Percolations: Musings from a Texas Hill Country Coffee Shop

By Marilyn J. Agee, Deirdre Nielsen, Susan Lamarre and 3 more

Many a famous tale began with Once upon a Time. While yet others led off with It was a dark and dreary night. Each author, using these openings, was attempting to set the tone for his or her story and poem that followed. None of the stories or poetry that follow in this book set their tone with such epic or historic and yes sometimes hackneyed openings. Instead they all begin with what the individual author considered a fresh perspective on a subject of either his or her choosing or one chosen for him/her. In order to better understand this last statement, an explanation of how these authors came together to write such stories is required.

In 2005, Milli Thornton, the author of the book Fear of Writing, for writers & closet writers, established a writing group in a back room of Chickis Coffee Shop in the small Texas Hill Country community of Bulverde. Each Tuesday morning this eclectic group of would-be authors gathered, and over coffee and a variety of pastries would write for two hours. The two retired school teachers, a nurse and federal agent along with, an Irish lass, and an interior designer/artist would write their stories and poems from prompts offered by Thornton in her book or from other sources such as Texas Public Radio or WritersDigest.com. Making liberal use of their literary licenses, these writers crafted their pieces from these prompts by either embodying the entire prompt or selecting key words and or phrases from these prompts. On a number of occasions the single word the was chosen from the prompt and woven into a tale. Or the writers would choose a subject that was of importance to them at that moment. A tale from ones past; a rail against some minor injustice or poking fun at one of lifes inane situation became fodder for these authors.

Just as important as the prompt or fertile material as Thornton refers to them as, was the understanding that the stories and poems, when read at the conclusion of each weekly meeting, would not be negatively critiqued unless requested by the author. Instead, each participant would receive positive feed-back and encouragement on his or her works in hopes that it would inspire him/her to continue writing. The theory behind this kind of writing support can best be articulated in the words of Thornton when she discussed unleashing your imagination. She advised, The more you flex it the more limber it becomes. Positive reinforcement was intended to aid in the limbering effort, to encouraging them to continue to write and therefore become better writers.

That the theory proffered by Thorntons was effective one merely has to look at the limited success of several of the authors who have contributed to this book. Two authors submitted and had their short stories selected to be read on Texas Public Radio. One author received honorable mention in another short story competition. Another of this group of authors finished and published a novel and has completed another book that is being readied for publication. These accomplishments might have not been achieved had it not been for this writing group. Moreover, this book would have not been written had it not been for the desire and dedication of these authors who week in and week out continued to pour out their souls in their short stories.

Over the succeeding years, numerous writers passed through this group. Some moved on as their life situations changed; others needed something other than what was offered by the group. And still others, decided for personal reasons that the group did not satisfy their writing needs. What remained, was a constant core of writers who continued to meet and toil each Tuesday or whenever possible. The stories and poems contained in this book are the works of that core of writers. This group of writers hope that you, the reader, get as much joy from reading this collection of short stories as their authors did in creating them.

The book has been divided

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 19, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453593059

Marilyn J. Agee

About the Author Thomas (Tom) Blacklock was a U.S. Marine Vietnam Combat Veteran who went on to become a Special Agent and Supervisory Special Agent with the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) retiring after thirty years of Federal Service.

Book preview

Contents

Acknowledgement

Prologue

Foreword

Why I Write

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Authors’ Biographies And Acknowledgements

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

The authors wish to raise a hot cup of coffee (and a really good pastry) to Jenny Aldridge, our special book barista, for her editorial expertise. Jenny sweetened our spelling, ground our grammar, and blended our bouquet of varied literary flavors into a much smoother finish than we could ever have done by ourselves. Thank you, Jenny, for so lovingly brewing our individual stories and poems into written java that can be savored long after the coffee has grown cold.

PROLOGUE

Many a famous tale began with Once upon a Time. While yet others led off with It was a dark and dreary night. Each author, using these openings, was attempting to set the tone for his or her story and poem that followed. None of the stories or poetry that follow in this book set their tone with such epic or historic and yes sometimes hackneyed openings. Instead they all begin with what the individual author considered a fresh perspective on a subject of either his or her choosing or one chosen for him/her. In order to better understand this last statement, an explanation of how these authors came together to write such stories is required.

