Terry Allen Writes

The Good Medicine By Terry Allen Photo by Merlijn Simonis on Unsplash There was this little cafe in Paris. That is where he met her. Small and thin and so very pale, her lips were full and red and her bottomless eyes gleamed in the vesper light. She read the evening post, a small white cup of cafe au lait left untouched on the table. The steam that rose out of it beckoned him closer. He was entranced at the first sight of her. How she smiled at him over her newspaper sent a thrill down his spine. Her name was Contessa and he loved her. “What brings you to Paris, Monsieur…?” she asked. “Harry, Harry Ritter.” “Ritter, that is German, no?” “My grandfather. He emigrated to the States.” “An American, then,” she clapped her hands together and giggled. “How delightful. So, why are you in Paris, Harry Ritter?” “I’m a writer. I’m here sightseeing and looking for inspiration.” “These are strange times to go sightseeing.” She pointed at the newspaper she had folded neatly between t...

The Prisoner by Terry Allen Photo by Peter Forster on Unsplash My worries worry me in worrisome ways. I’ve not seen the sun for days, but with undisguised glee on the walls of this cell I write words obscene and scratch at the cracks in between. How long it’s been I cannot tell; I’ve not seen the sun for days. For my worries worry me In worrisome ways. My worries worry me in worrisome ways. The cracked mirror holds my gaze. The man inside I cannot free; he just stares and grins with teeth sharp and yellow. He seems a most unsavory fellow. A purveyor of uncountable sins, I’d not believe a word he says. Oh! my worries worry me in worrisome ways. My worries worry me in worrisome ways. I’ve been told crime never pays, and the judge and jury agree. To life they sentenced me. My soul they’ll dismember, till I no longer remember what it was to be free. So, to my silent god I pray. For my worries worry me, In worrisome ways. (c) 2024 Terry Allen

Photo by Pedro Kümmel on Unsplash The skiff sways on waters, the color of strong tea He casts his line near, a clutch of cypress knees Silence Waiting Nothing He casts again and waits The float bobs once, then twice and is carried, below into the depths He pulls on the rod and meets tension Slowly, ever so slowly, he reels in his catch But no, the line goes slack The hook is empty He baits his line and casts again and waits Silence. (C) 2024 Terry Allen

Hi Everyone! I am in the middle of moving things around here and working on a new novel project. In the mean time, look at this super old Star Wars Advertisement I found in the back of Alan Dean Fosters, 'The End of The Matter' from 1977

Ceraunophile By Terry Allen Photo by Elvis Bekmanis on Unsplash Hail to thee, O greatest Jove You, who sits upon a storm-gilded throne Fill the vault of Heaven, with thy mystic symphony Let the winds be thy violins, thunder thy drums, the rain thy choir Pour forth thy wrath, in notes of eighths and sixteenths Compose for us an opera Conduct a spectacle to put, Figaro to shame We await thee, Maestro! Thy audience yearns, To shower thee, with raucous applause! (c) 2023 Terry Allen

The Exorcist 1973 (Review) Film Poster Copyright 1973, © Warner Bros. Src IMDB 1973’s The Exorcist, directed by William Friedkin, is an iconic horror film that breathed fresh air into a then-stale genre. Prior to its release, movies like Psycho, Dracula, House On Haunted Hill, and Night Of The Living Dead were horror icons. But, I would argue none of these movies truly captured the nation’s consciousness in the same way as The Exorcist. You probably already know the plot, but for the sake of my word count; Ellen Burstyn stars as Chris MacNeil, a recently divorced actress. She has moved to Georgetown, Maryland with her daughter Reagan, played by Linda Blair, to film a movie directed by her friend, Burke Dennings. Reagan finds a Ouji Board in their rented house and inadvertently opens herself up to a spirit calling itself Mr. Howdy. Regan begins to exhibit odd behavior, culminating in a violent fit in which she stabs herself with a crucifix and rotates her head 180 degrees. Inte...

Night Walk by Terry Allen Image by Florian Kurz from Pixabay It’s the overgrown paths I seek, where cattails sway and pine trees, whisper sweet nothings in the bleak. Where uncertainty and unease, fogs my brain, and shadows dance in my periphery. There is my domain, in the wood’s twilight witchery. An owl’s cry splits through, a thousand crickets’ cacophony. Home is far from view, the sky lit like an epiphany, and released from my anxiety, I sigh, self-consolation. My soul filled with satiety, Freed of society’s damnation. Yes, those are the paths I seek. --(c) 2023 Terry Allen