A Cornered Gurl (via Medium) is Back!

Remember when I talked about bringing my own table because others have refused to let me sit at theirs as a writer/editor/creative thinker? Well, It has been a year and five months, and I am getting the care I need for an eye disease (keratoconus), and I will soon be introduced to scleral contacts that will help sharpen my vision. It was time for me to bring A Cornered Gurl back to amplify the voices of others, so I did.

We are also on Instagram, too. I am sharing this with my WordPress family, just in case, some of you are interested in becoming writers for ACG.


ACG (Reboot) Publication Cover. Created with Canva.

A Cornered Gurl is Back

And I have missed it so much!

Being that I am getting the care I need for keratoconus and will soon be introduced to scleral contacts to enhance my vision, I felt it best to get started again here in A Cornered Gurl. I have truly missed it.

This will be our clean slate. A chance for ACG to move forward for the remainder of 2022, and walk into 2023 with an exhilarating presence and a resounding, WE ARE BACK pumping through our veins and leaving our mouths.

I have had a fair share of writers ask me from time to time if I would ever get ACG up and running again, and I thought (at those times) that I would not be able to do so. This publication is too much of my heart, soul, and mind for me not to pick it back up and lend your words the love and space they need.

It is time.


A few things have changed, but not many. There is a new logo and a new publication cover, but the heart of ACG is still the same.

What is the theme?

A Cornered Gurl: We want the REAL you. A Cornered Gurl is a space for writers to “come as they are” and truly be who they are.

What will I publish?

•Heartwork (to include fiction (1,200 words max), non-fiction (1,200 words max), & poetry) •Tales of the South •Our Story (Stories about who you & and your family are) •Micropoetry •Challenges

When will I publish content?

Mondays, Fridays, and Sundays by 7:00 pm, US ET/EDT. A total of 8–9 pieces will be published on those days.


For those of you who were here for ACG’s start back in 2017 as a standalone publication for my work only to watch it transition to include other writers as well in 2019, I hope you will join me once again.

If you wish to become a writer for A Cornered Gurl, please adhere to the submission guidelines and follow through accordingly.

I cannot wait to begin this journey with you again.


This is your time to “come as you are,” and truly be who you are. At A Cornered Gurl, We want the REAL you. Always.

Submission Guidelines|Follow us on Instagram

Checking In After Hours (Part IV)

Flash Fiction: Flushed evidence

Photo by Jadon Barnes on Unsplash

“What in the blue haze?! Ask the shadow? What the hell kinda message is this, Dibbs?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Bends. I’m puzzled by this one. Just puzzled. ‘Ask the shadow.’ What shadow and why would we talk to something that’s not really there?! We’re going to have to call in the calvary for this one, Bends. This is some serious shit.”

Tamara looked at the strange man. He looked curiously at her. The two of them shifted their eyes over to where the “shadow” was and said nothing.


“Bends! Get your hind end over here quickly, my friend. Look what I done found in this here toilet!”

Bends turned slightly toward Tamara and the strange old man, then walked briskly into the bathroom where Office Dibbs had been. He hiccupped, then sneezed, and wiped his nose with the corner of his shirt sleeve.

“Whatchugot, Dibbs?” Something important?”

“ I believe we may have landed ourselves a bit of evidence. Look at this. Dark red clumps of hair. Three of them. Three fine clumps of dark red hair. You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

“I sure am. Someone tried to flush some evidence and looks like it came back to bite them in the ass.”

“Bag it and tag it, Bends!”

“I’m on it, Dibbs! You logged it already on your pad there?”

“I sure as hell did.”


Tamara looked at the strange old man, and he looked back at her. The shadow was nowhere in sight, and the room took on an eerie smell — something in between the depth of loneliness and the reality of divorce. Tamara breathed out a labored sigh and the strange old man folded his short, chubby arms.

“Hey! You, sir? You’re the owner of this place? This your motel?” Dibbs called to the strange old man, finally recognizing him for who he was.

“Name’s Topher. Topher Brocklin. It is my place, yep. Been the owner now for ten years. Place was handed down to me by my uncle Teddy.”

“That’s mighty nice, Topher. Topher Brocklin, you say? Any kin to Macy and Moe Brocklin up there on 55?”

“Yep. My cousins. Distant. But cousins all the same.”

“Okay. Well, it’s nice to meet another Brocklin. Take a look at this, please.” Officer Dibbs held up one clump of hair with his gloved hand and sashayed it in front of Topher Brocklin’s eyes. “Judging by the hair still left on the deceased’s head, this is not hers. Any idea who it belonged to?”