In 2005, Milli Thornton, the author of the book Fear of Writing, for writers & closet writers, established a writing group in a back room of Chicki’s Coffee Shop in the small Texas Hill Country community of Bulverde. Each Tuesday morning this eclectic group of would-be authors gathered, and over coffee and a variety of pastries would write for two hours. The two retired school teachers, a nurse and federal agent along with, an Irish lass, and an interior designer/artist would write their stories and poems from prompts offered by Thornton in her book or from other sources such as Texas Public Radio or WritersDigest.com. Making liberal use of their literary licenses, these writers crafted their pieces from these prompts by either embodying the entire prompt or selecting key words and or phrases from these prompts. On a number of occasions the single word the was chosen from the prompt and woven into a tale. Or the writers would choose a subject that was of importance to them at that moment. A tale from one’s past; a rail against some minor injustice or poking fun at one of life’s inane situation became fodder for these authors.

Just as important as the prompt or fertile material as Thornton refers to them as, was the understanding that the stories and poems, when read at the conclusion of each weekly meeting, would not be negatively critiqued unless requested by the author. Instead, each participant would receive positive feed-back and encouragement on his or her works in hopes that it would inspire him/her to continue writing. The theory behind this kind of writing support can best be articulated in the words of Thornton when she discussed unleashing your imagination. She advised, The more you flex it the more limber it becomes. Positive reinforcement was intended to aid in the limbering effort, to encouraging them to continue to write and therefore become better writers.

That the theory proffered by Thornton’s was effective one merely has to look at the limited success of several of the authors who have contributed to this book. Two authors submitted and had their short stories selected to be read on Texas Public Radio. One author received honorable mention in another short story competition. Another of this group of authors finished and published a novel and has completed another book that is being readied for publication. These accomplishments might have not been achieved had it not been for this writing group. Moreover, this book would have not been written had it not been for the desire and dedication of these authors who week in and week out continued to pour out their souls in their short stories.

Over the succeeding years, numerous writers passed through this group. Some moved on as their life situations changed; others needed something other than what was offered by the group. And still others, decided for personal reasons that the group did not satisfy their writing needs. What remained, was a constant core of writers who continued to meet and toil each Tuesday or whenever possible. The stories and poems contained in this book are the works of that core of writers. This group of writers hope that you, the reader, get as much joy from reading this collection of short stories as their authors did in creating them.

The book has been divided into chapters that contain stories that are either prompt driven, remembrances, or author’s favorites. And to ease the transition from one chapter to another the reader is treated to a Coffee Break, which contains the poetry and verse of the authors.

FOREWORD

By Milli Thornton

I’M HONORED to be invited to write this foreword. This project represents a meeting of creative minds over a period of several years. It also speaks of friendship, trust and a willingness to explore uncharted territory together.

This book had its beginnings in a workshop atmosphere. In 2005, I began holding my one-day workshop, the Fear of Writing Clinic, in and around the Hill Country, including Canyon Lake, Boerne and Bulverde. The clinic is based on my book, Fear of Writing: for writers & closet writers. During the workshop, participants are asked to tackle various writing exercises; among them the Fertile Material.

The Fertile Material is a collection of writing prompts used to write creative fiction. The prompts encourage creativity, active use of the imagination, and fun.

Writers and closet writers show up at the clinic in varying degrees of fear. Whatever the source of it may have been—a harsh critique experience or self-criticism being the most typical—the fear has inevitably led to a stifling of the creative act. As a line from the movie Finding Forrester reminds us, Writers write things to give readers something to read. But writers with fear of writing can procrastinate for months, even years, about getting down to it.

In the clinic, writers are expected to write as part of the therapy. The Fertile Material prompts give writers a way to instantly open a vein to their story writing abilities. The prompts are often silly or outrageous, which has a way of breaking down the barriers within. Who can agonize about what some mean college professor wrote on a long-ago paper when you’re being asked to write about a cockroach activist at a rally for animal rights?

Soon, heads are bowed over notebooks and all that can be heard is the scratching of pencils and pens.

After writing comes the healing act of reading one’s story out loud. Critiques are not permitted; only supportive feedback is allowed. This rhythm is repeated throughout the day: write, read, receive support. Laughter erupts, tears flow; the soul medicine is applied. When it’s time for the workshop to end, the most common remark I hear is: That was fun!

The trouble with workshops is that people can go home inspired but, when they try to continue the momentum on their own, they eventually run out of steam (or courage). That’s where the Fertile Material Writing Circle comes in. The writing circle is a mini version of the workshop, held weekly in a local coffee house.

Once I had a big enough mailing list for the Hill Country, I invited workshop participants from the three communities to join me in starting three writing circles. For the Bulverde area, I chose Chicki’s Coffee Shop on Hwy 46 for its warm vibes and good coffee. The Canyon Lake group, which started at Canyon Lake Public Library, eventually merged with the Bulverde group.

