Fiction

Fans of my non-fiction may not like my fiction. I may end up writing fiction using a pen name. My fiction is irreverent, snarky, edgy. But, I hope you'll get a few laughs from it.

The residents of the deep, isolated valley known as Mudville want one thing above all else-to be left alone. The sediment that washes down from the rocky, mineral-rich Ozark Mountains collects at the bottom of the valley and forms thick, coffee-colored mud prized for its healing powers.

Conflict and culture shock ensue when a new age health spa in California relocates to Mudville when Hanna, a massage therapist, inherits land from her grandfather. Her inner conflict arises when she must chose to return to California or remain in the unspoiled, scenic hills where she was raised.

She becomes romantically involved with Doug, a geologist studying the unique aspects of Mudville. He discovers the largest intact fossil of a giant squid known to have inhabited the region millions of years ago.

Life in Mudville is complicated further by unscrupulous J.D. Edmonds, who seeks to operate a gravel mine. The environmentally conscious Californians clash with J.D., who wants to blast the colorful rocks into decorative gravel for landscaping, as well as exteriors for upscale homes. His plan also upsets Doug, because of the potential damage to fossils and rock formations in the area.

Throw in a few kleptomaniac raccoons (some of which have rabies), ominous messages spray painted at the rock quarry, and confrontations between locals, spa workers, and J.D. and you get a hilarious story of conflicting interests of people who all value the Ozarks for different reasons.

A few years ago, I thought it would be funny to start an urban legend that there was a flock of aggressive, feral chickens on the outskirts o Springdale, Arkansas (where Tyson is headquartered). It's a short story, but too long for most writing contests. In 2006, Ozark Creative Writers had a contest with a category called "Hook Me." Writers submitted the first 500 words of a story. Mine was titled "Free Range" and recieved honorable mention. Here's the first couple of scenes.

“I’m not so sure we should be here,” Dove Barr whispered nervously. She was having second thoughts about this idea.

“I’m not going back on it now,” whispered Phoenix. “Nothing’s going to happen to us, but just think of what will happen to them.”

He was right, of course. Wasn’t he always? Phoenix had a smooth, sensitive way of persuading her. Now here was a man of conviction. It came from having hippy parents like hers.

“Look, we have to do this. Those sleazy corporate vultures don’t care about them.” He gestured toward the building. “Do you think they care about you either?” He had a point. Of course.

The two college students crept around the corner of the long metal building. It was much quieter in there than either had expected. The aroma was the only indication that anything in there. And what a strong aroma that was. Dove didn’t expect it to be pleasant, but this was…disgusting. Her spirits fell as she realized it would be even stronger inside. It was a shame this needed to be done in the first place.

In the pitch-black darkness (it was a new moon—in Scorpio—a good omen) Phoenix broke past the wooden door. He was surprisingly strong for a lanky, nineteen year old vegetarian. Dove suspected he ate meat on the sly

Pandemonium erupted as they entered the building. The pair worked methodically, quickly opening doors and emptying the contents onto the floor. They didn’t think it would be quite so loud. After about five minutes their work grew more frantic. They threw the square containers onto the floor to break them, being careful not to get scratched.

Phoenix grabbed Dove by the wrist and pulled her outside. They coughed and shook their long hair. Once they caught their breath and inspected each other for scratches, Phoenix and Dove ran back to the pickup and sped away, leaving a scene of total confusion behind them.

***

It was Friday night and Hammond Deggs had been drinking since 3:30, when first shift ended at the kill plant. His repetitious job gutting poultry gave him time to daydream about his favorite activities: watching Playboy channel and drinking Wild Turkey. His cable came courtesy of his unsuspecting neighbors—rich Yankees from Wisconsin or someplace like that. It had taken three days the previous summer to splice the wires and string them through thorn bushes to his trailer. Yankees hadn’t noticed any difference in their cable reception when they returned from their cruise.

Hammond stretched out his meaty frame ona sted recliner, scratched mself and watching two silicone-enhanced blondes wrestle in hot oil, he thought life was just fine.

Suddenly, the TV went dark.

“Damn,” grunted Hammond as he hauled himself upright and tugged his sagging jeans up. “Those damn possums are messin’ with the wires again.”

He went out to the darkened back patio and stumbled over his push mower, still on its side from when he worked on it the weekend before. He landed with a splat as Wild Turkey splashed from his cup onto his back.

Hammond raised his torso up to rest on his elbows and shook his head to clear it. What was that sound? It sounded like a bunch of…what? There were several of them. He decided he was just drunk.

Then he saw them. They were hard to see clearly in the dark. Three big, white blobs moved toward him in the distance. Hammond tried to focus his inebriated gaze.