Move your mouse over here!
Previous page

Millers

We are at the "recently renovated" Capri Motor Inn. Weekly Rates. No ID needed. We have stayed at these motels all across the Midwest. They seem to share the same names. Dew Drop Inn. Shady Lane. Dun Rovin'. In my red notebook I write the names, location, the name of the manager, the length of our stay. It is my history. I must not forget it.

The room that was empty of insects at dusk is now a swirling mass of legs, wings and gray bodies. I lie on the hard bed feeling nothing but the springs under my left hip. I watch them watch me with their black shiny eyes. Underneath the windowsill the Miller moths squeeze. From the ceiling molding they awaken. They dart back and forth across the single light fixture in the middle of the room. Spindly bodies and dusty wings leave bits of Kansas everywhere they land. In and out they weave, dancing to their own music. I envy them.

From the look of the rust-colored shag carpet, heavy insulated paisley drapes, and the green polyester bedspread, the hotel was "recently renovated" in 1975. But I am grateful for a bed instead of the back of the truck. The truck reeks of motor oil. It is rusting through; and besides, I am scared of getting caught sleeping at the side of the road. I check my watch, knowing before I look that it is getting late and Jack will be back.

Story by:

Pat Kennelly

submitted at 7:17pm

27 June 2011

Pat Kennelly's web:

writingnag.blogspot.com