Each week we’d meet in the back room of Chicki’s and run the familiar ritual: write for 45 minutes and then go around the table, listening as each writer shared his or her story out loud. The levels of emotion generated could often be heard clear out to the counter where people were ordering their coffee. The owner at that time (whose name really was Chicki) regularly reported that her customers were curious.

What’s all the laughing about?

Sometimes the curious ones would come down the hallway to investigate. We picked up a few new members that way.

In the beginning, the group was all women. In the tradition of women’s groups in the South (e.g., Ya-Ya Sisterhood), we christened ourselves with pizzazz: The Chicklettes. The name eventually became outmoded by the arrival of male group members, but the spirit of fun and camaraderie that gave birth to the name lives on.

During the spring of 2006 my husband and I left the Hill Country to move back to New Mexico. The group farewelled me by writing a story based on a prompt I came up with for the occasion. The prompt invited the writers to visualize a tale of the new role I was about to play: co-manager with my husband at The Branding Iron Motel. The results were hilarious and, in some cases, uncannily accurate as fictional predictions.

After my departure, the weekly meetings continued. To date, the group has kept itself alive for five years. I’ve moved around quite a bit and this is the only Fertile Material Writing Circle I founded that kept going after I left. I’m proud of these writers for sticking to their group—and to their writing dreams.

I still know all of the current members. Susan Smith and her daughter, Caitlin, attended the first Fear of Writing Clinic I held at my house in Canyon Lake. I met Mary Ann Campbell when she attended a workshop I held at Cappuccino Paradise on Hwy 281 Nth. I bumped into Dee Nielsen at Books and Java in Canyon Lake, where she confessed her particular strain of fear of writing. She was instantly a recruit! (Dee later trained with me to become a workshop presenter and held her own Fear of Writing Clinic.) I met Tom Blacklock, Marilyn Agee and Sue Ann Lamarre when they joined the Chicki’s group by word of mouth.

Besides writing, Fear of Writing is about parties and get-togethers. We’ve had everything from Christmas parties to a reunion bash (when I returned briefly from Mississippi to check on my house).

Three of the members, Tom, Dee and Susan, have participated in a project on creativity known as Online Arts Outreach, sponsored by Texas Public Radio. Members traveled to the radio station in San Antonio where their Fertile Material stories were recorded as podcasts. Print versions are included in this book, and those stories can be heard online by visiting http://www.tpr.org/programs/fearofwriting.html.

This anthology comprises a lively mix of writing: everything from writers reminiscing about their past to stories and poems that have been published in newspapers or honored in contests.

A portion of the book is devoted to the numerous short stories created from prompts used in the weekly meetings. Chapters 2-6 feature the writers’ individual results from using the same Fertile Material prompt. These sessions never cease to fascinate. After writing for 45 minutes with the chosen prompt, it’s always enlightening to hear the range of voices expressing their own unique take on the same story idea.

Percolations is well named. Informal meanings of the word suggest to become lively or active and to spread slowly or gradually. Many writers flounder when they fail to take regular action (i.e., practice their writing on a regular basis). Others feel their courage eroded by the solitude of the craft. These six writers have taken regular action over a period of years to gradually build their craft. And there’s no denying the lively spirit of this group!

I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as the writers loved creating them.

Milli Thornton

www.fearofwriting.com

WHY I WRITE

Each author’s own perspective on why they write. (In Alphabetical Order)

Why I Write

By Marilyn J. Agee

Honestly, my early years in school were never easy for me. Most of the time, I spent my days in the classroom sitting in the very back with my two buddies drawing pictures of horses. My best subjects were anything in PE, art classes and for whatever reason, all my English and math classes. My right brain qualities enabled me to make a living but my lack of left-brain thinking has failed me a few times.

My love for the written word really didn’t start until I was in my early twenties. At that time I joined a mail order book club. I’m sure they don’t exist anymore. I read as many books on as many subjects as I could. I read at the very least three to four books a week. I can’t remember how many years I was a member of that book club, but I took many journeys reading.

I love the way writing paints a picture in the mind of the reader. To write a story and bring joy or a message or an emotion of any kind brings me pleasure. But I don’t write for the reader, I write for me. It feeds my soul.

Why I Write

By Thomas Blacklock

A number of my friends and acquaintances spend untold hours and money using a shafted club to strike at a small, white dimpled ball sending it hundreds of yards down a finely manicured grassy fairway. They then give chase after the ball only to strike at it again once it has been located. And so this pattern continues for the better part of the morning or afternoon. Other friends take a piece of wood or metal and craft something useful from it or they restore an old piece of furniture or vehicle to a new or better-than-new condition.

