Tuesday, June 30, 2009

New E-Zine 10FLASH Makes Its Debut July 1

Writer K. C. Ball has added a new title to her name, that of editor/publisher of the new e-zine, 10Flash. Debuting today, July 1, 10Flash is a quarterly which contains ten stories based on a specific theme and written in one of four genres: fantasy, horror, suspense, or mystery. K. C. writes about the forthcoming issue in her last post at 10FLash.

I have ten great pieces of flash fiction for you to read, all written around a common theme --a librarian traveling in a foreign country--and they are a nice mix of science fiction, fantasy, horror and suspense.

I’m pleased to report that there will also be an eleventh piece of flash to mark thepremier of 10Flash. The author of that tale is a surprise, but those of you who are devotees of flash fiction should recognize the name.

The authors with stories in the premiere issue are Megan Arkenberg. Alex Burns. D. J. Barber. Kella Campbell.Oonah Joslin. Erin Kinch. Jon Pinnock. Aaron Polson. Sandra Seamans. And me.

Jordan Lapp, managing editor of Every Day Fiction, offers up a one-time-only eleventh story. Stop by and feel free to comment.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Check out FFChronicles: Short Advice & First Sentences

At Flash Fiction Chronicles on Friday, I wrote a post using Heraclitus's "Character is destiny" quotation. He wasn't talking about "character" in terms of modern story-writing, but rather "character" in terms of personal integrity. However, those three words struck me as particularly appropriate for the writing of flash fiction. Here's an excerpt:

CHARACTER and PLOT: A particular character with specific strengths, flaws, and desires is put into a particular situation where he or she must take action and eventually resolve that situation either happily or tragically.

Who that character is (strengths and weaknesses) determines the action taken in the given situation, and therefore also determines the results of that action. This revelation of character under duress is why we read, listen to, and watch stories
. More...
Today I wrote about the importance of a strong first sentence in fiction, particularly flash fiction. Here's an excerpt:

In a story, especially a short story, the opening sentence, like thunder, arrests our attention, charms us, makes us curious. If it doesn’t, we’ll turn our heads, move on, and miss the show. More...
I also looked up famous first lines from novels. Here are some of my favorites. Feel free to post some of yours.
  • "I was born twice: first as a baby girl, on a remarkably smogless Detroit day in January of 1960; and then again, as a teenage boy, in an emergency room near Petoskey, Michigan, in August of 1974." Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides

  • "Last night I dreamt I went to Mandalay again." Rebecca by Daphne Du Maurier

  • "I sent one boy to the gas chamber in Huntsville” No Country for Old Men by Cormac McCarthy

  • "All happy families are alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."
    Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy

  • "Buck did not read the newspapers, or he would have known that trouble was brewing, not alone for himself, but for every tidewater dog, string of muscle and with warm long hair from Puget Sound to San Diego." The Call of the Wild by Jack London

  • "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was an age of wisdom, it was an age of foolishness, it was an epoch of belief, it was an epoch of incredulity, it was a season of Light, it was a season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair."
    A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

  • "As Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from uneasy dreams he found himself transformed in his bed into a gigantic insect." The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka

  • "Art Mathews shot himself, loudly and messily, in the centre of the parade ring at Dunstable races." Nerve by Dick Francis

  • "Tyler gets me a job as a waiter, after that Tyler's pushing a gun in my mouth and saying, the first step to eternal life is you have to die." Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk

  • "It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen." 1984 by George Orwell

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Fear, Matt Bell, and Frog mind


I've had a good week. One acceptance, one rejection, and finished--for all intents and purposes--my on-line story. Time to move on...

My mind wanders. Jumps around like Mark Twain's frog, but today is about settling in. I need to assess and reassess and figure out how to get myself back to work.

BUT it's not as easy as it sounds. I've challenged myself with "A Story A Day" challenge, 500 words, that a couple of my buds are doing in their writing group. And the first couple attempts were great. I even finished a story I sent to a contest. Maybe not my best effort in terms of overall theme, but, at least, I was pleased with the words themselves. I was feeling like I could lay them down in good order, specifically, vividly.

BUT this made me start to feel the need to be "serious."

Wait. I mean: SERIOUS with all the letters dripping sweat and tears, but I haven't been able to keep my butt in the chair since. Expectation of writing "seriously" always makes vacuuming the kitchen floor seem like Disneyland, my brain turning into Twain's frog.

Part of this came about because Matt Bell and Dzanc Books have launched a new mag and of course I'm thinking, ooooo, new opportunity. The Collagist. Appealing to the writer--and artist--in me. I want to write something good for that.

BUT this made me hunker over Matt Bell's How the Broken Lead the Blind collection.

I reread "Ten Scenes from a Movie Called Mercy" and TOTALLY FREAKED OUT. How the hell did he do that? And actually, what the hell did he do? I liked it. It felt effortlessly dense and beautiful and I had no idea what exactly it was.

So I sat down with a pen and began to deconstruct. Took the 10 scenes and split them into acts according to what I know about structure. And I see there's a definite fully-conceived structure here, but it doesn't quite fitttttttt the expected. Good, yes. Good for the writer in him and for the reader in me, but now I (the writer) have to think and consider and ponder.

Scene 1 is the beginning of a "movie, yes. Specific, but indefinite. The "writer/narrator" thinking about it. Three possible scenarios, long hallway, courtyard, the doorway of a country home, and two characters, a man and "you." A great line "Two objects in motion moving down the length of a line cannot remain separated forever." Fate, destiny, SOMETHING IS GOING TO HAPPEN."

Scene 2, specific AND definite. Play of light and dark, the man again and a child ending in a scream. SOMETHING IS HAPPENING.

Scene 3, not specific to the "movie," but specific to the story, silence now, no scream, unbalance, the meaning...

Well, let's just say it is powerful stuff, like that, something to be read the first time through for visceral impact, like the big ka-pow, something your body knows, but your mind can't yet sort it all out until you read it again. Definite rewards for repeat reads.

The bottom line for me, really though, is paralysis, because as a writer, I sure as hell don't have that kind of Nabokovian/Borgesian mind. But I'd like to!!! And there, right THERE, is the reality I'm trying to slip back into today. I CAN'T do what Matt Bell can do.

I have to be who I am. Not trying to be who I read because what I choose to read and appreciate is all over the intellectual spectrum. I just can't write at all those levels.

I need to take one of those long deep down-into-the-belly breaths and let it out slowly. Stop taking all this so damn seriously. Do what I can do. I'll get better the more I read and the more I write, and though it doesn't hurt to take apart someone else's work (I've done this with several pieces over the years--Julie Orringer's "Pilgrims," Bejamin Percy's "Refresh, Refresh"), it's GOOD to take apart someone else's work, I can't be that someone. I can only be me.

