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 not a deer in the headlights kind of guy. He gave Clark a steady, noncommittal look to answer the man's inappropriate question, then turned back slowly and deliberately to the cooking food on the stove. He put the eggs and bacon on a plate, poured them both a cup of coffee, took a sip of his and looked at Clark's reflection in the night mirrored kitchen window. "What did you do?" he asked. The man met his eyes in that dark reflection and all thoughts of a quick easy end for the guy evaporated from Romeo's mind. "I didn't do nothing," he said with an ironic smile, "I saw something, something nobody was meant to see, and what's worse," he paused to poke his chest, strangely aggressive, "it saw me, too."