A Bookstore Tour and a Story

August 8, 2025 ~ mstturpin ~ 1 Comment

Back in March of this year my friend Cathy and I embarked on a road trip to visit several bookstores. If you stick around to the end of the list of places we visited, I’ll reward you with a short story.

We stopped first in Waco at Fabled Bookshop and Cafe. I had heard they have a secret entrance to the children’s book area but we were so engrossed in our own book search that I forgot to look for it. If you make it to Waco, be sure to stop in here and check out the Narnia type wardrobe door into the kid’s section.

https://fabledbookshop.com/

We spent the evening in Austin, and shopped at Birdhouse Books.

There were lots of welcoming faces here. Birdhouse Books is a woman-owned, queer-owned, veteran-owned store that focuses on giving back to the community.

https://www.birdhousebooksatx.com/

The next day we rose early and headed to Lockhart, Texas to visit Haunt Happy Books – a horror themed bookstore. We also had barbecue for lunch, a requirement in the barbecue capital of Texas. At Black’s we had brisket, and I was thankful that jackalope wasn’t on the menu.

While we waited for Haunt Happy Books to open for the afternoon, we walked around the square and found an unexpected stop – Colossus Books. I picked up a first edition by Charles Bukowski for my husband.

https://www.colossusbooks.com/

The red door at the back of the store made me think of the hidden wardrobe door at Fabled, but on closer inspection I saw this sign and thought better of trying to open it.

We heeded the warning and did not exit through this door.

Our last stop on the book tour was Haunt Happy Books. As a horror writer, I was thrilled to find a store that featured so much horror! I found all my favorite authors here, and discovered a couple new to me. So many books and so little discretionary funds leads to hard decisions. (They would not take my soul in exchange for a stack of hardcovers)

https://www.instagram.com/haunthappybooks

The entrance to Haunt Happy is down a set of stairs and into the basement that houses the store.

Did they mean to spell out “Hello?” Maybe they ran out of balloons. Don’t be suspicious.

I picked up some books while waiting for the movie to start.

Yes, even the horror store has a children’s section. Gotta start them young.

If you’ve made it this far into the post, thanks for sticking around. As promised, here’s a flash fiction short story I wrote a couple years back for the NYC Midnight contest. For these challenges, the writer is assigned a genre and prompts that must be included in the story. It makes for some mind-stretching creativity, especially when you only have 48 hours to write a complete tale. For this one my genre was Spy Thriller and I had to include a blank check. There was a third prompt as well, but I don’t remember what it was. The story had to be under 1,000 words, not including the title. I’ve added a couple here, to fill in a missing bit that one of the contest judges pointed out.

I have folders filled with these contest stories. Some of them I’ll edit and include in a book of short stories, but the ones where the genre is not within my usual type of writing I had been stumped to figure out how to get some use from them. Then I remembered my neglected blog/website. I’ll post an odd story here now and then. For now enjoy this one.

A Dish Too Cold by Terrye Turpin

The invitation appeared Thursday afternoon. The gold script on the card didn’t tell me why I’d been picked to attend the gala for Ken Hollister. Hardy and I had worked with him in Panama, 1990. There weren’t many people left who knew about that time. On paper, he worked for the General Services Administration. Unofficially, that other alphabet agency employed him. Rumor was, Hollister had arranged recent defections of Russian military officers. I wandered down the hall to my boss, Hardy, Special Agent in Charge.

“Hollister is retiring?” I tapped the envelope on Hardy’s desk.

“Yep. Enjoy the party.”

“You’re not going?” Despite their history, Hardy could have put it behind. A decade had passed since Rita, Hardy’s first wife, had divorced him and then married Ken Hollister two years later.

My boss spread his hands. “Only one invitation. We must make sacrifices.”

“Thanks.” I grimaced. “Promise me you won’t embarrass me like this when I quit.”

“Jack, old dogs like us don’t leave.”

“I’ll dust off my black suit.”

“Dust off more than that.” Hardy tossed me a thick folder. “There are threats on Hollister’s life.”

“The spooks aren’t taking care of it?”

“Hollister requested you.”

Of course. He needed someone he could trust, someone who shared memories of the same humid jungle. Someone he thought would owe him a debt. I flipped through the folder. Photos and printed dossiers on the guests. I recognized a four-star general and a Hollywood movie actress. A lot of wealth and influence crammed between a fold of cardboard.

As I stood to leave, Hardy grabbed something from behind his desk. “Wait. Can’t forget the gift.” He handed me a blank check, framed behind glass.

I squinted at the signature. “You’re kidding me.”

“A good forgery makes an interesting present. Or maybe it’s the real thing.”

I left Hardy staring out his window. How much would a blank check signed by J. Edgar Hoover be worth? I’d better take my suit to the cleaners. It would do for the fancy party. Or a funeral.

