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.
Madge had seen women come and go at the motel. They fell into two categories as a rule, whores who tagged along with the men who came to stay, and whores from the Shy Violet in San Angelo who came over to service the men who came to stay. Either way, other women were an infrequent and insignificant presence at the motel and Madge had very little cause to do more than ignore them politely. Madge was the woman of the house who held her own among the ever changing gang of men by doing what she had always done, keeping her guard up and projecting a strong attitude of unavailability... as well as relying on their fear of Romeo to keep them in check. The vulnerability of a young girl in a servant's position hadn't occurred to her when she'd gone out and picked up Maria, but she worried about it now that Maria was missing and hesitated, grasping at the first thing that came to mind to hold Maria's little sister back, "Shouldn't we let your mother know?" she said. The girl whirled around and glared at Madge, her black eyes flashing indignation and contempt as she hissed, "Esa bruja no es mi madre."