Review - Modern Ranch Living

Writers write; that’s what the screen saver on my computer says, it keeps me honest. But to write you have to read. I chew through a fair number of books mainly because I just love to read but also to take a peek in the kitchen and see how other guys cook the stew. So now and again I’ll let you know about the ones that floated my boat (or torpedoed it).

Mark Poirier writes about the loners, losers and drifters that hover on the fringes of American society; detached but not quite removed from the lives most of us lead.
He does it with a wonderful laid back and languid style that’s rarely pulsating but rolls along at the easy pace dictated by the heat of an Arizona Summer.

Modern Ranch living lifts the lid on the disparate and bizarre inhabitants of a small community on the outskirts of Tucson Arizona.
The story follows them through one long hot desert summer and centres on the disappearance of a local teenage stoner. Though the narrative rarely gets much past second gear the characters are well drawn and immediately engaging. Kendra the sixteen year old body builder and her dazed brother Thomas; Merv the thirty something pool attendant still living at home with his slightly unhinged mother. Their stories run in parallel, slowly draw together and take you along on a gentle ride through the weirdness of the mundane.

This is no raging page turner, if you want to see the hard ragged edges of America's underbelly at a pace to make your eyes water, then look elsewhere.
Instead Poirier takes a peek behind the drapes of American suburbia and examines the damaged goods he finds there with a wry humor and no mean talent.

 You could do a lot worse than spending a week or so in his company.

Something in the Night

Another tale from the darker side of the Strip can now be found strutting its stuff amoungst the explosive mix of flash fiction at Josh Goller's The Molotov Cocktail Maybe there is something in the night but the only way you'll ever know for sure is to visit this great site.                  

   

Reno

George Orwell once said 'happiness can only exist in acceptance'.

Well he could be right! A big shout going out to Daz at one of my favorite gritty  hangouts - Near to the Knuckle. My flash Story 'Reno' has been accepted for publication and should appear at N To The K  in a few days. Dig deep into your scared money and lay your bets. There's only winners and losers, so don't get caught on the wrong side of that line.

Some comments about Reno posted at Near to the Knuckle.

Graham says:

Great sense of place and a cracking last sentence.
Bravo

Rob says:
Kind of a nice fatalism to this one. The house always wins, I guess. Good stuff

Luca says:
Loved the last line. Great story.

Wetwork

If you like a dash of horror mixed with your noir. Why not take a long swallow of my story 'Wetwork'. You'll find it propping up the bar over at Death Head Grin You can't miss it it's the one with the bloodshot eyes!

Many thanks to Larry for giving me a stake in the game with this one.

The Devil’s Arcade

People didn’t come from Las Vegas, not in the same way as people came from Baltimore or Jonesboro County, Idaho. Joe had decided Las Vegas was a place to go to, not come from. He sat swilling coffee from a fresh white china mug and idly surveyed the casino’s gaming floor. The slots restless and chattering even at this late – or was it early – hour. He watched a plump woman at the nearest machine relentlessly feeding in quarters. Her ample backside attempting to swallow the stool on which she perched. Time and again she yanked on the leaver and stared intently as the reels spun, clunking to a halt one by one. At last a bell rang, a light flashed and the machine spat out a tray full of change. She didn’t break stride, just fished again in her blue plastic cup and continued to worship at the temple of the slot.

Beyond her, a lone black jack player rapped on the table and cried “Hit me again Dougie!” The weary dealer flipped him a card along with a look that said he hated the guy just for being born.

A waitress breezed past Joe, handing him a flyer that showed the variety and delights of breakfast cocktails. Two weeks ago it had never occurred to him that such a thing as a breakfast cocktail could exist let alone entertain the thought that he might order such a thing. He felt his stomach would probably handle one but he wasn’t sure that his conscience could. He was a new fish; road dust fresh on his shoes. A Bloody Mary or a Palmango Mimosa at 6.30am was still in his future, he didn’t doubt for a moment that he would get to it, just not quite yet.

He spun lazily round to face the bar and wordlessly indicated his need of a refill. The bar tender broke off from studying form at the track and slid over, seamless in his retrieval of the coffee pot on route. Joe nodded his thanks and sipped gratefully at the black-brown sludge, marvelling at its restorative powers.

From what he had seen everyone in Vegas was a gambler of sorts; they all played the game. The hooker out on the strip rolling a dice on every trick, hoping for a clean one, an easy one, one that wouldn’t knock her around. The not-so-high roller at the tables nursing his desperate, diminishing pile of chips (hit me again Dougie!) And Joe himself, still not sure what game would be his or how big to bet, but like cocktails for breakfast he would get to it soon enough.

This story was first published at Linguistic Erosion.

It's a great site, full of good tales.

Go and see for yourself....

Linguistic Erosion