What these friends and acquaintances have in common is a diversion to whilst away their idle hours. While it is not my thing to chase a golf ball or work with my hands on something old or a piece of antiquity, I do have a diversion. My diversion is writing.

This diversion, writing, or more accurately the desire to write, is not something that has suddenly come to me in my retirement years but has been with me for as long as I can remember. I can remember the definitive moment when I realized self fulfillment with something that I wrote. It was in a seventh grade English class and our assignment was to write a descriptive paragraph or two. The topic of my paragraphs was the Naval Ships that harbored in the bay that adjoined my home town. I can still remember the slate grey description of the water set against an azure sky dotted with alabaster clouds. Where in my youthful psyche did these descriptive words originate? I have often asked myself this question. Was my desire to create phrases like these developed in my youth or was it inherent, hiding within me waiting for an opportunity to ooze out onto paper?

With retirement from working full time came the opportunity to expend more hours in pursuit of my diversion. In so doing I have come to realize that with the enjoyment that I derive from my writings, I missed an opportunity not to have attempted to write during my working years. Writing may have offered me relief from a somewhat stressful career in law enforcement.

Writing has become my hobby now, and I attempt to write on a daily basis. My greatest joy is crafting a story and working it into something that I think others will enjoy. A short story can take me days to perfect and during its writing pendency my mind continually works on how to improve the story line, plot, or its characters.

Fiction seems to be my favorite genre although I have derived a certain pleasure in writing an autobiographical piece, memoirs or an expose in which I rail against which I consider an inequity or injustice. And the more I write, the more enjoyment I seem to realize from putting my thoughts in print.

My hopes for my writing is that for others, who read my work, will derive as much enjoyment reading it as I did creating it.

Why I Write

By Mary Ann Campbell

I thought about this question again and again and simplified my thoughts. I want to be remembered. All of my writings are memoirs. They sum up events in my life and how I perceived their significance. I’d like my family and friends to share my remembered joys, as well as trials and difficulties. Maybe glean a lesson or two. Just laugh and enjoy the antics that moved me forward. When I solidify a memory with a written account, things gel. Events connect. Lessons are learned. And forgiveness is facilitated. All of this gives me insight, the reason why I am here.

Why I Write

By Susan Lamarre

When I was in 7th grade, my English teacher Mrs. Miller graded my work with positive words on every writing assignment I turned in giving me an A for content. However I received a B—for mechanics because of all the numerous misspelled words and dangling participles. In 8th grade Mrs. Miller continued to encourage me, and I learned to use a dictionary when editing my essays. By this time I loved to write, which continued through high school writing compositions on any assigned topic. My favorite kind of writing continues to be descriptive writing, and at times it lends itself to a poem.

All my life I have tried to capture pictures with a net of words. It is important for me to express my beliefs, my dreams and my experiences to others through stories using events that relationships have threaded together. Hopefully, my words will help people understand their journey on their road through life. When I write my narratives, I see my own wondrous passage I’ve been on for over sixty years paving a path for what has yet to happen. Writing releases feelings that are too hard to talk about: writing organizes my sadness, my joys, and my passions. It is my way of defining me to others as well as to me. And last, but not least, writing is fun, putting words together for others to read.

I’m A Writer

By Deirdre Nielsen

When people ask you, as they invariably do, What do you do? I tell them, I am a writer. It is a psychological ploy and it actually makes me write. Do you believe me? Well the next time you ask, So what are you writing now? I would be too embarrassed not to have done anything, so I have to write.

I’m a writer because the words are always spinning in my mind. As I live each moment, I wonder how I would describe it to someone who was not there to experience it. Words are absorbed by me like food; I roll them on my tongue, spice my sentences and season all my descriptions with the delicious little things.

This has happened all my life, childhood, marriage, Island living, the constant growing up, the words are always there. They are to share with people, I now know because all we are, as humans in all our glorious diversities are in our stories.

I experience, I write

I share,

I am a writer

So there!

Why Am I a Writer?

By Susan Smith

I am a writer because I write words down on paper. I play with them. I manipulate them. And sometimes they manipulate me. Does this mean the person who writes a grocery list is a writer? I don’t think so, unless the words are artfully arranged in the shape of, say, an eggplant, or a jug of milk. That might qualify as some kind of loosey-goosey poetry, for all I know.

