&nbsp I'm a woman still in the process of growing up, hoping never to grow old. Just about hitting my mid-life crisis, which I plan to ride out with all kinds of cool. In the meantime, gonna be reading, writing, traveling and hopefully living and loving to the fullest. (Click pic for full bio)
Currently, I write paranormal romance, horror and mysteries. Below are some of my works, including a short story featured in horror anthology Masques V (cover illustration by Clive Barker):
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included on reading list for
IMPAC Dublin Literary Award 2008 &nbsp Read OOL Excerpt
Read AGAIN Excerpt
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Click pics for purchasing info.
Quotes for AGAIN
"Chilling, mysterious, and endlessly sensual."
Shannon McKenna, bestselling author of Out of Control and Return to Me
"Sharon Cullars is a talent to watch. Again is chilling and deliciously erotic by turns, an absorbing roller coaster ride of a book."
Angela Knight, 2005 winner of Romantic Times Book Club's Critic's Choice Award for Best Erotic Romance
Hear an excerpt from AGAIN read by Scottie Lowe from AfroerotiK.com (Warning: erotic content)
Clip of places featured in Again
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Other Links:
AGAIN website
My Blogspot (where I do most of my blogging)
Author's website (featuring all my books)
BellaOnline Short Stories
Cover model: One of my new MySpace friends is the cover model for my book AGAIN. Her name's Nahisha, so go check out her page .
Get your own free cool template at Myspace Layouts
Erotic Stories
&nbsp Rock Star &nbsp Hot Afternoon &nbsp Deep in the Bayou
Stories:
&nbsp Read Soft Song
&nbsp Read A Promise of Rain
Featured at sffworld.com:
Nona
Horror on Royal Street
The Last Journey
Novel in Progress
Below is an excerpt of a novel I'm currently writing. The story is set in 19th century Chicago, several years before the Great Fire. Livia Delacourt is new to the art of investigations, working alongside the likes of the famous Allan Pinkerton of the Pinkerton Detective Agency. It is almost unheard of for a woman to be a detective; it is even more so when that woman is black.
During a particularly racially charged winter, Livia finds herself going undercover to investigate the murder of the infamous Delphine LaLaurie, a woman who routinely tortured her slaves in a sequestered attic and who left them to perish when her New Orleans home caught fire. Thought to have died years ago, LaLaurie is spotted one wintry day on a Chicago street by a former slave, Andre Lawrence, who was tortured by her as a child. Now an adult with a new identity and accumulated wealth, Lawrence is determined to kill the woman who nearly destroyed him. Only someone else beats him to it. Yet, through circumstances, he becomes a suspect, and his arrest aggravates an already tense city dealing with political and racial divisions as well as a devastating civil war.
Livia is the only one who believes in Lawrence's innocence and reluctantly seeks the help of a man she would rather have no dealings with - Damian Abrams, the owner of an exclusive Chicago brothel that caters to the monied scions of the richest families in the city. Along with Damian's Asian partner, the enigmatic Long Wu, they discover a trail of bodies as they seek to uncover who murdered the infamous Delphine LaLaurie, at the same time hoping to divert a powderkeg that threatens to rip the city apart.
From the illustrious homes along Michigan Avenue to the dank streets known as Whiskey Row and Satan's Mile, the backdrop of early Chicago sets a stage for what I hope to become a series featuring a very charismatic character.
Read the excerpt .
Poems:
THIS MAN
Supine at his altar
the adherent genuflects,
adoration stirring in vast thighs,
need blazing in ample breasts.
While upward in fixed rapture
her eyes look toward the mast,
the idolatry of her worship
her sustenance, first and last.
And he stands reverently,
bestows benevolent grace,
feeding her unctuous desire,
gently strokes her upturned face.
Deist, deity - their roles
a symbiosis unplanned,
worshipper, this night
christened woman;
godhead, for tonight
this man.
HER
She reminds you of
ribtips, greens,
fried catfish,
a bucket of chicken wings,
a sweaty can of Budweiser
sitting on worn Formica,
waiting to be grabbed.
She laughs without subtlety,
and her ample hips
brook no space
as they sway unself-consciously
around ever-diminishing areas.
You look at her and think of
too long hours
at the beauty parlor,
at the nail salon,
of raucous card games around
a rickety TV table,
surrounded by chairs
with peeling vinyl covers.
Hers is a life too fast,
too hard,
too slow, too easy,
settling for earth over air,
and you say to yourself,
‘she’d never fit in with the
cheese and wine set,’
realizing as you do
that she’s more comfortable
in her skin than you’ll ever be,
and that the ‘wine and cheese set’
have a problem with you, too.
HOT, SUMMER DAYS
These things she remembers clearly:
the taste of sweat beads
on a tall, cold glass of
iced tea while sitting under
the looming shade of the old willow;
the attar of fragrant dogwoods
mixing with the scent of her own sweat,
earthy, langorous and sweet;
not caring about anything,
but the conversation going on
between the magpie and the crickets
and whether there would be rain
to moisten the soil;
cooling breezes that tangled her hair,
and molded her dress
to her sweat-moist body;
and the way he smiled at her
as he told her that there
was nothing sweeter
than seeing, smelling, tasting her
on a hot, summer day.
TEMPTATION
Oh, how am I to pass this day
and not give in to the compelling sway
of all that would pass my lips
and make their home my abundant hips?
Though try I do to ignore their call
and just be strong and toss them all,
each chocolate-covered, each fat-swathed bite,
teases my tongue and brings such delight
That my mouth bids them all to stay awhile
and let the decadence of each defile
the righteousness of my inner will
that damns my appetite to just be still.
But my stomach hails them and says "come in"
and speaks to me, "what is life without sin"?
And again I succumb to temptation's pleasure
whose pounds and inches I am loathe to measure.
BEAUTY REGIMEN
Waiting to be
pressed, relaxed
nouveau waved,
braided, weaved,
or processed,
the women sit in stages
of hair disrepair,
hoping to be beautified
into magazine glamor,
praying to ameliorate
or just plain obliterate
the strains of
neglect and wear
to their bodies and souls.
Like someone once said:
"It's all in the hair, 'cause
a sista can be down and out,
abused and used,
one paycheck away from the streets,
but if her hair looks good,
she's got it going on!"
So like patient souls in line
to be baptized into
the Church of Pulchritude,
the sistas read the good word
as expounded by the scriptures of
Essence or Black Hair,
exclaiming the virtues
of the glorified adherents
of righteous style.
And they sit cremed,
towelled,
dripping wet,
hair crackling to the tune
of the sizzling comb,
or faces half entombed
by heat-blasting sarcophi,
as they exchange the latest
on Luke and Laura,
Erica Kane,
or Vicky and Dorian --
heads bobbing to the music
blasting from V103,
laughing and just being,
inhaling the melange
of chemicals and mixtures
that hold the secrets of Black Beauty.
And for six hours, at least
they escape the world outside
ELEGY FOR THE CHILDREN
There once were children here,
bright suns casting light
in dim shadows,
tickling sad souls
into fits of laughter,
putting tints of rainbow
where shades of gray had rested.
Innocence renewed
blotted out the sins of the elders,
and mirrors held before us
no longer reflected
surrender to life's burdens.
But somehow the gray has
swallowed the rainbows,
and clouds have chased
the suns away.
Where has innocence gone?
For we can no longer
look in mirrors and smile.
There once were children here,
but they went away
and left us with our sad souls
remembering long-ago times
when children used to play
without fear.
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My 3D art (Bryce 3D and Poser):
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