So now I'm going to sit down with my egg timer, no prompt, with a blank screen, fingers tapping, and see what happens. Then see if I've got anything in there that will come out if I tell it not to be afraid.

That's all any of us can do. Let the frog mind go and have fun.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Below is my final (for now) draft of Starkville

If you've read this piece before, in the version just before this current one, there's not much change. I think this is it for now.

I've worked on this story the way I usually work, consistently but with time gaps between. I'm happy with the final draft. I'm sure in a month or two, I'll reread it and consider some other changes.

One friend was concerned about the reference to a shotgun, a valid point, but when I read it, I see a desperate attempt at humor and distance by Kelly. For me, given where she lives, it fits. But I might change my mind.

So consider the draft below this post "the final" draft. In a day or two, I'm going to add it to my list of published stories.


Starkville by Gay Degani

I waitress at the Starkville Diner out on Desert Highway, about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, instead of one of those gold-colored uniforms with the scratchy white collars and starched aprons my mom wore back when she worked the counter.

Donnie runs a spartan little place here, easy for two people to handle, no real kitchen, the grill a one-eighty behind me. But I’m alone tonight because it’s the boss’s anniversary. Forty-three years with the same person. Not many marriages like that these days.

The place is empty so I’ve got time to ponder about what I'm going to do with my daughter. She's twelve and already has breasts. They say it’s the hormones they pump into chickens that does it. And what I remember about thirteen-fourteen for me, living in small town? I don’t want that for Beth.

It's time to get out, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes. Someplace, not too small, not too big. Suburbia, maybe, with real snow.

I'm wiping down the counter for the millionth time when the door opens letting in the sharp smell of sage and a white-haired old guy wearing a plaid jacket and polyester pants. His legs are so thin and crooked they could be made of manzanita.

I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.

"Hey," he says. "You got pie?"

"Lemon meringue, no berry." I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I'm smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.

"Lemon’ll do." He slides onto the stool opposite me. Puts his bony, spotted hands on the Formica.I let my eyes flick to his fleshy face and away. A down-on-his-luck geezer. They’re passing through most days now, more and more.

"Coffee?"

"Don't drink the stuff. You got whiskey?"

This makes me stiffen. An alkie. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags and place it in front of him. "How ‘bout some herb tea?"

He digs through the assortment, holds up a scarlet packet. “Only if you got Red Zinger.”

Nodding, I watch as he wrestles with the wrapper. Then, "Didn't hear a car. Someone drop you off?”

“Yep. Hitched all the way from California. ”

"Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Most people are heading toward California.”

“Been there, done that. Got my pie? "

I slide the spatula under soggy crust, try to shake off a tremor of unease. When I put the slice in front of him, he's staring at me.

He says, "You really don't know who I am, do you?"

I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Do I know who he is?

"Kelly, com' on. Think about it.” He takes a forkful of pie.

"How do you know my name?"

Cocking his head to the side, smacking his lips, he says, "You know, I'd die and go to hell for a good piece of pie…and a long, long pair of legs."

My head goes light. He's got faded green eyes, crooked front tooth. The same, but not the same.

I swallow hard and step back, hit my arm against the hot coffee urn. Pain jolts through me.

The man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, and pulls me away from the scalding urn. "What the hell? Are you nuts?"

I stumble down the aisle, my face wet. He comes around, quicker than I'd expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he pushes me toward the ice-maker near the sink. I try to side-step, but there’s no place to go.

He fills the counter cloth with crushed ice and places it against the burn. Holds it there. We're standing close to each other now and I begin to shiver.

I’m queasy with the thought. Ray Clary here, in this diner, an old man now with white hair and wrinkles mapping his suddenly familiar face. "What—what happened to you?"

But I know. Booze, drugs. He was skidding when he left, a drinker in a drinking town.

Finally he says in a low and weary voice, "I’ve been a stupid stupid man."

The crunch of an eighteen wheeler sounds outside, the spit of brakes. He drops the dish rag into the sink. The cold drip of melting ice soaks my hip.

The moment stretches like slo-mo in the movies waiting for the driver of the semi to come through the door.

Finally I whisper, "I...I have to work," and he moves out from behind the counter just as a heavyset trucker strides in.

I ask him to flip the open sign around to "closed." Serve him coffee, slap a hamburger on the grill, and keep an eye on Ray, slouched in the last booth by the restrooms.

I can see the young guy in him now, the Ray I used to know. The dip in his right shoulder, the slight angle of his head, and of course, his hands laid out in front of him side by side on the table.

I should've seen it right away. But how could I? I thought I’d never see him again.

Then I think of Beth. She’s at my mom’s right now like she always is when I'm at work, the two of them probably playing Double Solitaire at the dining table, Beth’s swinging legs visible through its glass top, Mom’s cigarettes fogging the light fixture.

"Miss?" The trucker's voice brings me back. He's pointing to the sizzling burger behind me. I flip it, dig for cheese in the tiny fridge, and glance back at Ray who's taking it all in.

Ray used to have a way with him, soft spoken, sexy, filling all the space around me with a breathless heat. He had this way of cupping the back of my head and pulling me to him. I loved the smell of the sweat on his chest, the thump of his heart …



My mom threw my suitcase out the front door. It split over and my black bra lay spider-like on the sidewalk for all the neighborhood to see. And they were there, Steve the Sleaze on his bike in his wife-beater tee shirt and filthy cargo pants. Nancy Thompson from next door hosing down her scraggly roses. Even Mr. Gettich, the retired math teacher from the high school, stood out on his lawn, his morning Gazette clutched in one hand, a stogy in the other.

The sun was blazing. It must’ve been noon and Mom was yelling. I thought the vein in her forehead was gonna pop.

I stomped out of the house, stepped over the suitcase, climbed into my old Honda, and took off.

That first night in Reno, Ray played Twenty-one and won $2700. He bought me a tight red dress and a pair of diamond studs. They were small but they were real.

We drank until we could barely stumble into the honeymoon suite. We made sloppy love just inside the door. I know because I woke up curled under the little table in the entry, the bed was unslept in, Ray was gone, back out into the casino.

He lost what was left of the money he’d won. I should’ve known then we were in trouble. Nine months later we had Beth and I didn’t see my own mother for six years.


“Excuse me, Miss?” Again it’s the semi-driver pulling me out of deep thought. He’s pointing at my hand where I’ve managed to knead the slice of American into a pulpy wad.

“Oh, sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten in to me.” I drop the cheese into the sink and pull out another piece.

The trucker looks at Ray, says, “That guy bothering you because—”

“It’s okay. I know him.” I'm whispering, not sure why.

He beetles his brows, shifts on the stool to give Ray a hard look. “I can take care of him.”

“No thanks. I’m fine.” I lay the cold cheese on the burnt burger and the burger on a plate. Reach into the fridge for a zip lock of lettuce, onion, and tomato and put everything in front of the trucker. Barely notice him removing the veggies from the bag and placing them on the burger.