Saturday evening, I handed my Ford over to the valet and climbed the steps to Hollister’s Virginia mansion. The gala was in full swing. Light sparkled from the chandeliers and reflected off the polished marble entry. Laughter blended with the soft notes of a harp. I recognized the Russian harpist from her dossier. Alina Petrov. She and her husband, Nicolai, an opera tenor, had defected in 2010. I wondered if Hollister had a hand on that. He’d always been a sucker for beautiful women, especially if they were with another man. She rested the harp against one slim shoulder. Her hands flitted like doves across the strings.

Weaving through the crowd, I spotted Rita, Hollister’s wife.

“Jack!” She grasped my hand. “It’s been too long. I’m glad you’re here.” She looked over my shoulder as though searching for someone else.

“I’m the designated representative tonight. Hardy gave me his invitation.” I wondered how much she knew about the threat. Her makeup didn’t hide the dull blue circles under her eyes. The last time I’d seen Rita, her hair had been bright russet. She’d stopped dying it, and it topped her head in a snow-white crown that suited her. Older now, but hell, so were we all. Me, Ken, Hardy, and Rita.

“It’s good to see you.” I held up the framed check. “Hardy sends his regards. Where should I put this?”

“Oh.” Rita traced a finger across the glass. “That Hardy! Hoover! Ken will love this.”

I followed her to their library. Wrapped and unwrapped gifts were stacked on an oak table in the center of the room. I set the blank check next to a bottle of cognac older than me, then made for the open bar.

Carrying my drink, I wandered through the open French doors to the garden. The heavy scent of cigar smoke hung in the air. I followed the sound of male laughter, past plants drooping with crimson puffs of flowers. The copper red leaves, large as my hand, seemed familiar.

“Jack!” Hollister grabbed my arm and pulled me into a hug. “Which one of these bastards is trying to kill me?” Slurring his words, he motioned to the three men standing around him. Hollister’s sour breath stank of whiskey. The men shuffled their feet and laughed nervously before leaving to go back to the house. Hollister pulled me away.

“Seriously, Jack. I’m glad you’re here.” Red veins traced the whites of his eyes. Under his golf course tan, Hollister’s crepey skin had a sallow cast. “I can’t trust anyone but the old guard,” he said.

Taking his arm, I led him back inside. I left him with a group in conversation with the Hollywood actress while I went to find some coffee to sober him up. I passed the library as Alina Petrov stormed out, slamming the door. A red mark bloomed on her cheek. I located a coffee pot, a fancy contraption that ground the beans and heated the water instantly. I stared at the beans and suddenly remembered where I’d seen the plant with the copper red leaves.

In the few minutes I’d been gone, Hollister had disappeared. Alina took up the harp again, this time to accompany her husband as his voice soared through an aria. I pushed people aside, ignoring their protests, and headed for the library. I found Rita standing over Ken as he held the framed check.

“Can you spot a fake?” He flipped the frame and picked at the staples on the back.

“You shouldn’t be here, Jack.” Rita handed a letter opener to her husband.

“Don’t open it!” I grabbed the check and yanked it away.

“What we had was real.” Hollister’s lip trembled. “But I’ve lost her. She’s going back to him, after all this time.”

Nothing breaks up a party like attempted murder. The cops arrived, and I explained my suspicions. The check tested positive for ricin. Rita confessed. Hardy had offered the solution—a grim recipe using the castor plants in her garden. She supplied the beans, he ground them and dusted the check. Her job? Make sure Hollister opened the frame. Death, however, was a dish too cold for me.

Abandoned, But Not Forsaken

May 5, 2023May 5, 2023 ~ mstturpin ~ 1 Comment

Exploring the Old Zoo Nature Trail in Cisco, Texas

Entrance to the Trail – Photo by the author

There is something about deserted spaces that draws out the explorer in me. Horror fan that I am, I know these are the spots where the paranormal linger. I would trespass into every vacant house if it weren’t for the threat of arrest. Instead, I feed my curious spirit with estate sales, circling rooms recently emptied of their human inhabitants and filled instead with the bric-a-brac they have left behind. No ghosts linger there, the only thing wafting through these places is the scent of mothballs and menthol.

I’d love the chance to wander through an empty asylum, a shuttered convent, a derelict hospital building. Any place filled with spiders and memories. I first heard about the abandoned zoo in Cisco through a YouTube video. “We have to go there,” I told my husband.

We arrived in Cisco at noon, early enough for a picnic lunch, then headed outside town to the zoo. The zoo had operated in the 1920s and closed in the 1930s. In 2021, A nonprofit organization, SAFE (Students, Athletics, Families, and Education) stepped in to clear the trash and build hiking paths.

