About the old guy coming in the door

About Michael-- if that, indeed, turns out to be his name. Michael always was a drinker, in high school and after. Starkville has always been a drinking town, still is. But when he started working in the hospital--all that access to pills--things took a turn for the worse. He was a tech guy or a nurse, something that seemed promising. An attempt to be a husband and a father...

By nature, Michael is a crazy maker. He likes drama or at least he did. Now Kelly doesn't know for sure anymore. He looks so different, could he be any different? He is, of course, Beth's father. How could he not be? I have to decide whether they ever got married...yes, because that makes him more dangerous, gives him a legitimate claim on Beth.

What does Kelly think about when she's handing that burger to the trucker and trying to stay focused on his conversation. She thinks about Beth first. What she's doing right at that moment over at Kelly's mom. They would be practicing Italian because Beth wants to speak Italian and Kelly has gotten her Rosetta Stone tapes to help her. Beth wants to go to Italy and Kelly wonders if there's snow there. She wants to live in the snow. Cleaner air she thinks.

This is the next day. I wrote the above yesterday. I'm so annoyed. I'd written another 800 words or so but Blogger didn't save them and when I tried to post, I lost it. I didn't have time to rewrite. So I'm going to try and remember what I wrote. Dang.

Might have been worth abandoning the story because the Lakers won and the dinner at friends was delicious. So let me see if I can get back to where I was...

First off, I hate Micahel's name. I can't spell it so it's got to go. Who is this guy? What name works? Carl hit me. Okay for now he's Carl.

So there they are in the diner, unable to speak to each other yet because the trucker's come in and wants to eat a burger...

Oh last night in bed this part bugged me. How many diners just have one person there, especially at night? Doesn't seem right so I've got to give her a cook or at least a helper. I do need to make sure it's one of those diners that doesn't have a kitchen in the back, but one with the grill right behind the counter. It's a small place. We have one like that in Pas so I know that idea is authentic.

But still would she be alone and if I have someone else there, what other part would he or she have in the story. Or maybe it's close to closing, and she's forgotten to lock the door??? Doesn't matter yet. Not even to the end of the story so I can worry about that later.

What else did I think about last night? I read the blessing of Animals by Brenda Miller in Pushcart antho--wow what a strong story! I don't know if it's fiction or memoir since most of the fiction stories say the are fiction. What I liked about it is that it worked equally on two threads, the thread of the present=taking her dog to church (DOGS IN CHURCH!) and on a memory level= which began with the loss of pets to the illness of her father. The weaving was so smooth and the revelation or epiphany or whatever at the end made me cry. And made me realize I don't work hard enough at this.

Anyway. My point. The weaving of the past. Some semblance of that might work in this story because she has a past with Carl that I'm not one hundred percent certain about yet. And she has to see this visit from him as a threat so I've got to figure that out. So things she can think about in this time when the trucker is distracting her from Carl is 1) her daughter 2) her past with Carl and 3) what does Carl want.

I think last night the part I lost was a discussion of what Carl might want. He's here because he's lost everything and he has no place to go except to the one place that holds something for him: Starkville where his wife and daughter are. Man I just realized I lost a lot...

Carl could want to stake a claim on Beth but I think I dismissed that idea last night. I decided he now states that all he wants is to be around the edges, to be a part of Beth's life in any little way that kelly will allow, but Kelly might see this as a burden.

She's been planning to leave town to take Beth and try someplace new. Does she have an obligation to stay now that Carl has shown up after all these years. what is he to her now. I remember I decided that there needs to be a good memory of Carl and Kelly for her. A memory that cannot be prom, or graduation, or anything that seems to be an event. It needs to be a quiet memory, one of those fleeting moments we all have that we know won't last but we soak it in as the climax of our lives so far...

Oh and Starkville. I need to figure out what I want to do with that. So far all I've done is put it in the desert.

That's all I can remember. There was more. But I need to cogitate.

Third Day- Another run...What's the structure look like so far?

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.