Ray is still staring at me, no smile, but no animosity either.

Again I smooth my hair, thinking I haven't done my roots in a while.

I turn to the guy who's wolfing down his food. He flashes Ray another look when he sees he has my attention. Lifts an eyebrow. I shake my head, write up a ticket, and slip it under his coffee mug.

After the trucker leaves, Ray comes over and takes the plate off the counter, walks it around, and puts it into the sink. Turns on the water.

I grab a dishrag and head out the other side of the counter, lock the door, and start wiping down the four-tops.

Ray says, “You still got your admirers, I see.”

I scrub harder, shove chairs into place, move around fast. Then I whip toward him. “Why are you here? Just tell me in case I have to go home and get my shotgun and shoot you. "

“Hold on." He holds up soapy hands. "I’m not going to mess up your life. I promise."

"Well, that just isn’t possible, is it? Not unless you go on back to California this minute."

"I didn’t come to make things hard for you. "

"Then why the hell are you here?"

He turns his back, continues with the dishes, says, “I don't have any place else to go.”

"Great! Just great.” I throw the towel down. Look around for something else to throw. "You want Beth, don’t you? You're going to try and take her away from me. Well, she doesn’t need you."

I’m shaking so hard, it’s like I’m not going to be able to keep my feet. My nose is running, my eyes swimming.

Ray turns around. Says with a soft slur in his voice, “Sit down, Kelly, before you fall down.”

I back away, bump a chair, and fumble into it. Put my head down on the table top, the smell of onions and 409 greeting me like a friend.

And then his hand is on the back of my neck. Gentle. Brief. The chair opposite scuffs the floor and Ray lets out a little oomph as he sits down.“I’m not going to ask anything of you, Kel. You don’t owe me a thing.”

Kel. I’m facing away from him with a sideways view of the front door. Bleak darkness except for the windmill generators up on the hill beyond the highway, gleaming in a strand of moon light. Some kind of small truck passes. Then a sedan slows, scatters gravel, then speeds away. I haven’t flicked off the neon.

I lift my head enough to turn it toward him, keeping it close to the table.

“You left me,” isn’t what I meant to say, but these are the words that come from my mouth. I leave them there.

His hand strokes the back of my head so lightly I can barely feel it.

I ask, “Why did you walk out on me?”

He leans close so our eyes meet again. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t want you back.”

“I figured that.”

“I don’t want Beth hurt.”

“I won’t hurt her.”

As I lift my head, he sits up too. I say, “I make the rules.”

“Okay.”

“You have to earn it, the right to see her. Know her.”

“Okay.”

“Where you going to stay?”

“Up at my dad’s, I guess, if he’ll let me.”

“He’ll let you. But you can't see Beth yet. Not until I tell you.”

“Okay.”

“You’re going to have to earn it. I mean it.”

“I know.”

“It may take a long, long time.”

“Kelly, that’s all I got now, is time.”

I straighten, thinking, let him go up to his dad’s and settle in tonight. Let his dad ask all the questions I won’t.

Meanwhile, I’ll shut off the neon and lock up the diner.

Head for my mom’s, and with Beth sleeping in the back seat of my new Honda, I’ll drive east out of the desert, into the mountains.

Go at least a mile high to where the spruce and pine hold onto their lushness even as hard snow slams down from a pure white sky.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Here's draft number ??? Starkville

I waitress at the Starkville Diner out on Desert Highway, about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, instead of one of those gold-colored uniforms with the scratchy white collars and starched aprons my mom wore back when she worked the counter.

Donnie runs a spartan little place here, easy for two people to handle, no real kitchen, the grill a one-eighty behind me. But I’m alone tonight because it’s the boss’s anniversary. Forty-three years with the same person. Not many marriages like that these days.

The place is empty so I’ve got time to ponder about what I'm going to do with my daughter. She's twelve and already has breasts. They say it’s the hormones they pump into chickens that does it. And what I remember about thirteen-fourteen for me, living in small town? I don’t want that for Beth.

It's time to get out, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes. Someplace, not too small, not too big. Suburbia, maybe, with real snow.

I'm wiping down the counter for the millionth time when the door opens letting in the sharp smell of sage and a white-haired old guy wearing a plaid jacket and polyester pants. His legs are so thin and crooked they could be made of manzanita.

I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.

"Hey," he says. "You got pie?"

"Lemon meringue, no berry." I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I'm smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.

"Lemon’ll do." He slides onto the stool opposite me. Puts his bony, spotted hands on the Formica.

I let my eyes flick to his fleshy face and away. A down-on-his-luck geezer. They’re passing through most days now, more and more.

"Coffee?"

"Don't drink the stuff. You got whiskey?"

This makes me stiffen. An alkie. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags and place it in front of him. "How ‘bout some herb tea?"

He digs through the assortment, holds up a scarlet packet. “Only if you got Red Zinger.”

Nodding, I watch as he wrestles with the wrapper. Then, "Didn't hear a car. Someone drop you off?”

“Yep. Hitched all the way from California. ”

"Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Most people are heading toward California.”

“Been there, done that. Got my pie? "

I slide the spatula under soggy crust, try to shake off a tremor of unease. When I put the slice in front of him, he's staring at me.

He says, "You really don't know who I am, do you?"

I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Do I know who he is?

"Kelly, com' on. Think about it.” He takes a forkful of pie.

"How do you know my name?"

Cocking his head to the side, smacking his lips, he says, "You know, I'd die and go to hell for a good piece of pie…and a long, long pair of legs."

My head goes light. He's got faded green eyes, crooked front tooth. The same, but not the same.

I swallow hard and step back, hit my arm against the hot coffee urn. Pain jolts through me.

The man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, and pulls me away from the scalding urn. "What the hell? Are you nuts?"

I stumble down the aisle, my face wet. He comes around, quicker than I'd expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he pushes me toward the ice-maker near the sink. I try to side-step, but there’s no place to go.

He fills the counter cloth with crushed ice and places it against the burn. Holds it there. We're standing close to each other now and I begin to shiver.

I’m queasy with the thought. Ray Clary here, in this diner, an old man now with white hair and wrinkles mapping his suddenly familiar face. "What—what happened to you?"

But I know. Booze, drugs. He was skidding when he left, a drinker in a drinking town.

Finally he says in a low and weary voice, "I’ve been a stupid stupid man."

The crunch of an eighteen wheeler sounds outside, the spit of brakes. He drops the dish rag into the sink. The cold drip of melting ice soaks my hip.

The moment stretches like slo-mo in the movies waiting for the driver of the semi to come through the door.

Finally I whisper, "I...I have to work," and he moves out from behind the counter just as a heavyset trucker strides in.