The Start of the Trail – Photo by the author

The trail wound through the crumbling remains of the concrete structures built to house the animals.

We wandered past rusted metal bars, peered into cave-like structures.

Had our path been lit in twilight instead of bright, mid-day sun, I might have imagined the sad calls of the creatures who had lived in these enclosures.

I wondered what had happened to the zoo’s inhabitants once the place closed. Even though I listened closely, I heard no whisper of ghostly growls – just the occasional whistle of a song bird.

We continued along the trail, past the animal pens.

Despite the sign’s promise – I spotted neither spiders nor a spider-shaped rock. As we passed the remains of an old foot bridge, the high notes of childish laughter drifted to us. Other hikers, not the specters of visitors from a century past.

We climbed to an overlook, to a spot marked “Cougar Rock.”

We left before sundown, before the spirits of past inhabitants appeared. No ghouls, just a lovely place for a spring stroll through the reminders of a past reclaimed in Cisco, Texas.

Everyone’s Taste is Not Your Own

March 24, 2023March 24, 2023 ~ mstturpin ~ 7 Comments

The past has flavor. It tastes like cherry popsicles melting red down your arm on a hot summer day. It might taste like Saturday night at home, watching the movie of the week and eating pepperoni pizza. The kind from a box kit, with tiny circles of spicy pepperoni swirled into the sauce. Sometimes it tastes like love and joy, like Friday night dinner out with your family – tacos and enchiladas and queso and salsa and chips hot from the fryer.

We drove up to Wichita Falls one Saturday, to explore the downtown and see if we could find something interesting in the antique shops. Along the way we stopped in Muenster at Fischer’s, a small grocery stocked with local products inspired by the town’s German heritage. I bought spaetzle and pickles and chow-chow relish. My mouth watered in anticipation of the tang of vinegar. Then, as we made our way to the cashiers at the front of the store, I spotted a box of Chef Boyardee pepperoni pizza mix. I hadn’t seen this product in the Dallas area in ages. I scooped up the last two boxes. This pizza had been a staple of my childhood and teenage years.

Photo by the author – Downtown Wichita Falls

In Wichita Falls, we trooped through dusty shops and searched for bargains, climbed creaking stairs in hopes of discovering treasure. We had left our drinks in the car, parked two blocks away. As the hot afternoon wore on, I dreamed of a cold glass of iced tea. After wandering through a maze of shelves stocked with foggy glassware, yellowed magazines, and toys with missing parts – Andrew and I decided it was time for an early dinner.

Photo by the author – Miss Kim judges your taste

Photo by the author – the seamstress

I had picked the restaurant based on the Yelp reviews. The place had been in business for decades and had racked up a reassuring 4.5 stars out of 5. Their specialty was something called a “red taco.” I couldn’t wait to try it.

“I don’t know,” Andrew said. “It might be too busy. If there’s a wait we can come back later.”

I agreed, but secretly vowed to suffer the wait. I’d dreamed of that taco the whole time we circled through stacks of broken typewriters and piles of musty books.

Photo by the author

When we arrived at the restaurant, I was thrilled when the smiling cashier told us to sit wherever we wanted. We squeezed into a narrow booth. A waitress popped by to take our order. Andrew decided on enchiladas and asked for queso in place of chili. I had a combination plate – a cheese enchilada and the long anticipated red taco. We added a bowl of queso to start.

When the waitress dropped off our chips and queso, I thought there had been some mistake and we’d been served biscuits instead. Each piece was at least a quarter inch thick and weighed enough to raise a decent welt if I chunked it at someone. The queso sported a suspicious pink tinge, as though the antacid were already blended into the sauce. A pudding-like consistency, it clung to the chips and quivered.

Andrew gave me a stricken look. “I added queso to my enchiladas.”

“Maybe they will mess up the order.”

However, our main meal arrived quickly and was just as we had requested. The famous taco was certainly red. A vivid, siren screaming red that could only come from a lifetime allotment of red dye number 40. The taco shell was thick like the chips, and possibly made from the same tortillas. Where had they come from? I’d never seen anything like that, unless you count the time I attempted to roll out my own corn tortillas at home. The refried beans were lumpy and unseasoned. My cheese enchilada was good, but there wasn’t nearly enough of it to justify the price on the menu.

I pulled up the Yelp app and read through the reviews. Had we stumbled into some alternate universe, one where everyone else thought this tasted fine? Like that Twilight Zone episode where everyone has a pig face except this one girl who believes she’s the ugliest person alive?

This time, I searched for the 1 star opinions. As I read through the ratings, one theme appeared throughout – puzzlement. Then I sorted the positive reviews. Most had one thing in common – memory.

“I’ve been going here since I was a child.”

