Grace Turner
Bio
Grace Turner is the penname for an American attorney & mediator practicing in Texas and Colorado whose anonymity means a great deal to her.
Grace is also a dancer, musician, backpacker, artist, dog mother, and devoted wife.
Stories (8/0)
Hand-Me-Downs
“Come in, Child. Sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?” The sun outside was high above the mountain desert, and it baked everything it touched. A note in my handwriting beneath one of the journals on my breakfast table read: Stage Four. Six months – 1 year. I knew my time was running out, and this was my only chance to leave a legacy. I spoke to the girl as I would a granddaughter, as I always have. She had a mind for business and a nose for bullshit, just like me.
By Grace Turner3 years ago in Fiction
Shadow Dance
I want a divorce. There. I said it. Loudly, if only inside my head. The walls have been closing in for a while now, and this thing has now become a choice between him and me, between my life and ours. The dogs are now barking, growling, gurgling; attacking each other again. I can hear them from my bathroom, where I have the door closed. I let their sounds become white noise to my drama. This bathroom is my tiny greenroom, and it allows me to find myself in the pupil of my eye before facing the world again. It allows me space and privacy to perform Kintsugi to my mind when it is shattered, like it is today.
By Grace Turner3 years ago in Fiction
Gaslight
New Orleans, LA (1987) Condensed water gathered on the window outside a bedroom in Bywater, New Orleans, Louisiana. Aaron Randel took the intermediate phalange on his right pointer finger and swiped at the glass as he lay on his left side, momentarily creating a portal to the outside world; the quiet, cracked street lined with hibiscus flowers and bathed in a blue-purple glow from the waxing moon at 4:12 a.m.
By Grace Turner3 years ago in Fiction
Cumberland Blues
Frank Foxtrotter put on his boots like he did every morning. Frank’s job at Gimmler Foods, Inc. hadn’t changed, despite the thirty years he’d given them. But Frank never complained. He was an 8th generation Foxtrotter from the Cumberland Valley. His ancestors worked the Cumberland Valley Railroad (CVRR) for next to nothing. They were heroes.
By Grace Turner3 years ago in Fiction
TITANS OF SONORA
It was so hot that sweat emanated from the center of Falcón’s brain, presenting upon his brow. The clock on the wall ticked on but told the wrong time. All the windows were open, inviting a breeze to swing through, but it didn’t. Air conditioning wasn’t common in the State of Sonora, Mexico. People got by because they were meant to; because their ancestors lived in those lands, tamed those lands, and cultivated those lands. “And they didn’t need no stinkin’ air conditioning.”
By Grace Turner3 years ago in Fiction
Dark Hollow Freight Train
It was hot and muggy outside. Martha Woodburn started in on her husband, Craig, but only in her head. Craig didn’t know it, but Martha had been going to therapy twice a month for the last seven as a last-ditch effort to save her marriage from its impending doom.
By Grace Turner3 years ago in Fiction
Initiation Rites by Dead & Co
I almost started this post apologizing for being a millennial with no Grateful Dead experience prior to 2014, qualifying my experience in Boulder as I felt would be respectful to those exposed to the light so many years before me, during the years of its creation in a genius, a spirit that only possesses a consciousness ever so rarely. Even more rare is its combination with the chance set of circumstances leading to its amplification and distribution. But this music taught me not to do that. It is with this mindset that I describe my experience in Boulder on July 5th and 6th of 2019.
By Grace Turner3 years ago in Beat