I ask him to flip the open sign around to "closed." Serve him coffee, slap a hamburger on the grill, and keep an eye on Ray, slouched in the last booth by the restrooms.

I can see the young guy in him now, the Ray I used to know. The dip in his right shoulder, the slight angle of his head, and of course, his hands laid out in front of him side by side on the table.

I should've seen it right away. But how could I? I thought I’d never see him again.

Then I think of Beth. She’s at my mom’s right now like she always is when I'm at work, the two of them probably playing Double Solitaire at the dining table, Beth’s swinging legs visible through its glass top, Mom’s cigarettes fogging the light fixture.

"Miss?" The trucker's voice brings me back. He's pointing to the sizzling burger in front of me. I flip it, dig for cheese in the tiny fridge, and glance back at Ray who's taking it all in.

Ray used to have a way with him, soft spoken, sexy, filling all the space around me with a breathless heat. He had this way of cupping the back of my head and pulling me to him. I loved the smell of the sweat on his chest, the thump of his heart …



My mom threw my suitcase out the front door. It split over and my black bra lay spider-like on the sidewalk for all the neighborhood to see. And they were there, Steve the Sleaze on his bike in his wife-beater tee shirt and filthy cargo pants. Nancy Thompson from next door hosing down her scraggly roses. Even Mr. Gettich, the retired math teacher from the high school, stood out on his lawn, his morning Gazette clutched in one hand, a stogy in the other.

The sun was blazing. It must’ve been noon and Mom was yelling. I thought the vein in her forehead was gonna pop.

I stomped out of the house, stepped over the suitcase, climbed into my old Honda, and took off.

That first night in Reno, Ray played Twenty-one and won $2700. He bought me a tight red dress and a pair of diamond studs. They were small but they were real.

We drank until we could barely stumble into the honeymoon suite. We made
sloppy love just inside the door. I know because I woke up curled under the little table in the entry, the bed was unslept in, Ray was gone, back out into the casino.

He lost what was left of the money he’d won. I should’ve known then we were in trouble. Nine months later we had Beth and I didn’t see my own mother for six years.

“Excuse me, Miss?” Again it’s the semi-driver pulling me out of deep thought. He’s pointing at my hand where I’ve managed to knead the slice of American into a pulpy wad.

“Oh, sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten in to me.”

I drop the cheese into the sink and pull out another piece.

The trucker looks at Ray, says, “That guy bothering you because—”

“It’s okay. I know him.” I’m whispering, not sure why.

He beetles his brows, shifts on the stool to give Ray a hard look. “I can take care of him.”

“No thanks. I’m fine.”

I lay the cold cheese on the burnt burger and the burger on a plate. Reach into the fridge for a zip lock of lettuce, onion, and tomato and put everything in front of the trucker. Barely notice him removing the veggies from the bag and placing them on the burger.

Ray is still staring at me, no smile, but no animosity either.

Again I smooth my hair, thinking I haven't done my roots in a while. I turn to the guy who's wolfing down his food. He flashes Ray another look when he sees he has my attention. Lifts an eyebrow. I shake my head, write up a ticket, and slip it under his coffee cup.

After the trucker leaves, Ray comes over and takes the plate off the counter, walks it around, and puts it into the sink. Turns on the water.

I grab a dishrag and head out the other side of the counter, lock the door, and start wiping down the four-tops.

Ray says, “You still got your admirers, I see.”

I scrub harder, shove chairs into place, move around fast. Then I whip toward him. “Why are you here? Just tell me in case I have to go home and get my shotgun and shoot you. "

“Hold on." He holds up soapy hands. "I’m not going to mess up your life. I promise."

"Well, that just isn’t possible, is it? Not unless you go on back to California this minute."

"I didn’t come to make things hard for you. "

"Then why the hell are you here?"

He turns his back, continues with the dishes, says, “I don't have any place else to go.”

"Great! Just great.” I throw the towel down. Look around for something else to throw. "You want Beth, don’t you? You're going to try and take her away from me. Well, she doesn’t need you."

I’m shaking so hard, it’s like I’m not going to be able to keep my feet. My nose is running, my eyes swimming.

Ray turns around. Says with a soft slur in his voice, “Sit down, Kelly, before you fall down.”

I back away, bump a chair, and fumble into it. Put my head down on the table top, the smell of onions and 409 greeting me like a friend.

And then his hand is on the back of my neck. Gentle. Brief. The chair opposite scuffs the floor and Ray lets out a little oomph as he sits down.

“I’m not going to ask anything of you, Kel. You don’t owe me a thing.”

Kel. I’m facing away from him with a sideways view of the front door. Bleak darkness except for the windmill generators up on the hill beyond the highway, gleaming in a strand of moon light. Some kind of small truck passes. Then a sedan slows, scatters gravel, then speeds away. I haven’t flicked off the neon.

I lift my head enough to turn it toward him, keeping it close to the table.

“You left me,” isn’t what I meant to say, but these are the words that come from my mouth. I leave them there.

His hand strokes the back of my head so lightly I can barely feel it.

I ask, “Why did you leave me?”

He leans close so our eyes meet again. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t want you back.”

“I figured that.”

“I don’t want Beth hurt.”

“I won’t hurt her.”

As I lift my head, he sits up too. I say, “I make the rules.”

“Okay.”

“You have to earn it, the right to see her. Know her.”

“Okay.”

“Where you going to stay?”

“Up at my dad’s, I guess, if he’ll let me.”

“He’ll let you. But you can't see Beth yet. Not until I tell you.”

“Okay.”

“You’re going to have to earn it. I mean it.”

“I know.”

“It may take a long, long time.”

“Kelly, that’s all I got now, is time.”

I straighten, thinking, let him go up to his dad’s and settle in tonight. Let his dad ask all the questions I won’t.

Meanwhile, I’ll shut off the neon and lock up the diner. Head for my mom’s, and with Beth sleeping in the back seat of my Honda, I’ll drive east out of the desert, into the mountains. Go at least a mile high to where the spruce and pine hold onto their lushness even as hard snow slams down from a pure white sky.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

And the winner of the drawing is....

DDB1219, Donna Blomstadt, is the drawing winner of Little Sisters. Thanks to everyone who posted their favorite diner movies here. It was a fun project.

I will be sending out copies of the mystery anthology this week to the first three posters, Jason Stout, Alexander Burns, and Robert Swartwood, as well as to the winner, K. C. Ball, of the "Name the Diner Movie." That movie was Shack Out on 101.

So now it's back to finishing Starkville. I've taken a little vacation from it, but now it's time to get it finished.


Also please, if you have time, check out my recent interview at Women-on-Writing's blog, The Muffin.

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

I'm interviewed at WOW's Muffin today

Women-on-Writing has posted an interview with me at WOW's Blog The Muffin. If you get a chance, stop by and check it out.

