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.
The suicides irritated Romeo. As he scanned the names in the guest book – noticing three that had checked out the hard way – he heard the creaking moan of rope against tree limb coming from behind him, and sensed swaying movement heavy with death and alive with malice. In his experience, the ones who did themselves in had a deep, ugly kind of anger that wouldn't come out in the open to be dealt with man to man. You couldn't have a good fist fight with one of those guys, then shake and have a beer. They were more apt to scheme, and hold grudges, to wallow in self-pity and plan their exits in the best possible way to leave behind mess and upset for all – like the guy who blew his brains out in the pool, turning it into a giant bloody punchbowl, or the one who'd been so motivated to hang himself, he'd broken through the plaster in the ceiling of room number 11 to expose a beam – oh yes, suicides loved to make dramatic messes. And just because what they seemed to want more than anything else was the last word and unending attention, Romeo refused to acknowledge the possibility that there was really anything hanging in the tree behind him, and instead looked up at the dogs who stood watching the walkway leading back out into the motel courtyard with expectant expressions and wagging tails.