“Some things are best learned in calm, others in storm.”
“Some things are best learned in calm, others in storm.”
― Willa Cather
― Willa Cather
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M. Golda Turner grew up in Lompoc, California, near the ocean. A graduate of California State University Fresno and Santa Clara University, School of Law, she practiced law over thirty years. She has published a variety of short stories and poems. She is working on novels inspired by her work in criminal and social justice.
M. Golda Turner grew up in Lompoc, California, near the ocean. A graduate of California State University Fresno and Santa Clara University, School of Law, she practiced law over thirty years. She has published a variety of short stories and poems. She is working on novels inspired by her work in criminal and social justice.
She is a member of: SLO NightWriters, the Coastal Dunes Branch of the California Writers Club, and PEN America.
Some of her short Publications
Tina's Case
Cuffed to the bench, Tina reeked of men. Her glassy eyes and mussed hair, the colors of coal, devoured the light from the cramped holding cell. She stared off at one of the navy-painted walls, as though she was still alone. As I sat down next to her, I wondered if she’d learned this kind of escape in motels, back seats, and alleys, changing customers by the half hour.
She’d only been caught with a dose of heroin this time. It kept our attorney-client conversation short. Tina shrugged here and there, still fixated on the wall, and nodded to take the deal. It should have been a forgettable case.
After she pled guilty, I left the courtroom and walked down the hallway. I tried to resist a mental clip of her eventual release. But it played on, with Tina standing on a street corner. A flimsy dress hung from her shoulders. Heeled white relics encased her feet. Brown sores and gray bruises, like the ones I’d seen today, littered her pale forearms and face. She lingered on the side walk, static as a corpse. People drove past shaking their heads or looking away, until a stranger pulled up.
For a moment, the scene transformed to her standing alone again. A long black sweater covered her body. She toted a cuddly teddy bear. Her pocked skin appeared healed. Tina lifted a thumb, trying for a ride to rehab.
Yet, even then, my mind could not repair the hang of her face. The pink scar on her wrist would not disappear. Passers still turned away. A stranger stopped again. The reel didn’t end until he rolled down the window and said, “Get the hell in the car.” It should have been a forgettable case.
Published in Vision and Verse II, A Fusion of Art, Photography, Prose and Poetry (2025), available for purchase on Amazon.
Derby Season
Derby Season
The front door scraped shut.
Dad’s cologne adrift while Mom called us to get up,
For a school or summer day.
When he came home from work,
My brother and I flew on swings in our back yard.
He watched the evening news.
Then Derby Season arrived.
Chuck and Dad hovered over wood and wheels,
Discussing and sawing.
My green Schwinn and I circled
Our driveway covered with a flurry of tools.
They hammered and drilled.
Finally, atop Cypress Street and 7th,
Mom tied a scarf over her windblown hair
And clasped my hand.
Father rolled son to the starting line.
At each match, Chuck steered to Soap Box victory.
He beamed, champion of the day.
Excerpt from a poem published in Vision and Verse: A Fusion of Art, Photography, Prose and Poetry (2024)
Available for purchase on Amazon.
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