THE MUFFIN

Monday, June 08, 2009

Working on the back story

Trying to get the scene between Kelly and Carl going, the one that put them together. It feels a little trite right now but I see that there's stuff there to work with. As usual for me, the deeper into the story I get, the harder it feels. I feel some kind of erosion of faith in the work, but I'm trying to block that out.

Here's what I've gotten this morning, but will work more later.

I should've seen it right away.

Beth’s at my mom’s, the two of them probably playing Double Solitaire at the dining table, Beth’s swinging legs visible through its glass top, Mom’s cigarettes fogging the light fixture.

"Miss?" The trucker's voice brings me back. He's pointing to the sizzling burger in front of me. I flip it, dig for cheese in the tiny fridge, and glance back at Carl who's
watching it all.

At least he looks sober. Breaks my heart he looks so old, only a few years older than me. I used to think he was sophisticated and being with him, I was same.

My mom threw my suitcase out the front door. It split over and my black bra lay spider-like on the sidewalk for all the neighborhood to see. And they were there, Steve the Sleaze on his bike in his wife-beater tee shirt and filthy cargo pants. Nancy Thompson from next door hosing down her scraggly roses. Even Mr. Gettich, the
retired math teacher from the high school, stood out on his lawn, his morning Gazette clutched in one hand, a stogy in the other.

The sun was blazing. It must’ve been noon and Mom was yelling. I thought the vein in her forehead was gonna pop.

I stomped out of the house, stepped over the suitcase, climbed into my old Honda, and took off.

Carl had a way with him in those days, soft spoken, sexy, filling all the space around me with a breathless heat. He had this way of cupping the back of my head and pulling me to him. I loved the smell of the sweat on his chest, the thump of his heart …

That first night in Reno Carl played Twenty-one and won $2700. He bought me a tight red dress and a pair of diamond studs. They were small but they were real.

We drank until we could barely stumble into the honeymoon suite. We made sloppy love just inside the door. I know because I woke up curled under the little table in the entry, the bed was unslept in, Carl was gone.

He lost what was left of the money he’d won. I should’ve known then we were in trouble. Nine months later I had Beth and didn’t see my own mother for six years.

“Excuse me, Miss?” Again it’s Dan the semi-driver pulling me out of deep thought. He’s pointing at my hand where I’ve managed to knead the slice of American into a
pulpy wad.

“Oh, sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten in to me.” I drop the cheese
into the sink and pull out another piece. Dan looks at Carl, says, “That guy
bothering you because—”

“It’s okay. I know him.” I’m whispering, not sure why.

Dan beetles his brows, shifts on the stool to give Carl a hard look. “I can take
care of him.”“No thanks. I’m fine.”

Saturday, June 06, 2009

Diners, Contests, Starkville, and throw-away-fiction

The What's-your-favorite-diner-movie contest is still on and goes until June 9, Tuesday night at midnight. Although the first three posters have won the prize--Jason Stout, Alexander Burns, and Robert Swartwood--post your favorite diner movies or diner scenes in the comment section at the end of this post or the end of any of the other two "diner posts," and I'll put your name into a John Steinbeck coffee cup for an opportunity to get a copy of "Little Sisters," an anthology of short mystery stories.

The first to name the movie featured here will have his or her name in the cup three times!!! Anyone is eligible. Comment in the comment section below.

Thanks for reading "Starkville." My plan is to finish it sometime this next week. Here's what I need to do.

  • Write the Reno scene and incorporate it into the draft.
  • Figure out the role of the trucker. Two readers feel he distracts and that's possible, but I want to see what happens if he "bookends" a meaty scene before I decide.
  • Next I need to read the whole piece making sure I have a strong structure, that there's a clear beginning, middle, and end. That there is always forward progress. And that the climax is both unexpected in some way as well as inevitable.
  • Then I need to go through and check the theme. Do I know what it is yet? Something about human connection being the strongest bond or that dreams sometimes melt away when reality happens??? I don't know yet, but once I decide, then I need to go through and look for opportunities to enhance that theme with specific details.
  • Once I'm comfortable that the story itself works and the theme is there to be found, I will need to work on language. Have I used the strongest most precise words? Is it clear? Does the language also support the theme, the characters, and the story? Are there any unnecessary words?
  • Then and only then I can take a deep breath and set it aside for a while to gain some distance.
  • Revisit the story. Proofread. Finalize.


I won't be sending "Starkville" out to any venues online or off because it has been "published" here, but I'll have it archived at my site for whomever wants to see how it developed. That's always been my intention.

And that's what I mean about "throw-away-fiction." Where these words came from, there will be something new to write with the next prompt, the next niggle of an idea, the next bit of overheard conversation.

Friday, June 05, 2009

Diner Pix!

So here's what I found today online: Blues Brothers,Of Human Bondage, Wildhogs, Waitress, Terminator, Road to Perdition, Pulp Fiction, Mystery Men, Mildred Pierce, Mighty Ducks, Kill Bill, How Harry Met Sally, Diner, Five Easy Pieces, The Big Lebowski, and Back to the Future.










































































Thursday, June 04, 2009

Diner Movies! List your favorite for a chance to win!

The experience of writing a story online over the last week or so (see last few posts for each draft of "Starkville") has been exhilarating and I'm not finished with it yet. I only now have a complete rough draft. Some fun stuff has come out of this too. You have until midnight PDT June 9. That's the Tuesday my Women-on-Writing interview.

The idea of a genre of diner movies is one of them so I'm having a contest.

In the comment section here, enter the name of your favorite diner movie and the first three who respond will receive a copy of the Little Sisters Mystery Anthology and the rest of those who comment will have their names put into a coffee cup and I will draw a fourth winner. Books and shipping costs on me!

But please first...a little conversation about diners and deserts.

Sarah Hilary said...
"Much grass" is new to me, Gay. I shall add it my list!Definitely you have cornered the market in diner-fic. For Brit readers (and watchers of TV and film) the diner is a strange alien setting because we don't have them over here. Some of my favourite scenes in films have taken place in diners, en route to somewhere else. Spooky places, they seem to me. Anything could happen sort of places. I forgot to say how much I love the title - Starkville - is it an actual place or did you make it up?

Gay Degani said...
"Much Grass" comes out whenever I want to type muchas gracias. My typing is slowly deteriorating so if I can make it easier for me, I do.

Thanks for the diner info. Funny but I'd forgotten about all the great movies that feature diners: Diner, of course, Five Easy Pieces... Oh there is that Pretenders music video in what LOOKED like a Brit diner...What a great topic for a poll post!!! LOL. You continue to amaze me.

"Starkville" I got from the dictionary while doing my daily prompts thing. Flip over the Oxford, run my finger down a column. Always looking for provocative, evocative.

And there it was: Starkville, Mississippi. I looked it up online and it doesn't look stark at all. The page I saw was about the town made it seem a little too nice a place to live to be in my story. There IS another one in Nevada, but this story is NOT about that town either. I've never been there.