This is the introduction. "Who" is the waitress, "when" is night and "where" is Starkville which now has relocated to the desert in an unnamed state so as not to get any details wrong by having people assume it's Starkville Mississippi about which I know nothing. "What" seems to be a woman worried about her daughter. Two generations of this family so far living in Starkville have been waitresses and this woman wants more for her daughter. Thinking about a different kind of world for both of them. Still need to remember all that could stand in their way. "How" is will she get what she wants? We don't know but the appearance of the old guy coming through the door probably means something. And so far that's happening. "Why?" Don't know yet, haven't come up with a sentence yet to represent the theme because I don't know what it is yet.

I know the theme possibilities have to do with the past coming to haunt the present, escape, changing one's life, things like that. So far though, for now, this intro does what it needs to do to get me at least to the end of the story.

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, his moist eyes. His thin lips are cracked and flaky, like he doesn't drink enough water. A down-on-his-luck geezer. Me seeing them every day now, more and more.

"Coffee?"

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

This makes me smile. 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, weird. Something's going on...

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

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

Okay to this point these two have checked each other out and now they are about to reveal secrets. This works. Maybe there should be more but I don't know what it is yet I need to add.

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." Takes a bite of pie.

"How do you know my name?"

"I'd die and go to hell for a good piece of pie," he says cocking his head to the side, smacking his lips. "And a long, long pair of legs. " He drops his eyes as if he can see mine hidden by the counter.

And I know who he is. Damp faded green eyes, crooked front tooth .

I step back and my arm bumps the hot coffee urn. I swallow hard and feel like a jolt the burning pain from the hot pot on my arm.

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

My face is wet as I stumble down the narrow aisle, but he comes around, quicker than I'd expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he nudges me toward the ice maker near the sink. Fills the cloth I use to wipe down the counter with crushed ice and places it against the burn. Holds it there.We're standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me.

Can't believe it. Queasy with the thought. Michael here, in this diner, an old man with white hair and wrinkles mapping his suddenly familiar face.

"What--what happened to you?"

But I know. Booze, probably drugs. He's been skidding since he left.

The ragged thread of my voice hangs between us.

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

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 relationhip 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...

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 "Clancy" embroidered on his uniform shirt strides in. I ask him to flip the open sign around to "closed." Serve him coffee, put a hamburger on the grill, and keep an eye on Michael, slouched in the last booth by the restrooms.

I can see the young guy in him now, the Michael I used to know. His white hair that used to be black, the dip of his right shoulder, and of course, his hands laid out in front of him side by side on the table. I should've seen it right away.

"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 Michael who's watching it all.

Then I freeze. Think of Beth. He's gonna wanna see Beth.

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?

Day Three-Is this ever going to turn into anything?

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, his moist eyes. His thin lips are cracked and flaky, like he doesn't drink enough water. A down-on-his-luck geezer. Seeing them every day, more and more.

"Coffee?"

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

This makes me smile. An alkie. Knew 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.”

"I 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, weird.

When I put the pie 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. Know who he is?

"Kelly, com' on. Think about it ."

"How do you know my name?"

"Good pie," he says cocking his head to the side, smacking his lips. "I'd die and go to hell for a good piece of pie...and a long, long pair of legs. " He drops his eyes as if he can see mine hidden by the counter.

And I know who he is.

I step back and my arm bumps the hot coffee urn. His damp eyes are faded green, front tooth crooked. I swallow hard and feel like a jolt the burning pain from the hot pot on my arm.

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

My face is wet as I stumble down the narrow aisle, but he comes around, quicker than I'd expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he nudges me toward the ice maker near the sink. Fills the cloth I use to wipe down the counter with crushed ice and places it against the burn. Holds it there.We're standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me.

I can't believe it. I'm queasy with the thought. Michael here, in this diner, an old man with white hair and wrinkles mapping his face.

"What--what happened to you?" But I know. Booze, probably drugs. He's been skidding since he left.

The ragged thread of my voice hangs between us. 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. A moment.

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

He nods and moves out from behind the counter.

A heavyset guy strides in. I ask him to flip the open sign around to closed. Serve him coffee, put a hamburger on the grill, and keep an eye on Michael, slouched in the last booth by the restrooms.

I can see the young guy in him now, the Michael I used to know. His white hair almost black, the dip of his right shoulder, and of course, his hands laid out in front of him side by side on the table. I should've seen it right away.

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

Then I freeze. Beth. He's gonna wanna see Beth.