The strange, Oompa Loompa’d man stood back on his heels, tightened his folded chubby arms, and mumbled, “Tess. Tess has dark red hair.”


Tamara looked at the strange old man, then up to Officer Dibbs and Officer Bends, and shook her head in disbelief before saying, “What kind of place are you running here?! Isn’t Tess one of the other maids?!”

Officers Dibbs and Bends were thinking the same thing, but both nodded at the woman’s recollection and noted the disgruntled look on Topher Brocklin’s face after her comment.

“The woman has a point here, Topher. Have you seen Tess at all today? Better yet, have you seen either of the other two maids today?”

Topher Brocklin stood there weary-eyed and unfocused on the serious issue building before him. Had he seen Tess or Daphne earlier at all? Did either of them clock in? He scratched his oily head as if to unearth the answer.

“Well, officer … I — I can’t says I have.”

“You can’t say or you don’t know, Topher. Topher Brocklin? Those are two different things, you know?”

“I mean … I don’t recall. I can’t remember.”

Tamara huffed out an exasperated sigh and just shook her head. The officers stood there, flummoxed by the situation unfolding right before them. And the strange old man cried.

Just as the first tear fell, the shadow reappeared.


Originally published in Hinged.press via Medium.

Part IPart II, and Part III

another autumn

musical selection: bilal|love poems

a reflective poem

A photo of an excited, beautiful woman of color with blue hair.
Photo by StockSnap via Pixabay

autumn is still in
the infant stages, but
I can feel the pull of
old things being made
new, and I wonder if
you’ve found work in
the industry you’d be
applying to for nearly
a decade.

I want to tell you I’m
still searching, but
that is a lie. I have
discovered peace in
this section of the
medical field after
twenty years, and there
are better opportunities
ahead.

there is a woman
who speaks about
authenticity and showing
up in spaces where empathy
no longer has a seat, and
I can’t help but be reminded
of your strong voice
and approach to all
things beautiful & just.

I am working on creating
a better me; therapy, stories,
and soldiering onward
with a senior dog who
still has the right
amount of sass to
suss out things and
people who
don’t belong around us
anymore.

we built a rocky foundation
on poetry and kinship,
and I am still out here
using words to clear
my head.
how much of this
is work and how much
of it is pleasure?

another autumn is here — I’m
greeting it with
old eyes and sketchy thoughts.
but it’s here, nonetheless.


Originally published in A Cornered Gurl via Medium.

℗2000 Interscope Geffen. Bilal, Love Poems

I Thought I’d Forget All About You

Musical Selection: Bilal|When Will You Call?

A Lamentation

But I was wrong.
I am wrong.
And every autumn pulls
up memories — I have tried
to forget, and I find myself
burying those memories
deeper into my mind for them
to arise at the worst time.

It’s the children …
The children push more
pain into my heart than
anything else.
How are they doing?
What activities do you have
them in after school now?
Your oldest should be going
to college …
College. It’s almost hard
for me to say this out loud.

I have missed three years of
seeing their faces, hearing their
voices, and learning about
their lives as new
things occur. 

I have resorted to denying who
I am; who I was, but
the pain in my heart about
the children does not lie.
It’s there. It is a constant
reminder of what I have lost.

And as I weave through every
year — no longer your toy;
no longer wrapped up in my
own head about what we
could have been — what I wanted
us to be, seasonal depression
sneaks up on me with
your face as its representative.

I am weak.
I am.
I will say this with
no shame.
I am weak, still, for you.

The dog hops up in
my lap — reminds me it’s
time for her to relieve
herself, and I don’t feel
like moving from a spot
I’ve cozied onto in the
chair. 

She still has some
energy even though she’s
past what some say is
too long for a dog to live — she
can spit fire if I am
not quick to meet her needs.

And isn’t that how you were?
Isn’t that what made us
cling to one another?
Your need to order and my
need to take orders.

Weren’t we too blind to
see it could never work
between two women who
were writers so full of
embellished stories?

I thought I’d forget all
about you, yet three years later,
you appear. And no amount
of therapy is sweeping you away
from my heart’s door.

I wanted more.
I couldn’t have it.
I never would have.
At every turn, you would
choose him.
You chose him.

And really, he was the
best decision. My mind
knows this — how about
telling it to my heart?


Originally published in soliloque via Medium.