So I slapped my FICTITIOUS Starkville down in a fictitious desert. Deserts are great symbols the stripped down to the essentials kind of life. A place of survival. A place to experience renewal. The Jews wandering in the desert for 40 years, Jesus wandering there too for 40 days, the pregnant Sarah Conner in her jeep heading into the desert... heavy stuff.

A desert is a place that can seem stark but is teeming with life and a moving beauty. So it works for this story.

I am always and will always be influenced by Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton. The book is a master class on symbolism and motif. Wharton's New England fictitious village was called Starkfield so I think that's why when I decided to do this, something was working on a subconscious level.
I did the prompts that day, including Starkville, then I decided I needed to supplement my post about process with a real example, so I grabbed the string of 10 that day and began the writing of this story on line. I do think now that it was running across the name STARKVILLE that gave birth to this whole project. Now I have to be sure and use it in a way that matters to the story.

Oh yeah. The prompts. The other word I used from that string was "luncheonette." That's how this story ended up in a diner! I love the way that works.

So here's a contest. Post your favorite diner movies or diner scenes in the comment section below. I will ship "Little Sisters" to the first three who do so and put the rest of those who do so into a coffee cup and send a fourth to one of them. It's an anthology of short mystery stories and one of mine "Oh, Hell" featuring Nikki Hyland is included. Midnight PDT June 9th is the deadline.

Wednesday, June 03, 2009

What Sarah Hilary suggests for Starkville

Sarah Hilary said...
Hi there. There is so much I love in this story, and it's been fascinating to see it unravel over the last week or so. Thanks for sharing that process with us.

Right, you asked for a brutal critique? (In fact it doesn't need one, as I think you already spotted 95% of what needed doing with it as you went along, but here goes...)

I like how you root us in the place and the action, straight up. That Kerry is here where her mother was before her, with Beth to think about and this nebulous idea of escape in the front of her mind. We know she's feeling a bit trapped, a bit flighty.

Then in comes Carl - great descriptions here and very nice dialogue and tension between them from the off.I'd get rid of "Huh... I feel weird." I don't want you warning us that way. I want to feel that slap Kerry feels when she realises who it is. The bit with the burn and the ice was perfect - we side with Carl a little here, he seems a good guy no matter how much he's changed.

This prefaced Kerry submission for me. If you don't want to preface that, then maybe you need to change how Carl reacts to the burn?

I wasn't so sure about the second diner coming in. There's a paragraph where Kerry starts to reminisce about Reno... I wanted that flashback. That would really give me what I need to judge Carl and Kerry and Beth as a possible family unit. The second diner and his watchful offer of help seemed like a distraction, a tangent - as if you weren't quite ready to write the flashback just yet and so this guy interrupted it.

I think we need the flashback - some more clues as to how Beth was conceived. Kerry was in love with Carl, right? Was he in love with her? Why'd he leave? Without at least a hint at some of these answers I don't think the ending quite works because we don't know enough to guess at what comes next. I like to guess - I don't need all the answers but I need enough to hazard a decent guess.

The quickfire conversation where Kerry and Carl agree terms for his seeing Beth does work well but I think we need a glimpse more of what's going through Kerry's mind. At the start of this she was feeling trapped (at least I read it that way), looking for a way out. Now she's thinking of staying and letting Carl into Beth's life. How does this resolve her worries over Beth's adolescence? Or her desire for a wintery place?

It's almost all there but it needs a little more layering, a little more resolution, I think.I hope these comments make sense. I've enjoyed following the creation of this - you write diner fic so damn well - and it's been a privilege to be involved. Thanks. S.

Gay Degani said...
WOW! Sarah! Amazing.

Yes yes yes about the Reno scene. It is absolutely key to everything, the lynch pin to the story. That will be fun to write though I have no idea what I'll say!!!

I wanted more flash backs--I wanted to do what Brenda Miller does in Blessing of the Animals weaving a present story with a past story, but I'm finding it hard to do that. Once I'm into a certain rhythm, I don't want for anything to jar it.

Perhaps that is exactly what the story needs, that jolt. That may have been my subconsious setting me up. It does that sometimes.

Actually that was the purpose of the driver coming in, a delay tactic not to delay me from writing the Reno scene--I didn't even know there was going to be a Reno scene (I swear) but to delay Kelly's having to deal with Carl, to weaken her resolve since she couldn't go at him right off the bat.

But absolutely I can make a move toward the weaving thing I want by writing that reno scene. I think...well, I'm not going to say what I think yet will happen. I'm going to leave that in the hands of the characters who have finally become their own people.

I added that "weird" line because I wanted the reader to feel comfortable with the idea that she didn't recognize him immediately. I thought something would tug on her something about him would make her uneasy. I have to think more about this. I know someone who I knew 10 years ago who was strong, outgoing, healthy-seeming though he drank all the time and now looks like someone's grandfather. That's what I want to reproduce somehow. Yep this I need to think about. It happens but I want to make sure the reader believes it.

And the ending, you are on the money again. It needs to reflect her original attitude, what she's thinking, how it works. I'm thinking that maybe this story will need to be a little longer. Perhaps have a scene later after he's been there awhile and "obeyed" her requests. But I don't want to tack it on. Hmmmmmm. Maybe if I do the flashback thing write a strong ending will come to me.

Sarah, as usual, you are amazing. Thank you so much and thank you for doing all this publicly. This has been a weird experience for me, but much less angst than I thought it would be. The story developed for me I think because I didn't let it go, COULDN'T let it go because then I would look like a whuss. (sp). I forced myself to sit down to it everyday and just write not worrying about if it was good or not, just letting it develop. Diner fiction? Is this a sub-genre of restaurant fiction? Is there take-out fiction? You make me smile! Much grass.

Tuesday, June 02, 2009

To the end I think...

I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette out on Desert Highway, about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, instead of one of those gold-colored uniforms with the scratchy white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back when she worked the counter.

The place is empty so I can ponder what I'm going to do about my daughter, Beth. She's twelve and already has breasts. I think it's time we get out of town, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.

I'm wiping down the counter for the millionth time when the door opens letting in the sharp smell of sage and a white-haired old guy wearing a plaid jacket and polyester pants. His legs are so thin and crooked they could be made of Manzanita.

I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.

"Hey," he says. "You got pie?"

"Lemon meringue, no berry." I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I'm smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.

"Lemon’ll do." He slides onto the stool opposite me. Puts his scrawny fists on the Formica. I let my eyes flick to his red fleshy face, moist eyes, thin flaky lips, a down-on-his-luck geezer. They’re passing through most days now, more and more.

"Coffee?"

"Don't drink the stuff. You got whiskey?"

This makes me stiffen. An alkie. Know it by the nose. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags and place it in front of him.