Second Day, Fourth Look

I like to read through a piece I'm working before I head off to bed and change what I can, but usually my brain is dead. More important for me is reminding my subconscious that there's a story developing.
_________________________________________________________________
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, legs 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 wrinkled, face, his faded green eyes. His thin lips are cracked and flaky, like he doesn't drink enough water. A down-on-his-luck geezer. Seeing them every day, more and more.

"Coffee?"

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

This makes me smile. But my back's turned so he can't see it. 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.”

"I 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, something's weird.

When I put the pie 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. Know who he is?

"Kelly, com' on. Think about it ."

"How do you know my name?"

"Good pie," he says. "I'd die for a good piece of pie...and a pair of long, long legs. " He drops his eyes. And I know who he is.

I step away from the counter and my arm bumps against the hot coffee urn. The creases around his eyes, the crooked front tooth. I swallow hard and burning pain jolts through me. The man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, as he pulls me away from the coffee pot.

"What the hell? Are you nuts?"

My face is wet as I stumble down the narrow aisle, but he comes around, quicker than I'd expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he nudges me toward the ice maker near the sink. Fills the cloth I use to wipe down the counter with crushed ice and places it against the burn. Holds it there.

We're standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me. I can't believe it. Michael here, in this diner, an old man with white hair and wrinkles mapping his face.

"What--what happened to you?"

"You still look great in a pair of jeans." The ragged thread of his voice hangs between us.

The crunch of 18 tires outside, the spit of brakes, the cold drip of melting ice on my hip, his hand dropping the dish rag into the sink. A moment.

I glance toward the door and whisper, "I have to work." He nods and moves out from behind the counter as a heavyset guy strides in.

I serve coffee, put a hamburger on the griddle, and keep an eye on Michael, slouched in the last booth by the restrooms. I can see it now. The white hair less wavy than it used to be still holds the familiar shape, the dip of his right shoulder lower than the left, and of course, his hands laid out in front of him side by side on the table. I should've seen it right away.

"Miss?" The trucker's voice brings me back. He's pointing to the frying burger right in front of me beginning to smoke. I flip it and glance back at Michael who's watching.







Now I'll never see ice-boats on Lake Michigan.

Second Day, Third Fly-Thru

***Okay so this is where I have to think about exactly who this guy should be.

He could be her brother, her lover, her son, her husband, her father, her uncle, a stranger who just reminds her of someone. Okay so if this story is about wanting to blow this town, what would the worst thing be for her? That his appearance might force her to stay.

And who would do that? First thought that he is Beth’s father of course. Come back to see her, perhaps even to lay claim to her. And if this is true, wouldn’t she immediately recognize him.

Oh. What if he looks like an old man, done in by drugs and living on the street? She doesn’t recognize him because his hair has turned white and he’s rail thin and gaunt. She’s hated and resented him for years but here he is in front of her pathetic? Try this.

_________________________________________________________________

I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette out on the Desert Highway, just down the road from Clancy's Oil and Lube and 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 she's already got some 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 tattered plaid jacket and polyester pants. I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me by surprise. I slip my own 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." Grinning he slides onto the stool opposite to me. Puts his scrawny fists on the formica.

I let my eyes flick up to his wrinkled, sun-burned face, fading green eyes, crooked front teeth. His thin lips are cracked and flaky, like he doesn't drink enough water. A down-on-his-luck old geezer. Seeing more of them every day. "Coffee?"

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

This makes me smile. But my back is turned now so he can't see it. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea and place it in front of him.

"How ‘bout some herb tea?"

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

"I 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.”

“I been there, done that. Got my pie? "

I turn away to get that last piece for him and think, huh, there's something about this guy.

When I put the pie 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. Know who he is? He holds his fork like a gentleman. For some reason I thought he'd have that prison grip thing going on.

"Kelly, com' on. Think about it ."

"How do you know my name?"

"Good pie," says the guy. "I'd die for a good piece of pie and a pair of long, long legs. " He smirks and our eyes meet.

And I know who he is.

I take a step back away from the counter and the back of my arm bumps against the hot coffee urn, but the heat doesn't penetrate to my head.

I swallow hard and then the burning pain jolts through me.

The man stretches over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, as he grabs me away from the coffee pot. "What the hell? Are you nuts?"

