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 had to laugh at the sight of Joe, the man's big, simple face smiling beneath his undersized Yankees ball cap had always reminded him of the apes back in the Bronx zoo, but also because now he knew what was going on; he'd just dozed off somewhere, that was all. He looked around for his friend in gray — surely agent Ramiel would come along any minute to harangue him about all the harm he'd done to his immortal soul — but he saw no sign of him, just big Joe, doing up his fly and shaking his head as he said with a grin, "Romeo, for a smart guy, you sure can be dumb." Romeo raised his eyebrows, and put his hand out in a, "come on, let's hear it" gesture, so Joe went on, "We're signed in to the guestbook 'cause we're still here, and you can't get rid of it, 'cause you can't get rid of us, not the way you been doing things anyway..." Joe wasn't making any sense to Romeo, but he reasoned, that's how dreams are... except, he heard the sound of footsteps on dead leaves and saw that Madge had stepped out into the clearing, and though she was looking right at him and he could see her lips moving, he couldn't hear her voice, even as she came closer and stood right in front of him, right next to Joe, all he could hear was Joe, saying, "You're just going about this thing all discombobulated and if you don't figure it out..." Romeo felt a slight, "Pop," in his ears as Madge stepped in front of Joe, put her hands on her hips, cocked her head and asked, "What's the matter with you, why are you just sitting there staring at me?" Her quizzical gaze fell to the guestbook lying open on his knees and he looked down at the ledger columns, filled with various signatures, real, fictitious, dead, then smiled back up at her as he closed the cover and said, "It's all right, honey, I was just day dreaming."