Charles Turner
Bio
My work is based on who I am now and have been in the past. It is based on a lifetime of reading. Autobiography, standard fiction, sci/fi, fantasy, westerns. I plan to put together a collection of short stories to publish via Amazon.
Stories (76/0)
Mexican Red and the Banker
1 A lone rider from the west slowly trotted his pony in anticipation of finding water at Weber’s spring. The spring sometimes went dry, but he hoped not at this time of the year. The approach to Weber’s spring brought the rider into a sliver of taller trees than the scrub of the prairie between there and the start of his journey. His horse was blacker than a moonless night, wearing an unmistakably Mexican saddle. The rider too wore unmistakably Mexican garb, though the hair hanging down from beneath his sombrero was the red of a Scotsman. For his father, a true Scot had loved a Mexican Indian somewhere near the border and he paid with his life to a jealous brave over it. Too late for the Indian suitor to halt the woman’s pregnancy. Thus, Mexican Red was born. His people fought the soldiers on both sides of the border until many had been lured away to work in the mines. Red had been groomed for mining, yet he slipped away, unwilling to live like a mole. The friends he made led the outlaw’s life. So, too, did he.
By Charles Turner3 years ago in Fiction
Grape's Revenge
As time dwindled until Earl approached his retirement date, he began to notice that the chimp in the near cage had taken to staring at him. It was an impassive stare, but Grape’s penetrating eyes sometimes made him feel he and the ape were establishing a connection. He had known the poor fellow in passing for over twenty years, without once coming in contact. His duties bypassed the animals, along with the heartless tests and nasty products, and for that he was grateful. It was almost as though he shared none of the guilt. Grape’s stares were undoing that.
By Charles Turner3 years ago in Fiction
Marley Ames: The Feast
Marley Ames searched the ground before him, taking carefully calculated steps to avoid ripping away the loosely hanging sole of his right shoe. In his part of town, strands of wire littered the dirt alongside the sidewalks. Any time he needed wire, he simply started walking and very quickly discovered a suitable piece.
By Charles Turner3 years ago in Fiction
Theresa, a Love Story
Sometime in 1955, late , I suppose, my family took up residence on the property of a distant aunt of my stepfather. Her name was Appie Lane. Appie was an old time Virginian, transplanted to Fresno, some twenty years before. She was a stern old woman, but kind. She took to my Mom as to a new-found daughter. Her home faced a south-side street, and there were two houses on the strip of land behind it. In between those extra buildings stood an outhouse. The larger back residence had been tucked near the fence, just yards from a vineyard. We stuffed ourselves into it, all twelve of us, and proceeded to make the best of a situation. The schools we attended were thoroughly integrated, and I appreciated the diversity. We had just a few hours, after dismissal, to be playing in the yard. For, in the evenings, we crowded into Appie's house, to watch that new-fangled thing called television.
By Charles Turner3 years ago in Fiction
My New York Blues
I arrived in Greenwich Village and waited about two weeks before my brother came to New York to join me. It was 1967, the year I turned twenty-five. Out of the Navy less than three years, I had issues tormenting me, the same ones that had made a feast out of my childhood. I just hadn't been able to shake them off. Walking McDougal Street, wondering how people I read about found each other. Knowing I didn't fit in if I knew. My hotel was a tall one, with no elevator. It was a long trip, and I soon planned my activities to avoid going in or out unnecessarily. When my brother came to town, his first act was to go deeper into Manhattan and rent us a better home. I never saw him wrinkle his nose at a place like that, before or since.
By Charles Turner3 years ago in Fiction
Long Shadows
Most of Grandpa's hair had been trampled out by the ages. What was left huddled in nervous fringes about the ears and neck. This I noted anew that sultry July evening when the shadows were lengthening and I and my wife entered the Three Rivers nursing home. We discovered him in a wheelchair, aimlessly poking about the room. His chair cut a corner and caught one of two beds, dragging it more centrally on the floor.
By Charles Turner3 years ago in Fiction