For the last fifteen or so years I've been living with a bunch of dead guys at a motel in West Texas. Like the characters in my stories, I'd really like to move on, see the world, go places. But I'm just like them. Anchored by love, worn down by circumstances and fascinated by how much there really is underneath it all. So I keep writing their stories and tell myself that someday, when I've got this all out of my system, I'll write deep, meaningful literature about... something else. In the meantime, this is a place for the short attention spanned. I'm making a commitment to keep it small here. Flash fiction and scenes from the life inspired by, The Bella Vista Motel.
Romeo was in a hurry when he breezed through the motel lobby, keys in hand and the temporary freedom of the road in mind. A supply trip to San Angelo wasn't exactly a pleasure cruise, but hey, he knew how to savor fresh air sucked through a straw. And anyway, he had a good feeling that a new shipment of records from Sha-Sha was waiting for him at the post office, brand new recordings from jam sessions at 3 Dueces, Billy Eckstine's, Jimmy Ryans' and who knew where else – anywhere Sha-Sha could drag his wonderful recording machine and capture the wailing beat, beat, beat. Each shiny black disc he acquired gave him back a piece of himself, let him close his eyes to the dry, stir-crazy day after day and fool himself into thinking he was back home in the city. If he'd kept going right on through, he wouldn't have noticed the guest book, spread-eagle lewd right out on the front desk. But there it was, taunting him with its pages of tombstone roll-call, all the names he didn't want to see and more – a new name, a new guest, a new stain that wouldn't clean away, no matter how many times he burned that god damned book in the incinerator.