My face is wet as I pull away and clutching my arm, I scurry down the narrow aisle, but he comes around, quicker than I'd expect and stops me. Hand on my shoulder, he nudges me to ice maker near the sink. Grabs the cloth I use to wipe down the counter and fills it with crushed ice and places it on my arm. Holds it there. We're standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me.

I can't believe it. This is an old man with white hair, a network of wrinkles across his gaunt face, legs so thin and crooked they could be made of manzanita.

blah blah blah here is where they confront and reveal and she decides what her course will be.




Now I'll never see ice-boats on Lake Michigan.

_______________________________________________________________

Have a lunch day and need clean hair. More later...

Dare ya two!

Okay so I've got a start going here. 438 words, half way to a thousand, but that's irrelevant right now.

I have setting: Starkville Luncheonette at night.
Question: Luncheonette open at night??? Won't worry about that right now.

Got characters: The narrator, don't know her name, who has a daughter and she seems to be one in a line of waitresses. Doesn't want that for her own daughter. Like that. That works. And a stranger who gives off mixed-signals. Wearing a jacket and shorts. No car. Homeless? Is this a fantasy thing? NO!

Story problem 1 (what does the main character want?): She wants out of her rut and her town and into a new life that's the opposite of what she has.

Story problem 2 (plot and main arc): Don't know yet. What does this stranger offer her? Does he have the capacity to offer her anything? Is he dangerous? If not what could he teach her?


What stands in her way? Not enough money, lethargy, lack of education, her mother??? An old boyfriend?

Theme: Hmmm... obviously wanting a new life, to get out of the rut she's born into. But that what she wants . What's the theme? How does this idea apply to me? Rut. In a rut.

What might the quotation in the prompt give me: It is not necessary for the public to know whether I am joking or whether I am serious, just as it is not necessary for me to know it myself. –Salvador Dali

Words not used from the prompt: -DYSPEPSIA-FLUCTUATE-ETON JACKET-ICE BOAT-REVERBERANT Do the suggestion anything? I got pie. Could I sub flatulate for fluctuate? That goes with dyspepsia. Eton jacket? Can I change his plaid one for the eton? Would this girl even know what that was? No. There's hope maybe for reverberant....

Possible key words: Escape, freedom, self-actualization, taking action...

Okay lemme see what going to happen.

_________________________________________________________________

I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette on State Hwy. 41, just down the road a bit from Clancy's Grease and Lube and 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 in the day 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. Her name is Beth, she's twelve, and she's already got some breasts. I think it's time we get out of town, leave the river and the coal mine behind, 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 a thin guy wearing a plaid jacket and shorts comes in the door. I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me a little by surprise. I slip take my own 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." Grinning he slides onto the stool opposite to me. Puts his large fists on the table. No wedding ring. Let my eyes flick up to his sun-burned face, green eyes, slightly crooked front teeth. Nice cheek bones. Ditto mouth, though his lips are a little cracked, even flaky, like he doesn't drink enough water.



"Coffee?"



"You got herb tea?"



Herb tea? This makes me smile. But my back is turned now so he can't see it. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags. "Where's your car?"



"I walked. I been walking all night." Now that he says this I can see that his jacket is dusty his dark hair greasy.



"Walked from where? Nothing out here."



"Louisiana."



"You a hobo?"



"That's a word you don't hear these days?" he says.



"Well, the train does go by here. You look like you're moving through."



"I'm not. I'm staying."



"Oh." I shrug and turn away to get that last piece of lemon pie for him and there's something queasy going on in my stomach. This guy's kind of nice looking, but weird too and I'm thinking maybe I need to call old Deputy Dave. When I put the pie in front of him, I meet his eyes and he meets mine.



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. Know who he is? Why would I...

"Kelly, com' on. Think about it."

"How you know my name?" He holds his fork like a gentleman. For some reason I thought he'd have that prison grip thing going on. Jail?


"Good pie," says the guy. "I'd die for a good piece of pie and a pair of long, long legs. " He smirks and again our eyes meet. And I know who he is. I take a step back away from the counter and the back of my arm bumps against the hot coffee urn, but the heat doesn't penetrate to my head. I swallow hard and then a searing pain jolts through me.

