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Hello and welcome to my Medium profile page. You can scroll down and see more of my work here on the site — a mix of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. I write other places too, and I’m working on my first novel.

If you’d like to join me on my creative journey, you can follow my progress on Goodreads — Terrye Turpin Author

I have a blog where I post short essays on my experiences in Texas — Let’s Get Out of Here

I also have an Amazon author page, where you’ll find short stories I’ve published and my…

Photo by Zac Bishop on Unsplash

The way it started, I just wanted someone to like me. I wanted to have friends. I wanted to be more than that weird kid who lived with his grandmother above an abandoned movie theater. When people looked at me, they saw a scrawny boy with shaggy brown hair whose pants didn’t cover his ankles. I’d had a growth spurt after my thirteenth birthday, and my grandmother’s clothing budget hadn’t caught up.

I don’t remember my mother. She dropped me and a load of dirty laundry at her parents’ house when I was three and she never came back. Not…

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash

They picked up the hitchhiker outside Salado, Texas. Twelve-year-old Kenny, his head hanging out the window like a dog’s, was the first to spot the blind man. He stood on the gravel embankment at the edge of the highway, nothing around him — no gas stations, no fast-food places, no buildings — just the flat expanse of fields dotted with scraggly trees. The last rest area had been three miles back, on the other side of the interstate.

“A hitchhiker!” Kenny whooped, delighted by the unexpected vision, as if he’d spotted a flying saucer. “I think he’s blind,” Kenny added…

Image by Dimitris Vetsikas from Pixabay

On the first anniversary of her daughter’s death, Ginny Stroud drove to the sea. In her late thirties, Ginny had dark brown hair that she kept clipped close to her scalp, like a young boy’s. A thick scar, twisted and rose-pink, traced from her scalp down the side of her face. Another scar, hidden beneath her jeans, traveled from her hip to just above her knee. Beside her, on the passenger seat of the car, lay a stack of paperback books, her leather purse, and a silver handled cane.

Her little red car, so nimble and reliable when navigating crowded…

Photo by ILIAS SAMI on Unsplash

“What’s in the box, Carol?”

Carol Lewis nudged the container in question with the toe of her scuffed brown boot. An ominous buzz sounded from the cardboard box. Carol crossed her arms over her chest and stared at the two teenage girls standing in the doorway of her dorm room.

“What the hell!” The girls, Megan and Brittany, glanced at each other as though waiting for the other to decide whether to advance on Carol or turn and run.

When the box stopped vibrating, Carol spoke up. “Could be snakes or could be wasps.” She shrugged. …

Photo by Jonathan Borba on Unsplash

“No one throws rice at weddings anymore.” The speaker, Hildy Lawson, sighed as she slipped a gold embossed invitation back into its envelope. Hildy, a spry and single woman in her fifties, was the youngest of five siblings. She’d been to more than her share of weddings.

“Isn’t rice bad for birds?” Janet Dell asked. She stretched across her kitchen table and reached for the last of the chocolate chip cookies she’d set out with their lunch. Where Hildy was nervous and slim as a greyhound, Janet had the contented outlook and relaxed figure of a basset hound. …

Eggs in a bowl
Photo by Viktor Talashuk on Unsplash

Sherry Corker stared at the tilting stack of cardboard boxes lining her mother’s closet. They’d already cleared out the kitchen, boxing dented pans and mismatched glassware to tote off to the Goodwill. Her mother fluttered in the living room, circling the floor and saying her own goodbyes to the home she’d lived in for over forty years. Sherry had finally convinced her mom to move into a retirement community near her home in Dallas.

“What do you think she’s stashed here?” Sherry’s patient husband, Dave, asked.

“No idea. Could be anything from half-filled books of Green Stamps to Dad’s old…

Woman sitting on rock in desert under cloudy sky
Photo by Nicole Geri on Unsplash

The ghosts of their former owners haunt the clothes in thrift shops. The dead linger, like the fading lilac scent of fabric softener or the sharp stink of cigarette smoke. My mother washed our purchases in vinegar and saltwater, then rinsed with lavender to purge the spirits from the clothes she bought for me. I never found a ghost — not hidden in the pockets of the old jeans or draped across the back of the thin, worn t-shirts.

From the second-hand clothes she chose for herself, my mother wove silk scarves into skirts and wore men’s suit jackets over…

Terrye Turpin

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