"How ‘bout some herb tea?"

He digs through the assortment, holds up a packet. “Only if you got Red Zinger.”

"Didn't hear a car. Someone drop you off?”

“Yep. Hitched all the way from California. ”

"Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Most people are heading TO California.”

“Been there, done that. Got my pie? "

I slip the spatula under the soggy crust and think, Huh, I feel...weird.

When I put the slice in front of him, he's staring at me.

He says, "You really don't know who I am, do you?"

I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Do I know who he is?

"Kelly, com' on. Think about it.” He takes a bite of pie.

"How do you know my name?"

Cocking his head to the side, smacking his lips, he says, "You know, I'd die and go to hell for a good piece of pie…and a long, long pair of legs."

And my head goes light. I know who he is. Double check his face. His faded green eyes, crooked front tooth.

I swallow hard and step back, hit my arm against the hot coffee urn. A jolt of pain goes through me.The old man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, and tries to pull me away from the scalding urn. "What the hell? Are you nuts?"

I stumble down the aisle, my face wet. He comes around, quicker than I'd expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he pushes me toward the ice maker near the sink. Fills the counter cloth with crushed ice and places it against the burn. Holds it there. We're standing close to each other now and I begin to shiver.

I’m queasy with the thought. Carl here, in this diner, an old man with white hair and wrinkles mapping his suddenly familiar face. "What--what happened to you?"

The ragged thread of my voice hangs between us.

But I know. Booze, drugs. He was skidding when he left, a drinker in a drinking town.

Finally he says, "I ever tell you how damn good you look in a pair of jeans?"

The crunch of an eighteen wheeler sounds outside, the spit of brakes. He drops the dish rag into the sink. The cold drip of melting ice soaks my hip. The moment stretches like slo-mo in the movies.

I glance toward the door and whisper, "I...I have to work."

He nods and moves out from behind the counter.

A heavyset trucker with "Dan" embroidered on his uniform shirt strides in. I ask him to flip the open sign around to "closed." Serve him coffee, slap a hamburger on the grill, and keep an eye on Carl, slouched in the last booth by the restrooms.

I can see the young guy in him now, the Carl I used to know. The dip in his right shoulder, the slight angle of his head, and of course, his hands laid out in front of him side by side on the table.

I should've seen it right away.

Beth’s at my mom’s, the two of them probably playing Double Solitaire at the dining table, Beth’s swinging legs visible through its glass top, Mom’s cigarettes fogging the light fixture.

"Miss?" The trucker's voice brings me back. He's pointing to the sizzling burger in front of me. I flip it, dig for cheese in the tiny fridge, and glance back at Carl who's watching it all.

At least he looks sober. Breaks my heart he looks so old, only a few years older than me. I used to think he was sophisticated and being with him, I was same. We’d go over to Reno—

“Excuse me, Miss?”Again it’s Dan the semi-driver pulling me out of deep thought. He’s pointing at my hand where I’ve managed to knead the slice of American into a pulpy wad.

“Oh, sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten in to me.” I drop the cheese into the sink and pull out another piece. Dan looks at Carl, says, “That guy bothering you because—”

“It’s okay. I know him.” I’m whispering, not sure why.

Dan beetles his brows, shifts on the stool to give Carl a hard look. “I can take care of him.”

“No thanks. I’m fine.”

I lay the cold cheese on the burnt burger and the burger on a plate. Reach into the fridge for a zip lock of lettuce, onion, and tomato and put everything in front of Dan. Barely notice as he removes the veggies from the bag and places them on the burger.

Carl is still staring at me, no smile, but no animosity either.

Again my hand smoothes my hair, me thinking I haven't done my roots in a while, then I realize what I'm doing. Turn to the trucker who's wolfing down his food. He flashes Carl another look when he sees he has my attention. Lifts an eyebrow. I shake my head, write up a ticket, and slip it under his coffee cup.

After the trucker leaves, Carl comes over and takes the plate off the counter, walks it around, and into the sink. Turns on the water.

I grab a dishrag and head out the other side of the counter, lock the door, and start wiping down four-tops.

Carl says, “You still got your admirers, I see.”

I scrub harder, shove chairs into place, move around fast. Then I whip toward him. “Why are you here? Just tell me in case I have to go home and get my shotgun and shoot you. "

“Hold on." He holds up soapy hands. "I’m not going to mess up your life. I promise."

"Well, if you’re here, then that just isn’t possible, is it? Not unless you get back on that road and go on back to California this minute."

"I didn’t come to make things hard for you. "

"Then why the hell are you here?"

"I don't have any place else to go.” He turns his back, continues with the dishes, says, “And you're here. And Beth."

"I knew it." I throw the towel down. Look around for something else to throw. "You want Beth, don’t you? You're going to try and take her away from me. Well, she doesn’t need you. She doesn’t need anything from you. And you’ll just mess her up."

I’m shaking so hard, it’s like I’m not going to be able to keep my feet. My nose is running, my eyes swimming.

Carl turns around. Says with a soft slur in his voice, “Sit down, Kelly, before you fall down.”

I back away, bump a chair, and fumble into it. Put my head down on the table top, the smell of onions and 409 greeting me like a friend.

His hand is on the back of my neck. Gentle. Brief. The chair opposite scuffs the floor and Carl lets out a little umph as he sits down.

“I’m not going to ask anything of you, Kel. You don’t owe me a thing.”

I’m facing away from him with a sideways view of the front door. The windmills up on the hill beyond the highway gleam in a strand of moon light. A pick-up passes. Then some kind of sedan slows. I haven’t flicked off the neon. I lift my head enough to turn it toward him, keeping it down on the table.

“You left me,” isn’t what I meant to say, but these are the words that come from my mouth. I leave them there.

His hand strokes the back of my head. I can barely feel it.

“Why did you leave me?”

He leans close so our eyes meet again. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t want you back.”

“I figured that.”

“I don’t want Beth hurt.”

“I won’t hurt her.”

As I lift my head, his sits up too. I say, “I make the rules.”

“Okay.”

“You have to earn it, the right to see her. Know her.”

“Okay.”

“Where you going to stay?”

“Up at my dad’s, I guess, if he’ll let me.”

“He’ll let you. But you can't see Beth yet. Not until I tell you.”

“Okay.”

“You’re going to have to earn it. I mean it.”

“I know.”

“It may take a long, long time.”

“Kelly, that’s all I got now, is time.”

_______________________________________________________________

I think this is a kind of ending. Not yet the perfect ending but I am beginning to see what's got to happen in this particular story. Now it's time to have someone read it. I'm asking my friend, Sarah Hilary, to comment on what works and what doesn't work here. I've asked her to let me have it. Be brutal because I'm too close to it to really see anything right now. Right now I'm a little surprised at Kelly's submission. I had no idea.