The man leaps over the counter, his dish and fork clattering to the linoleum, as he grabs me away from the coffee pot. "What the hell? Are you nuts?"

My face is wet as I pull away and clutching my burned arm, scurry down the narrow aisle, but he comes around and stops me, his hand on my shoulder, guiding me to tub of crushed ice near the sink. He grabs the cloth I use to wipe down the counter and fills it with the ice and places it on my arm. Holds it there. We're standing close to each other now and a shiver goes through me.

Now I'll never see ice-boats on Lake Michigan.
___________________________________________________________________

Now if Ron Carlson were here he would NOT let me stop . I haven't told who this guy is yet or what he's got to do with Kelly. But I don't know, not yet. And since this is public, I'm giving myself permission cogitate. And I'm thirsty and I need to check the mail and do a couple things...

Dare ya!

Thinking about writing a post for here this AM by either commenting on my need to spend time on my novel or complaining about spaced-out grocery baggers who love to put bottles of tea on my tomatoes?

OR should I ignore the blog and go write a story (begin one, edit an old one, get back to the novel instead of blogging about getting back to the novel?)

Then bam! Why not write a story here using the prompt I posted today? Do it all real-time, warts and all?

First thought: If I do it here, won't I be mortified if it's crap?

Thought 2: And it will be crap because it will be first words, first thoughts.

Thought 3: But what if in the end it has juice ? I won't be able to send it out, will I?

Thought 4: Aren't I the one who preaches about "disposable fiction?" Get over yourself, Gay.

Disposable fiction? Have I mentioned this concept here? Let me do that briefly.

Like so many writers, especially writers who are just figuring out how ugly courier really is, I used to think that any half-way decent thought, sentence, paragraph return was precious if I actually managed to produce it. I'd cling to it as if it had been written on clay tablets. I'd totally rework a story around that one surprisingly lyrical bit so I could keep it. The result of course was convoluted crap.

And that's exactly the way to become a convoluted crap writer. Not my overall goal.

So at some point, over time, I came up with the idea of thinking of my initial writing as "disposable." This wasn't easy because I was so afraid that if I wrote a good line or created an evocative image, I'd never come up with something quite as good ever again. But that's nuts. Not only does a writer come up with reams of stuff, it steadily gets better the more you toss out there.

So with all that in mind, I'm going to write a piece of throw-a-way fiction in this spot. I'm not going to worry about if it's good, going to be good, going to get me into Smokelong. I'm just going to see what happens. For the fun of it. For the hell of it.

I'm going to use the prompt I posted at EDF's Flash Fiction Chronicles today and I'm going to set a timer. 20 minutes. I'm not going to edit it now. When the bell rings, I'm going to quit. Step away from the words, regardless of how shitty they are. And come back to them later. I can always throw them away.

Here's the prompt:

PEPSI-DYSPEPSIA-FLUCTUATE-ETON JACKET-ICE BOAT-BLUE GOOSE-STARKVILLE-LUNCHEONETTE-PONDER-REVERBERANT

It is not necessary for the public to know whether I am joking or whether I am serious, just as it is not necessary for me to know it myself. –Salvador Dali

It's 7:30: GO!

___________________________________________________________________

I waitress at night at the Starkville Luncheonette on State Hwy. 41, just down the road a bit from Clancy's Grease and Lube and about a mile before the first real intersection in town. Donnie lets me wear jeans and t-shirts, thank goodness, not a one of those scratchy gold-colored uniforms with the white collars and starched aprons that my mom wore back in the day 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. Her name is Beth, she's twelve, and she's already got some breasts. I think it's time we get out of town, leave the river and the coal mine behind, head somewhere that has a winter to it, where blue geese dip through gray skies and aand old men build wooden houses on icy lakes.

I'm wiping down the counter for the millioneth time when a thin guy wearing a plaid jacket and shorts come in the door. I didn't hear a car or truck out on the gravel so he takes me a little by surprise. I take my own 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." Grinning he slides onto the stool opposite to me. Puts his large fists on the table. No wedding ring. Let my eyes flick up to his sun-burned face, green eyes, slightly crooked front teeth.

"Coffee?"

""You got herb tea?"

Herb tea? This makes me smile. But my back is turned now so he can't see it. I pull the lever on the hot water. Grab a basket of tea bags. "Where's your car?"

