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A collection of stillness, spirit, and the sounds no one hears until the music fades

Summary

A Southern mixed woman trapped in a loveless marriage during the Jazz Age find forbidden love with a blooming creative, only to lose everything but the haunting beauty of her art.

The Storyteller

Get an inside scoop on the author and how she brought these characters to life.

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This is the story of what it means to have loved under the weight of chains, and how even when

the music stops....

                                                       

                                                                                           

WELCOME TO PORCH OF ECHOES

where the music of love, rage, and memory still lingers,

....a womans scream can echo forever

The bee's knees

oil painting.png

By the age of ten, Asha's work was already being displayed at every church event and fair in The Magnolia State. People would whisper "That girl got magic in her hands." She painted a picture of the preacher's late wife from memory only after seeing her once. Traveling art collectors wrote pieces tilted things like "Bayou's Little Brush" and "The Girl Who Paints What We Feel." And that is how the world came to know the negro girl whos hands could see.

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The Beauregard's, a high class creole familiy with a diminishing status, caught wind of her from a dinner amongst the elite. They needed her,. Her marriage was posed as a "blessing" to her family "Asha's marrying up. Sh{e'll be well taken care of." A way to own what they could not buy.

​

Asha now 20 lives in a gilded cage - a beautiful woman trapped in  a loveless, controlling marriage to Langston Beauregard, the eldest of the Beauregard family. Then she meets Him. Pop warm, brilliant, untamed, and for the first time, she knows love. But their passion defies the laws of their time, both legally and socially. 

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This story weaves through sensual highs and devastating lows, with Asha's voice as the beating heart. Her journey is not just one of love lost, but identity, resistance, and the devastating price of agency in a world built to silence women like her.

Come in. Wipe your feet at the threshold of time. You've stepped into a word stitched with silk and smoke, jazz bleeding through the walls, cotton ghosts brushing your skin.

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This is not just a story. It's a slow-dancing ache. A glass raised in a room too loud to think. It's love that can't be named, and sorrow that dared to bloom anyway.

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Follow Asha, hold her hand if she lets you.

but know this-

what you think you're about to feel can't be undone. 

​

I didn't write this to entertain you.

I wrote it to wake you up.

Welcome to the beginning.

You've got your invitation.

​Now let me show you the rest.

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