . For Erzulie was not only a fierce and warlike Loa, but one of love.

All love—not just that of a man and woman, n’est-ce pas? Monique’s eyes rolled back in her head. As Erzulie Dantor possessed her, she wept and danced. . .


Monique fired: hitting a French soldier in the head. Next to her, a warrior dialed and aimed his whirling-bird. The mechanical bird flew straight at a Frenchman chopping and hacking at the doomed man’s arms. . . Every able-bodied man and woman on the island was here—fighting on the field. Those that couldn’t fight were behind the battlements pouring metal into bullet molds.

Napoleon’s forces outnumbered them and the emperor had brought his own airships: huge, cigar shaped vessels, with sails billowing on the port and starboard, and conical balloons above them.

Monique risked a glance at the Mambo, Cecile Fatiman, standing before Saint-Domingue airships, chanting. Bullets whistled past the Mambo’s head but she paid them no mind.

Thunder rumbled, the balloons filled with air and the ships rose, their curling flaps creating wind, the airships’ propellers twisting the red and yellow Hibiscus blossoms beside them. Sailors at the airships’ helm steered them to attack—firing upon the French with triple brass muskets. Other men, wearing goggles and vests, fired with rifles from the stern, their muscles glinting in the sun.

Cecile watched calmly as the larger French ships laid siege to the Saint-Domingue vessels with cannons. In the air, as on the ground, the Black warriors were heavily outnumbered. Now the Voudon priestess spoke her final mantra. . . Amber shadows rose from inside the hull of ships twisted free—the vengeful ghosts of slaves, mutilated and tortured to death. The spirits flew toward the French transforming into four-armed bat-like creatures. They covered their enemies biting and clawing, attached themselves to the enemies’ hull pulling the crafts apart, as the men screamed. . .

On the ground, scores of French soldiers lay dead or dying. Napoleon’s forces fell back retreating before bellowing, Black warriors.

The ancestors are with us!

The celebration that night was unlike any before. General Toussaint L’Ouverture declared their country the free Republic of Haiti!


Amid the screaming and shouts of victory, Monique caught Simone’s eye in the crowd. A slow smile lit her face and Monique nodded. The two women slipped away to a waterfall beneath the rocks: the sanctuary where they had first declared their love.

“Ou fè m fou pou ou,” You make me crazy for you, Monique whispered.

“Ou se lanmou kè m,” You are the love of my heart, came Simone’s breathless reply.

They shared a kiss, coming together in tender, hot embrace. . . their touch like butterflies, as they undressed one another and sank to the wet rocks in a symmetry of desire and surrender. An hour later they curled up together and slept.


Simone was screaming. The sound thrust Monique into awareness. Someone was shouting: “Demeplè! Unnatural!”

The women were being beaten and kicked. A blow to Monique’s head knocked her unconscious.
The next few weeks were a nightmare. Monique and Simone were beaten again and confined to separate cages at the edge of town beneath the rocks, while the town elders debated her fate. Many said they should be killed. But finally an agreement was reached.

The women would be imprisoned for six weeks. Simone was shipped away to relatives living on a remote part of the Island to serve out her sentence. They would never see other again.


Monique watched the airships ready for take-off through the bars of her cage, hanging beneath the cliff. She still bore a black eye—the latest bruise from her mother. Only this time she’d fought back: punching and scratching. She’d done no more than was needed to fend Isabelle off and stop her beating. Still, two more weeks were added to her sentence.

Longing pierced her soul, as she gazed at the puffs of steam streaming from the ships on their way to patrol, and the wooden wings flapping. Suddenly, the first one was airborne—flying past the slender rocks that separated the triangular stacks of boulders at the edge of her village. The sound of palms on drum-skins beat in refrain to the ships’ wings, as if the drums were were the reason they could fly.

One. . . two. . . three and now they soared into the distance. Monique stared at them until they were lost to her gaze. She gripped the bars of the cage. Suspending prisoners outside during the day, and letting them return home at night, was supposed to be a kinder punishment than perpetually confining captives indoors.

I’m still a prisoner. Being outside just makes it worse.

The rumbling of her belly and the shaking of her cage let her know it was time to eat. In the next moment, two women hoisted her cage up from under the rock and shifted it to the ground. Their narrowed eyes and pursed lips revealed what they thought of her.

The strange one who lusts for the flesh of her sisters. The bad daughter who beats her own mother.

One of the women reached into the folds of her dress and produced a skeleton key. A few moments later her dearest friend, Angelique, sauntered over. She was a plump young woman, with her skin the color of ripe bananas and a thick head of hair. She carried a basket and there was a blanket under her arm. The delectable smell of diri kole ak pwa, brown rice with red kidney beans topped off with red snapper, tomatoes and onions, drifted toward her.