"I walked. I been walking all night."

Now that he says this I can see that his jacket is dusty his dark hair greasy. "You a hobo?"

"That's a word you don't hear these days?" he says.

"Well, the train does go by here. You look like you're moving through."

"I'm not. I'm staying."

"Oh." I shrug and turn away to get that last piece of lemon pie for him and there's something queasy going on in my stomach. This guys kind of nice looking, but wierd too and I'm thinking maybe I need to call old Deputy Dave.

"Good pie," says the guy. He holds his fork like a gentleman. I'm surprised because for some reason I'd thought he'd have that prison grip thing going on.

___________________________________________________________________

7:52. Buzzer went off but I had to finish my thought. Will check this out later and see what I've got

Kris came in first and so did I!

Actually, it's not official yet because I haven't heard from Women on Writing, but good friend Madeline emailed me a congrats so I beat it over to WOW, and WOW (now I know why they call it that), I won first place. This is sooo cool.

Go here to read about WOW's Winter 2009 Flash Fiction Contest, then scroll down and you can read, "Beyond the Curve." I want to thank Janet Reid for choosing my story, a literary agent with FinePrint Literary Management. I'm honored!

Kris Allen, Adam Lambert, & AI : Should we care?

I'm a fan of Kris Allen. Downloaded everything he sang on American Idol to my ipod along with the works from Adam, Gokey, and Matt. A couple Allison's, two from Anoop-dog and two from Lil Rounds. Total playlist? Fabulous. Who makes me smile the most? Kris.

So do I care who won? No. Should you? I have no idea, but here are my thoughts.

Adam Lambert is undeniably the dominant performer with the "whole package." He's the Elvis, the Robert Plant, the Freddie Mercury, the Steve Tyler of NOW and as Paula is wont to say: "You're the icon, you're iconic, icon, iconical, you, take it in, this is your moment...." And she's right. If he wants it, he'll have it because the music industry needs someone like him. Rock and Roll needs him too, to shake things up, to make it all fun again.

Does Adam Lambert NEED American Idol? He hasn't needed AI from about half-way through the competition, and it's to his great credit that he's taken the whole thing seriously.

Kris Allen is "winning" in all senses of the word. He's got a winning personality, charming and disarming; he's got that face, that lopsided mouth, those clean-cut good looks; and he's got the talent, a voice with shading and variation if not the amazing range of Adam (most don't). Kris is relatable. Kara commented on it, that he makes you feel as if he's singing to YOU. And then there is the artistry thing. Not to take anything away from Adam because he has artistry too, but Kris possesses a passion for the nuance, the rhythm, the emotion of the songs he sings and that relates people of all ages.

Does Kris Allen NEED American Idol? From the moment Jamie Foxx said if Idol doesn't work out they could do something together, Kris's future in the industry has seemed assured. He works hard, he respects the music and the music listener, he has passion, he's "winning."

It doesn't matter who wins because it really IS about the journey, the contestants working their way through AI boot camp up on all those 52-inch screens across America. And to us, the watchers, rooting for our favorites, hoping they give us one more great performance, seeing how passion makes a difference in the little moments and how nerves play out and that there is both justice and injustice on AI and in life, and it's how one handles both that makes the difference.

These guys, Adam and Kris, they're class acts.

LAW & ORDER: Easy to obsess

Read in the LA Times the other day, there's a possibility that the "mothership" of Dick Wolf's television franchise, the original Law and Order, may not be picked up for next season. Panic set in! Sweat popped, tears sprung, hyperventilation not far behind. NO!!!!!

I can't go a whole day without a hit of L & O. Love my Law and Order. All those flawed and clearly-delineated characters, all that fabulous writing, all of Jack McCoy!

Yes, I wouldn't have to go cold turkey. It's syndicated on TNT. But, OMG, even with umpteen seasons, eventually I'll have seen them all and just as it's happened with Jerry and the gang, I will grow slightly weary from repeated viewing.

I might die before that happens, but what if I don't?

Actually, I haven't seen every episode yet. I'm keeping track. I printed a list from TV.com of every episode of L & O. I'm working my way through, one episode a day, from 1990 with George Dzunida, Chris Noth, Michael Moriarty, and Richard Brooks through 2009 with Anthony Anderson, Jeremy Sisto (most cute since Benjamin Bratt), Linus Roach, and Alana de la Garza, AND of course, Sam.

