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 took another sip of his coffee and swallowed the small lump of dread that tried to crawl up his throat. He'd seen this before, the guy was going to tell some crazy story, some unhinged shit that was supposed to justify his innocence, but instead would only prove they should have sent the men in the white coats after him. Romeo hardened his mind as he brought the plate of eggs and bacon and the other cup of coffee to the table where Clark sat, the food still steaming as he set it down. Clark looked up at him, eyes bulging with that needy desperation to let the poison out of his head, to share his misery with the nearest pair of ears, but was clearly used to soothing himself with food – he grabbed at the bacon as soon as Romeo pulled his hands away and crammed a piece into his mouth, folding it in like a stick of gum. Romeo went back to the sink, leaned against the comforting solidity of cool, clean porcelain and prepared to resist whatever infecting madness Clark would spew out. "So," Romeo said, watching as the guy gulped down his coffee like an antidote, "let's hear it."