“I always stop in Wichita Falls for a red taco.”

All around us there were smiling people dining on the chips, dipping into the queso. It must be tradition. So many restaurants closed during Covid. I can count on one hand the stores that are still open that also existed when I was young. How reassuring it must be to have one constant in your life, one place you can go and say you’ve been there for years? The food must taste better when flavored by memory.

The Onion Capitol

September 22, 2019 ~ mstturpin ~ 3 Comments

Snowcones_Fotor — My mother, grandmother, and aunt in Farmersville in the 1950s

The places we visit are never as perfect as they are in our memory. My grandmother’s house in Farmersville, Texas no longer exists. A remodeled version of the Dairy Queen I visited as a barefoot child sits beside the highway and still serves up chocolate dipped cones and cheeseburgers. You can see the Dairy Queen from the overpass where I used to stand with my cousin and spit on the cars passing below.

DSC03124_Fotor — Dairy Queen – Photo by the author

My husband and I drove up to Farmersville on the weekend, a short day trip from our home. Over bridges spanning the lake, past trailer parks and fireworks stands to the little town that was once the Onion Capitol of North Texas.

IMG-0718_Fotor — The Onion Shed in Farmersville, Texas – Photo by the author

The Onion Shed sits near the town square. In the 1960s I helped my mother and grandmother fill burlap sacks with discarded onions, the rejects spilled and tossed onto the grass from the railway cars where the Collin County Sweets were loaded for shipment. No longer filled with the round yellow bulbs, you can find a flea market there on the first Saturday of each month.

IMG-0719_Fotor — The plaque at the Onion Shed

Clay Potter Auction_Fotor — A portrait of Audie Murphy among the items for sale at the Clay Potter Auction House

We wandered through antique stores on the town square. I am always surprised to find the toys like those from my own childhood, stacked on dusty shelves and labeled “vintage.”

There were no toys in my grandmother Mattie’s wood frame house. A print of Jesus knocking at the door and a framed copy of the TV Guide with Johnny Carson on the cover decorated her living room wall. If I slipped from my mother’s view I would have just enough time to explore Mattie’s bedroom. I could hide under the fuzzy chenille bedspread and peak out through the fringe skirting the bottom where it brushed the floor. Visiting children were turned out into the yard, chased from the house by apron-wearing women too busy with cooking and serving to put up with our foolishness.

IMG-0723_Fotor — Window display – Photo by the author

Small towns often have treasures tucked away, to be uncovered by those with time and patience to wander. The post office sports a mural painted in 1941 as part of the Works Progress Administration (WPA).

Mual_Fotor — WPA mural in the Farmersville Post Office – Photo by the author

IMG-0714_Fotor

A short walk to downtown from Mattie’s house, over the railroad tracks and to the pecan tree shaded park, and I could find the snow cone stand there in summer. Crushed ice in a paper cone that dissolved as the treat itself melted to slush in the heat. But I could drink the last of it, my hands, lips, clothes stained red, purple, blue, green.

DSC03111_Fotor — Old Electricity Generator in the city park – Photo by the author

There were no snow cones for sale on the day we visited, but I bought a Dr. Pepper from one of the stores. Andrew and I sat and shared the drink on a bench near the old movie theater downtown.

DSC03105_Fotor — The movie theater in downtown Farmersville, Texas – Photo by the author

Closed for years, posters from films starring the hometown hero, Audie Murphy, hang on the front. I imagine my mother there on a Saturday night, palms slick with butter from the popcorn.

IMG-0720_Fotor

We ended our visit with a stop at the Odd Fellows Cemetery. My grandparents, Grover Cleveland Cullum and Mattie Elizabeth Watson Cullum, are buried there, as are their parents. We searched for their graves but couldn’t locate them. I hadn’t been there in years and the day was too hot for much effort. The one place in town that hadn’t changed but I couldn’t rely on my memory to find the family plot.

We did see some interesting gravestones.

DSC03115_Fotor — Farmersville 100F Cemetery/Odd Fellows Cemetary

DSC03121_Fotor DSC03113_Fotor

DSC03119_Fotor

“Some of these people were alive during the Civil War,” Andrew commented.

“Yes,” I said.

Tired and sweaty, we climbed into our air conditioned Honda and headed home. Past the shops downtown, the onion shed, the park, the railroad crossing, stopping at last near the overpass so I could hop out and snap a photo of the Dairy Queen. Then onto the highway and home, leaving behind the layers of memory. My mouth, dust dry as I lean over a metal guardrail, the low mournful train whistle in the dusk, the sharp scrape of sidewalk on bare feet, the candy syrup from a grape snow cone, icy cold contrast to a dog summer day. The scent of sweet onions, yellow and round as baseballs, hidden like Easter Eggs in the soft green grass.