Watching all these episodes has been tons of fun. Some of the shows haven't lived up to its own high standard, but that's to be expected after so many years on TV, but over all the writers, producers, directors, and stars deliver high quality drama episode after episode. And there are some jewels: "Who Let the Dogs Out?" "Bodies," and several others I forgot to highlight on my list. Maybe the next time through.

BUT I hope it stays on the air. With each new cast change the show has twisted and turned and yielded fresh new situations and some damn good TV times.

GIMME A HINT! Who won?

Robert Swartwood has announced the winners of the Hint Fiction contest launched on his site and at EDF's Flash Fiction Chronicles. Check out his blog for the top twenty and of course the big winners!

The Week That Was...

On the HINT FICTION front, I hear from Robert Swartwood that he's forwarded the finalists to Stewart O'Nan in the adventure competition of the new genre "hint fiction." He should be announcing the winners soon on his blog.

Digest of last week's Chronicles here. Quick links to posts by Sean Lovelace, Bill Ward, K. C. Ball, Rumjhum Biswas, and myself. Still open to post submissions. Email me at flashfictionblog@everydayfiction.com .

Also I've been honored with an invitation to be a guest speaker at one of Kerry Madden's classes at Vromans in Pasadena this coming Thursday. We'll be talking about flash fiction and how it's impacting craft of writing, all to the positive.

Kerry is the author of Up Close: Harper Lee, a biography of the author of To Kill A Mockingbird. You can meet her in person on Sunday, May 24 at 4:00pm when she signs her new biography at Vroman's Bookstore 695 E. Colorado BlvdPasadena, California 91101.

Check out the foreward to Up Close at Kerry's website.

http://www.kerrymadden.com/books/bk_harp.html

It came to this: Me at Flash Fiction Chronicles

Yep! I ran out of posts from other writers and have to put myself out there. I don't really mind. I have a few old posts about angst and frustration that I'm sure will touch some writer who's worried she just isn't good enough. The one today discusses Talent and Skill; which does a writer need more ?

Lack of talent has always hung over my head, the idea I've got none. Growing up I sometimes felt a spark of clear thinking in the creases inside my cranium, but most of the time, it seemed to me I knew nothin'.

I was under the miscomprehension that if I had no talent--writing for me, but it could be anything a person wants to do--I might as well not bother trying. Even if I had a little talent, I shouldn't bother because there are geniuses out there who wake up in the morning, sit down at the computer, and spin marvelous tales without effort. After all, every book I picked up at the library seemed to be filled with whole worlds that sucked me into adventure and drama, dissolving my hours into days.

I'm older now, and I hope just a little wiser. I realize even Shakepeare had to work at writing. What I didn't see back then, couldn't see, was that there are other components to the whole creativity gig: effort, perserverance, desire, practice. Who knew it was such a complex thing? Not me. Sometimes I look back over the years and wonder just how many times the mummy tape circled my head because that's how I felt, paralyzed, unable to move forward, my whole body wrapped in thick gauze.

But we grow up and when I finally figured out how doing something over and over again would actually make me better at it, I began to push myself. I never had done that before. Stick to it? Even when I got antsy, worried, tired, bored, frustrated, and disillustioned?

I did things okay without too much exertion and for way too long, I never understood that doing things "okay" isn't enough. I get it now. To be good at something, really good, I can't get lazy. I can't let myself become satisfied with meager effort. I have to push myself, challenge myself, discipline myself. Yes I do.

But in that mix, the other lesson I've learned is to remember why I write. The answer is because it's fun. It's like finishing a Sunday crossword puzzle, but better. It's like winning 1st place or getting an acceptance, but better. Sometimes, when characters take over the story and hours melt into days, it's even better than sex.

Read more at Flash Fiction Chronicles.

Tania's on Frank O'Connor Short Story Award List

GREAT News for all of us who follow Tania Hershman through her blog. She's on the Frank O'Connor Award long list with her collection of shorts, The White Road and other Stories published by Salt Modern Fiction. Being on ANY list that highlights quality writing is an honor...and an indicator that an author is being read, recognized, and appreciated. And what great company she's keeping: Mary Gaistskill, Kazuo Ishiguro, and Alex Keegan to name just a few of the 57!