She smiled, her teeth flashing against her cafe au lait skin. “Let’s find somewhere nice to eat.”
Angelique was a mulatto Affranchis: a wealthy descendent of the union between slave owner and slaves. Birth determined the Affranchis social position, and intermarriage between them solidified this caste solidarity. Some of them had even owned slaves, before General Toussaint had emancipated all living in Saint-Domingue.

Angelique knew how the ships were put together, what made them tick and she could fly. So she said. She and Monique’s mutual interest in airships had brought them together and they’d quickly become friends—in spite of their dissimilar backgrounds. How she’d come by her knowledge of airships was mystery. But she’d shared all she knew with Monique and swore her to secrecy.

She was also in love with John, the dark-skinned son of former slaves. Because of his social status Angelique’s parents, who followed the old ways of class solidarity, had forbade any courtship between their daughter and John. Tradition meant she must obey her parents’ wishes or suffer the same fate as Monique.

“But I’m going to marry him anyway,” she’d whispered. “See if I don’t.”

Monique secretly thought Angelique made half of her stories up, although she never said so. Still, she tells pretty tales, non?

Monique followed her past the cottages to a meadow, took the blanket from her friend and spread it on the grass. “If you don’t stop being so nice to me, they’re going to get someone else to bring me lunch.”

The young women sat down, unpacked the food and began to eat. “I bet you wish now you’d just taken the punch instead of fighting back, eh?” Angelique said, her sympathetic eyes belying the coldness of her words. “Next time will be probably worst you know. Isabelle has always been ill-tempered. She’s so angry with you. She had her heart set on grandchildren.”

Monique frowned. “I can’t help the way I am. Just like you can’t help loving John. . . Your parents will never let you marry him. They’re going to pick out a man for you.”

Her best friend grinned slyly. “So they believe.”

“What does that mean?”

Angelique bit into a piece of fish and didn’t answer. For awhile they ate in silence.

“Do you miss Simone much?”

Monique’s eyes filled with tears. “Wi. . . It is an ache.”

“So you love her?”


“What is it like. . . loving a woman?” Although they’d been best friends for years, they never discussed this.

Monique shrugged. “Like your love for John, I suppose. For me, it is as natural as breathing.”

“Well, perhaps after tonight you will met another woman and fall in love.”

“Loving someone, whether man or woman, is not like picking vases from the well. If one is empty, you just pick another one, n’est-ce pas? Love is not like that. . . What makes tonight so different?”

“Stay awake and find out.”

Monique shook her head. “I can’t go fishing. I need my sleep.”

“Who said anything about fishing? You must pack a bag and stay awake.”

“Poukisa wap fè sa? What are you up to?”

Angelique laughed like a child but would say no more.

Monique gazed at her friend with exasperation and affection on her brown face. “Why do I always listen to you?”

“Because I’m your best friend! Who else would you listen to?”
At that moment, two women plopped on the grass to their right, close enough to hear what the friends were saying. They fell silent and finished eating.


Monique sat in bed beside her window, trying to keep her eyes open. Tomorrow during the chilly dawn, her jailers would drag her out of bed to put her in the cage. Yet instead of sleeping, one of her few refuges, she sat waiting. For what?

Just when she’d resolve to wrap up in a blanket and surrender to sleep, a soft cooing sound echoed outside her window. She knew the sound well. It was she and Angelique’s code signal, for whenever they decided to sneak away.

“Grab your bag and climb out!” Angelique hissed. “Do it! And hurry up!”

Monique snatched up her cloth bag and climbed out of the window. “Now what?”

Her wild-eyed friend grinned. “Now we fly!” Grabbing Monique’s hand before she could protest, she half-dragged, half-led her to the forest beyond her hut.

“Have gone insane?”

“Shh!” Angelique cautioned her again.

Through the forest hidden under the brush was an airship. The green balloon over it added to the camouflage. It was crudely built without the intricate carvings of Haitian ships, but looked to be in working order.

“But how?”

John’s mahogany face appeared at starboard side and waved them up.

“We can’t do this!” Monique protested. “If they catch us they’ll kill us!”

“Do you want to spend the rest of your life in a cage?” Angelique shot back. “Come on!” She clamored up the ladder with her friend at her heels.

“We can’t fly this thing!” Monique protested, all the while clambering the ladder onto the deck.

“Yes we can,” John said proudly. “I built her and Angelique can fly as well as I can!” So she was telling the truth!

