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 smiled a smile that was little more than a tightening of the muscles at the corners of his mouth and considered Clark through narrowed eyes. Clark yawned, exposing Romeo to every tooth in his cavernous mouth, lifted his arm to reveal sweat stains as big as continents on a map, and sniffed at himself unhappily. “I’ve never needed a shower worse in my life,” he said. Romeo remembered the dream he’d had in the grove about the guest book, Joe’s voice saying, “You’re just going about this all discombobulated...” and the thought he’d had upon waking to kill Clark before he could make trouble, but he knew he couldn’t just off the guy before Mr. G said to. Then the thought hit him –– what if he didn’t check the guy in, what if he made it so somehow the guy was never a guest to begin with? Romeo spread a friendly grin across his face and said, “Hey, first things first, come into the kitchen and I’ll do better than a sandwich, big guy like you needs a decent meal...”