You can find the Long List at The Short Review. And that's the other reason that Tania can be appreciated, not just for being an excellent writer, but for promoting short fiction at The Short REVIEW, an online e-zine dedicated to short fiction.

Swartwood's HINT FICTION picked up by Norton

Soon to be found on the pages of a Norton anthology will be Robert Swartwood's HINT FICTION phenomenon. The internet is shaking our foundations with the new and innovative. Congratulations, Rob.

Meanwhile there is work to be done. The finalists for the first-ever HINT FICTION contest must be selected and forwarded to Stewart O'Nan. He will then choose a winner.

Rob will need to fill the balance of pages in the anthology and I'm sure he'll be looking for submissions in the near future so keep an eye out for the word.

FRESH BLOOD in the shadow of Disney

Here I go again, name dropping, but I WAS in the shadow of Disney Studios in Burbank on Saturday afternoon. Literally. However, my business had nothing to do with mice. I moderated a Sisters-in-Crime LA sponsored panel called "Fresh Blood" of emerging mystery/suspense writers at the Buena Vista Branch of the beautiful downtown Burbank library.

And a lively discussion it was. The panelists, each representing a different branch of the mystery/suspense genre, offered insights into writing engaging characters, using setting as character, and how most writers today feel more free to cross genres and sub-genres.

The "fresh blood" included Eva Batonne, author of Resurrection Diva, Jack Maeby who wrote Thorazine Mirrorball, and Pam Ripling/Anne Carter, cross-genre writer extraordinaire, writer of Point Surrender.

Eva Batonne's heroine in Diva is a tough cop from St. Louis who finds herself caught up in the fake death of a singer in Malibu. The author discussed how the contrast of Joan Lambert's midwest upbringing with the world of glitzy L.A. helped her to test her character's vulnerability and determination to succeed. Diva, categorized as a police-procedural, crosses into romance, metaphysics, and contains depth of language that flirts with literature.

In Mirrorball, Jack Maeby's protagonist, musician Jimmy Mack, spent the disco era trying to break free from the anti-psychotic meds after being released from a psychiatric hospital. The author, a musician himself, drew upon his observations of the music business to create his unique character as disco narrowed the job market. Mirrorball is a crime-fiction suspense which contains gritty realism about how difficult it is for those treated with certain medications to live a normal life.

Point Surrender, written by Pam Ripling who also writes under the name Anne Carter, is about a school teacher who after a painful break-up seeks refuge in her brother's newly-purchased lighthouse. Amy Winslow begins to restore the rundown structure and soon discovers that the ghosts of the past are threatening her future. Again genre is stretched to include romance, mystery, and paranormal suspense as the author reveals her protagonist's strengths and vulnerability.

These panels are organized with great efficiency and care by Gayle Bartos-Pool. Check out her website.

HINT Fiction: For subbers, the wait begins

For everyone who submitted to Robert Swartwood's Hint Fiction Contest, your "briefs" are being prepared for trial, the preliminary judges (Rob and me) are polishing our gavels, dry-cleaning our robes, adjusting our glasses (on our noses and on Scotch-soaked coasters). We're ready to find the best "HINTS" and send them up to the Supreme Court, in this case, best-selling writer Stewart O'Nan.

We're writing new law here, kind of. Genre-bending, at least as far as length is concerned. The buzz around the net is mostly positive curiosity, "Hint" being a new sub-sub genre, a story--or rather the hint of a story--in twenty-five words or less. Is it a fad or a legitimate endeavor? Will fiction this short get life or the axe? Or will it be sent on to a court of appeals?

I suppose it depends on what comes out of the 200 + submissions made via the comment section at Rob's blog. Some are probably quick attempts to join an A-list of sorts, to be one of the first; others will be sincere efforts, each word carefully chosen for both its literal and figurative meaning. If they are brilliant, perhaps we're seeing the beginning of a new abbreviated kind of story-telling. If not, well, I still have my pet rock.

Be assured, though, the briefs will be carefully, respectfully culled, ranked, talked about, argued over, and finally, presented to Chief Justice O'Nan.

And while the jury is out, the submitting writers must wait to hear what the final verdict will be.