Humble Fiction Cafe

MAKING A “HOME” FOR OURSELVES

Where is home? Do you think of it as where you live now, or is it where you grew up? Most of us have a warm, nostalgic feeling for that place where we were raised and consider it a somewhat different version of “home.”
My childhood home was a small town in Kansas. Picture perfect. Complete with town square and band stand, ice cream socials and Fourth of July parades.
I knew every crack in the sidewalks, all the peoples’ faces and everyone’s cars, what churches they attended, who hung out at which beer joint and which doctor they saw. Everyone knew everyone’s business. It was a great place to grow up and I couldn’t wait to leave. When I did, I was excited, lonesome and lost. Every face I saw reminded me of someone I knew from “home.” Now, I’m thoroughly convinced there are only about fifteen or twenty basic “faces.”
Small towns are great if you can stand the cliques and the slow pace, but beneath the surface, there’s plenty going on and lots of stories to be told.
Humble Fiction Café has a new project. Our second anthology of short stories is now in its first stages of development. While the finished product is months away, we’re excited about it. The working title is “Ravel” and all the stories will have a common thread – the town of Moot and its many characters.
What will we learn about the people and the town? Whose secrets will be revealed? Where are the cracks? Even we don’t know yet, but that’s the fun of it – making it up as we go along…

ESCAPE

Nadia glanced once again in her rear view mirror. There was only the horizon framed on either side by tight canyon walls. Only five minutes ago, she had been able to see Moot small and getting smaller as she drove West away from town.
The highway was narrow, with sweeping curves, but the car was easy to handle. The solid rock walls came nearly to the pavement’s edge giving her a feeling of shooting through a tunnel. Her long, slender fingers curved around the steering wheel a little tighter. She had never cared for tight spaces. The sooner through the canyon, the better.
When she glanced in the mirror again, she blinked and had to look twice. Impossible, but there they were, the unmistakable red and blue flashing lights of a police car.
“It can’t be,” she thought. “It hasn’t been long enough. No one could possibly have found out so soon.”
Her foot pressed the accelerator. Beneath the hood, the car’s engine moved a little faster and the Maserati surged ahead…

Theresa Laws