“I’m a ship captain! But I can’t marry the woman I love, because I have no money—and the color of my skin!” All the while he and Angelique were hoisting the sails.

Monique followed them inside to the helm; burning with excitement in spite of herself. She never actually walked inside an airship. In the center of the deck, was concentric hatch directly below the gathered edges of the balloon. Angelique opened the hatch to reveal a box of copper and brass, and another hole in its center, and depressions on either side.

She pumped the depressions and steam flowed from the box filling the balloon, while Monique and John began turning the cranks on the propellers and flaps. The ship began to rise, and Monique thought her heart would burst with joy.

“Here we go!” John shouted. The ships wings flapped, the propeller whirled, tearing and blowing the foliage and lifted from the ground.

The airship sputtered forward. “Give her more steam and turn the propellers faster!” The women grunted turning the propeller faster. “Angelique trade places with me!” Angelique took the helm, as he and Monique turned the propellers. The airship picked up speed.

The mulatto woman grinned. “My parents thought they could marry me off to an old man. Won’t they be surprised?”

“Where will we go?” Monique asked.

“There’s an island across the ocean, Santo Domingo,” said John. “Haiti’s armies freed the slaves there too.”

The glory of a parvenu life thrust upon her was slowly taking hold. She was free—free of her mother. Free of a lifetime of cages. Free to love who she chose. The Loa Erzulie had answered her prayers after all!

But Simone was still lost to her. A weight of sadness pressed against the walls of her new-found liberation. And there were other doubts as well. “What if they don’t want us there? How do we know it will be any better—?”

A shadow crept from the helm, jerking Monique away from her objections—amber-colored ghosts that instantly became creatures with the head of a bat and four arms.

“It’s Madam Cecile’s sorcery!” John shouted. “We must have been spotted!”

More shades reared up at them, claws ready. They paused, clearly confused. The three friends were most certainly not French soldiers. The ghosts turned away and attacked the airship dash in earnest— ripping and tearing.

Another one zoomed over their heads and struck the helm and it exploded in flames. They screamed—trying to fight the creatures off and fly the ship at the same time. They began losing altitude. The ship was sinking.

Below them, a thick, wavering mist blocked their path. The friends eyes were drawn to it. . . they could see images dancing within the fog. . . dancing to the beat of drums that suddenly echoed in the night about them. A cooling breeze wafted toward them . . . One image came into focus. . .

The Loa, Erzulie.

Their terror vanished.

Without another thought they flew into the fog.

And out the other side.

The flames snuffed out and the turbulence of the airship dissipated out as they flew out of the nosedive. “Let’s land there!” Monique shouted, pointing to the beach below. As the three friends coasted into a smooth descent, their eyes widened. They recognized the Haitian shoreline.

“We never left home!” John exclaimed.

“Wait a minute,” Angelique said slowly. “When we left Haiti it was midnight. Look at the sky!” A bright noonday sun beamed downed on them.

They stared at the turquoise blue waters, as if the ocean held answers. “This cannot be,” John breathed. “Have we traveled backwards in time?”

“Non, c’est impossible. . .” Monique breathed. “The only thing we can do is start walking. Maybe when we find town we’ll find our answers.”

They covered the airship with seaweed and debris as best as they could. After their strange trip they were a little afraid of it. But the friends still thought it best to protect it in case they needed to escape.

When they reached town they discovered they’d left Haiti only to return. But to an alien Republic.

They didn’t recognize the township. What was even more incredible was that in this Haiti, the revolution had taken place a month ago. No one knew them here. So they gave a vague descriptions of a small hamlet they’d traveled from; and no one they meet seemed to care much. Monique found a job cooking for a rich, elderly woman named Michelle. John and Angelique took a job working in the sugar fields she owned.

Later, Monique questioned her employer about the customs of her “new home” and found out that class discrimination did not exist in Haiti—informal or otherwise. There were no restrictions upon homosexuality either. Michelle was incredulous that any Republic would have such rules. “We were once slaves, n’est-ce pas? Why would we oppress one another?” The older woman sucked her teeth, and shook her head. “That must truly be a terrible place you came from. No wonder you ran away.”

Monique pressed her lips together and said no more. It was my home and I loved it dearly. Now Haiti is here, yet lost to me. Perhaps forever. . .I wonder what unpleasant truths this new world holds?


“We’re going to stay, Monique,” said Angelique. “John and I can be together here.”

“What about your mama and papa?”

Angelique looked away. “I love them and wish them happiness. But I love John more. Perhaps one day I’ll look for them.” She shrugged. “Perhaps not.”

“Both my parents are dead,” the young man added. “Angelique is all the family I have now.”

