Terry Tiller
Stories (4/0)
These Dry Bones
The distant rumble of thunder followed Tess as she made her way into the house, laundry basket balanced against one hip. She paid no attention to it; there had been thunder in the distance every afternoon for nearly three months, and still, there was no rain. Heat thunder, her grandmother had called it, claiming it was common during the Dust Bowl. The intermittent rumblings brought no sign of relief from a nearly year-long drought and a summer of relentless, triple-digit heat. Looking at the brown grass, dead tree leaves, and withered backyard gardens, she couldn’t imagine the Dust Bowl looking much different.
By Terry Tiller2 years ago in Fiction
The Silent Man
She leaned forward, hair partially obscuring her face, a cigarette held to the lighter in his outstretched hand. She inhaled deeply and sat back, exhaling smoke and misery in one long sigh. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go,” she said softly, “There was supposed to be more time.”’
By Terry Tiller2 years ago in Fiction
Lonely Girl
A black and white photo of my mother at 6 or 7 sits on my dresser. She is looking off into the distance, hugging her skirt around her thin legs, alone on the back porch of her childhood homes. Her expression suggests that she is unaware of the photographer; she looks small and vulnerable and, most of all, lonely. She seems so unlike the mother I know that it’s hard for me to believe they are the same person. But her name and the year (1948), written in my grandmother’s slanted handwriting, proves otherwise. That picture haunts me, and makes me wonder who my mom really is. Is that lonely, vulnerable child still there, and if she is, why can’t I reach her? Why is my relationship with her fraught with unsaid words?
By Terry Tiller2 years ago in Confessions