Monday, June 01, 2009

Last Night- Some progress, a ways to go...

I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette out on Desert Highway, about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back when she worked the counter.

The place is empty so I've got time to ponder what I'm going to do about my daughter, Beth. She's twelve and already has breasts. I think it's time we get out of town, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.

I'm wiping down the counter for the millionth time when the door opens letting in the sharp smell of sage and a white-haired old guy wearing a plaid jacket and polyester pants. His legs are so thin and crooked they could be made of Manzanita.

I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my half-filled Pepsi glass off the counter.

"Hey," he says. "You got pie?"

"Lemon meringue, no berry." I straighten up, tossing the rag under the counter, and before I can stop myself, I'm smoothing down my hair with a damp hand.

"Lemon’ll do." He slides onto the stool opposite me. Puts his scrawny fists on the Formica. I let my eyes flick to his red fleshy face, moist eyes, thin flaky lips, a down-on-his-luck geezer. They’re passing through most days now, more and more.

"Coffee?"

"Don't drink the stuff. You got whiskey?"

This makes me stiffen. An alkie. Know it by the nose. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags and place it in front of him.

"How ‘bout some herb tea?"

He digs through the assortment, holds up a packet. “Only if you got Red Zinger.”

"Didn't hear a car. Someone drop you off?”

“Yep. Hitched all the way from California. ”

"Aren’t you going in the wrong direction? Most people are heading TO California.”

“Been there, done that. Got my pie? "

I slip the spatula under the soggy crust and think, Huh, I feel...weird.

When I put the slice in front of him, he's staring at me.

He says, "You really don't know who I am, do you?"

I get a little dizzy as the words line up as a sentence in my head. Do I know who he is?

"Kelly, com' on. Think about it.” He takes a bite of pie.

"How do you know my name?"

Cocking his head to the side, smacking his lips, he says, "You know, I'd die and go to hell for a good piece of pie…and a long, long pair of legs."

And my head goes light. I know who he is. Double check his face. Damp faded green eyes, crooked front tooth.

I swallow hard and step back, hit my arm against the hot coffee urn. A jolt of pain goes through me.

The old man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, and tries to pull me away from the scalding urn. "What the hell? Are you nuts?"

I stumble down the aisle, my face wet. He comes around, quicker than I'd expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he pushes me toward the ice maker near the sink. Fills the counter cloth with crushed ice and places it against the burn. Holds it there. We're standing close to each other now and I begin to shiver.

I’m queasy with the thought. Carl here, in this diner, an old man with white hair and wrinkles mapping his suddenly familiar face. "What--what happened to you?"

The ragged thread of my voice hangs between us.

But I know. Booze, drugs. He was skidding when he left, a drinker in a drinking town.

Finally he says, "I ever tell you how damn good you look in a pair of jeans?"

The crunch of eighteen tires sounds outside, the spit of brakes. He drops the dish rag into the sink. The cold drip of melting ice soaks my hip. The moment stretches like slo-mo in the movies.

I glance toward the door and whisper, "I...I have to work."

He nods and moves out from behind the counter.

A heavyset trucker with "Dan" embroidered on his uniform shirt strides in. I ask him to flip the open sign around to "closed." Serve him coffee, slap a hamburger on the grill, and keep an eye on Carl, slouched in the last booth by the restrooms.

I can see the young guy in him now, the Carl I used to know. The dip in his right shoulder, the slight angle of his head, and of course, his hands laid out in front of him side by side on the table.

I should've seen it right away.

Beth! At my mom’s, the two of them probably playing Double Solitaire on the dining table, Beth’s swinging legs visible through its glass top, Mom’s cigarettes fogging the light fixture.

"Miss?" The trucker's voice brings me back. He's pointing to the sizzling burger in front of me. I flip it, dig for cheese in the tiny fridge, and glance back at Carl who's watching it all.

At least he looks sober. Breaks my heart he looks so old, only a few years older than me. Come back here because he's lost everything. No place left to go except Starkville.

“Excuse me?”

Again it’s Dan the semi-driver pulling me out of deep thought. He’s pointing at my hand where I’ve managed to knead the slice of American into a pulpy wad.

“Oh, sorry. I don’t know what’s gotten in to me.” I drop the cheese into the sink and pull out another piece. Dan looks at Carl, says, “That guy bothering you because—”

“No, he’s fine. I know him.” I whisper this. Don't know why.

Dan beetles his brows, shifts on the stool to give Carl a hard look. “I can take care of him.”

“No thanks. I’m fine.”

I lay the cold cheese on the burnt burger and the burger on a plate. Reach into the fridge for a zip lock of lettuce, onion, and tomato and put everything in front of Driver Dan. Barely notice as he removes the veggies from the bag and places them on the burger because Carl is still staring at me, no smile, but no animosity either.

Again my hand smooths my hair, me thinking I haven't done my roots in a while, then I realize what I'm doing. Turn to the trucker who's wolfing down his food. He flashes Carl another look when he sees he has my attention. Lifts an eyebrow. I shake my head, write up a ticket, and slip it under his coffee cup.

After Dan the Driver leaves, Carl comes over and takes the plate off the counter and walks it around, and puts it into the sink. Turns on the water.

I grab a dishrag and head out the other side of the counter, lock the door, and start wiping down the four-tops.

Carl says. You still got your admirers I see.”

I don't say anything. Scrub hard, shove chairs into place, move around fast. Then I whip toward him. “Why are you here? Just tell me if I have to go home and get my rifle and shoot you. "

“Hold on." He holds up soapy hands. "I’m not going to mess up your life again. I promise."

"Well, if you’re here, then that just isn’t possible, is it? Not unless you get back on that road and go on back to California"

"I didn’t come here to make things hard for you. "

"Then why the hell are you here?"

"I don't have any place to go. And you're here. And Beth."

"I knew it." I throw the towel down. Look around for something else to throw. "You want Beth, don’t you? You're going to try and take her away from me. Well, she doesn’t need you. She doesn’t need anything from you. And you’ll just mess her up."



Saved notes: So now the two of them have had their initial encounter, she's in a state of confusion and fear?? Not sure yet myself if he's a threat or not . Probably has to be. But it should be obvious. Hmmm. Don't know what kind of threat that would be, but there is forward progress here. We know there's a past relationship that probably wasn't healthy and he's lived a ruined life. His life now casts her life in a good light. I just realized that. Hmmmm...

This can't be good for Kelly. But what's going to happen? Is he going to threaten her? So I guess now the question is what does HE want? What is the worst thing he could want? How could he--this pathetically ill man (that's how I see him damaged and aged by booze and dope) threaten Kelly and Beth. Is that what he wants? What's the card he has to play?

But when he started working in the hospital--all that access to pills--things took a turn for the worse. He was a medical technician, something that seemed promising. An attempt to be a husband and a father...