The three were sharing a meal in the tiny house she and John had rented together. The couple had married the same week they’d landed.

“You should stay too,” Angelique suggested.

Monique had saved a little coin and was determined to search the island until she found Simone. “No, I have to find her. I have to know if she’s happy.”

“What will you do, cherie, if you meet her and she is happy. . . with you,” asked John. “We still know so little about this strange world, n’est-ce pas?”

Monique smiled. “We will become the best of friends—the three of us. I will wish her well.”

“And I will be back.”

She left the next morning to find her destiny. In the days to come, some happy, others melancholy, she thought often of the airship they’d left behind on the beach. . .

And whatever became of it.

Scierogenous II … In print!


Scierogenous II: An Anthology of Erotic Science Fiction and Fantasy is now in both print and eBook!

The Scierogenous II Anthology has landed with a collection just for readers with a taste for erotic science fiction and fantasy. Catch a virus with a delicious effect on its unsuspecting crew … Meet cyborgs who mesh with willing hosts … travel alongside a werewolf and vampire with a taste for blood … and each other. These and other sensuously twisted tales are waiting for readers in Scierogenous II. Take the journey; it will blow your funky circuits.

Contributing Authors: Sumiko Saulson, Cranston Burney, James Goodridge, Penelope Flynn, William Landis, Laura Elena Cáceres, Quinton Veal and Valjeanne Jeffers

Purchase Scierogenous in print at:

Scierogenous II: Spotlight on Valjeanne Jeffers



The Switch
(from The Switch II: Clockwork)
by Valjeanne Jeffers

Z100 had been a key player in the war that unseated the first rulers, catapulting her to the top class. Because of her role in the coup d’état she, and a handful of other female spies, were immune to these laws.

But if she were to marry this would change. Even taking a lover was risky. She’d heard of wealthy women drugged by men they were sleeping with, waking up to find themselves married. And penniless. The overthrow of the old regime had created a class of ultra-wealthy Tyroleans. The rest became under dwellers —those who lived under the city and earned only enough for food, shelter and oxygen; like her housekeeper Simone2.

Because Z had helped to overthrow the old world, because she worked as a spy to make sure nothing changed, she was hated. She had enemies everywhere—men and women who’d cheerfully murder her to bring down the society she’d helped create.

Z100 sauntered over to her futon, sat down and pushed a button on the underside of the end table next to the couch. The top of the table flipped over, revealing the keyboard hidden underneath. She twirled the dial of her wristband to release a disc and slid it into the front of the keyboard. Z100 tapped the play key. A holograph of a thirtyish black man appeared.

This was H36 a lawyer suspected of being sympathetic to the rebels. As she looked on, the man stepped from behind his desk to meet with a client. She sighed. God, he’s boring… She forced herself to watch for another twenty minutes. He’s clean.

Z reached over and pushed the next button on her keyboard. The image vanished and another holograph took its place: this one of an older white man. Like the target before him, T40 was dressed in tunic and slacks. But he wasn’t alone.

Z’s lips curled up in a tiny smile. This ought to be good.

She pushed pause, got up and went into the kitchen, detouring around her android butler to pour a glass of wine, then made herself comfortable on the futon once more. As she looked on, the target unzipped his jumpsuit and pushed them down. His blond companion sauntered over to his desk, and slipped off her pants. She straddled him, curling an arm about his neck. With her other hand she unzipped her tunic to bare her plump breasts. Moans of pleasure filled Z100’s apartment

Valjeanne Jeffers is a Spelman College graduate, a member of the Carolina African American Writers’ Collective, the author of nine books, including her Immortal and Mona Livelong: Paranormal Detective series, and co-editor of Scierogenous I and II. She has been published in numerous anthologies including: Steamfunk!;The Ringing Ear; Griots: A Sword and Soul Anthology; Liberated Muse I: How I Freed My Soul; Say it Loud; Drumvoices Revue; Possibilities and, most recently, Luminescent Threads: Connections to Octavia Butler (winner of the Locus Award and nominated for Hugo Award); Fitting In; Sycorax’s Daughters (nominated for the Bram Stoker Award) and Black Magic Women. Visit her at:

Scierogenous II: An Anthology of Erotic Science and Fantasy edited by Valjeanne Jeffers and Quinton Veal. Contributing authors: Quinton Veal. Sumiko Saulson. Cranston Burney. James Goodridge. Penelope Flynn. William Landis. Laura Elena Cáceres. Valjeanne Jeffers. Copyright 2018 by Valjeanne Jeffers and Quinton Veal, all rights reserved.

Purchase Scierogenous II on Smashwords

Visit Valjeanne Jeffers at: