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)
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Poem for Mama
In October of 1969, I realized I had overlooked my mother's birthday. Brother Sam and I were living in Kansas City, she in Texas. I hurriedly dashed off a poem, modeled from the lyric style of Van Dyke Parks in his fine album, Song Cycle. Sam illustrated it and made a book of it. I may or may not possess the book, but I recall the words.
By Charles Turner4 years ago in Poets
Wilkerson's Tank
Caution: If foul language offends you might want to skip this one. ^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^ Wilkerson drowned of his own doing. Well, of course, he had no plan to do himself in at the beginning, but it was inevitable, once he drove his tank off the pier. In fairness, he was not aiming for the murky deep, but was attempting to drive his tank over the brow, to take his newly-won prize aboard ship, so that he could bring the clanking machinery home with him.
By Charles Turner4 years ago in Fiction
The Moloch Eaters
It is evening of a long, trying Sunday. Driven by insomnia, driven by my acute isolation, I spend hours walking on the beach after sunset, toiling like a bug over the deep Long Beach sand. A toenail clipping hangs over my shoulder. I ramble on to Toenail Clipping, about bad teeth and bad food, complaining that the rent’s too high, or my blood pressure’s too low. He makes a good companion, this sliver that is the moon. He never talks and never gives with heavy sighs when I go on too long about a particular subject. I suppose it’s rather mean to call him “Toenail Clipping.” He doesn't mind. I call him anything; he sticks with dog-like loyalty. He just wants to hang. But, unlike a dog, he lacks the power to alert me should someone move up behind me.
By Charles Turner4 years ago in Fiction