I am a writer because I can create entire worlds, small ones or large ones, populate them with whomever or whatever I please, and give them great joy or great despair at whim. Being a writer is sort of like being God. Of course, God’s creations have never done exactly what He wanted them to, so why does it surprise me when my characters act up? Sometimes I find that I am racing after my characters, trying to catch up with them, wondering what the heck they’re up to now. Other times they just stop, like the Roadrunner screeching to a halt right at the edge of the canyon. It’s like some cosmic coyote pushed their off button, and I can’t find where it is to get them started again. Funny—I didn’t think I’d written narcolepsy into the story, but there it is, and it’s causing my characters to hibernate.

I am a writer because when I wake up in the morning with words in my head, I head for my computer or my notepad or my spiral notebook, trying like mad to get the elusive little monsters down before they fly away. My husband just came in, looked at me, and laughed. What? I said, grinning and trying not to look annoyed at the interruption. Your hair, you ought to see your hair. That’s another reason I’m a writer. I can do my job without getting dressed for it and not feel guilty. And, yes, sometimes I’ve scratched out a few words in my altogether, somewhere between shedding my clothes and getting into the shower or getting out of the shower and wrapping up in a towel. When the muse calls, I have to answer, or risk forever losing the specific thing she wants to tell me. (I should know—I’ve lost it more than once.) More often than not, my missing mascara resurfaces somewhere on my messy computer table. So what if I’m already in danger of running late and my husband is downstairs tapping his foot (at least mentally)? The right word comes when the right word comes, and sometimes it must be captured between strokes of mascara.

I am writer because I panic more than most when a quirk of nature or some guy running into a power pole shuts the electricity down and my carefully tapped out words disappear into the black lake of my computer screen. On the other hand, when modern conveniences fail, I can always light a candle and scribble away in my Big Chief tablet. I can entertain myself, and that’s saying something. Whether or not I can entertain others depends on who they are, I guess. One woman’s trash is another woman’s treasure; one woman’s manuscript is another woman’s compost.

And last, I guess I am a writer because I love words and its fun to string them together. Sometimes I use too many. A lot of the time I use too many. Like right now. Unfortunately, short and sweet isn’t my style. But the question was asked, and this is my answer. Reading back over this, I think the true answer is: I don’t really know; I just am.

image003.jpg Percolations

By Susan Smith

Ideas bubble up in writers’ brains

As they grind plot and character

To suit a variety of tastes:

Some nutty, some sweet,

Some light and frothy, some dark and strong,

Some, perhaps, with a touch of bitterness.

Spicy, mellow, balanced or not,

Delicate, earthy, rich—hardly ever bland—

Each story, whether a common cup of Joe (or Jane)

Or a complex blend of beings

Is filtered through each writer’s perception

Of what was, what is, what could be,

And what ought to be.

Sit at our counter and help yourself to our brewings;

Breathe each aroma in and drink each flavor down.

You will see that they, like us, are all different,

And we hope that you will find

That each is good to the last drop of ink.

CHAPTER ONE

1K.jpg The Coffee Shop Cowboy

It was a Tuesday morning and we intrepid writers were attempting to overcome our fear of writing in the cozy back room of Chicki’s Coffee Shop in Bulverde, Texas by crafting, self considered, literary masterpieces. As was the case on a number of occasions, several of us were lacking inspiration and a subject on which to write. And as was the case on a number of occasions, inspiration and a subject presented themselves. The subject in this case was a large strapping male in cowboy attire consisting of jeans, which were snug, not that anyone would notice, a black cowboy hat and boots, who entered the shop through a rear door. The cowboy was the bar-be-que man that was offering his tasty morsels as an adjunct to the coffee shop fare. As the cowboy passed by our august group, one of the authors expressed her fondness for his being by advising Nice Hat. From this simple expression, which was in all likelihood a euphemism for another part of his manly physique, The Coffee Shop Cowboy story was created by Susan Smith. It is only fitting that this story, one that was crafted at the coffee shop, from an inspiration derived from the coffee shop environment, set the tone for what is to follow in this book.

The Coffee Shop Cowboy

By Susan Smith

I like your hat, she said.

He smiled, tipped the black Stetson at her, and went by carrying a large plastic tub.

Sitting at her customary table, Molly smiled back and watched the man as he walked down the hallway to the front part of the coffee shop. She nearly fell out of her chair leaning over to get a good look, but it was worth it. The back view was just as good as the front.

He came back down the narrow hallway, and she hurried to get back to her writing, not wanting him to catch her checking him out. In her haste she nearly knocked over a cup of scalding hot coffee on her writing companions, deep in creativity and ink. The plastic bin seemed lighter this time so the man had obviously unloaded whatever he had carted in. He tipped his hat again—how did he do that with an armload of plastic tub? Then he went out the back door, and out of her life, she supposed, although he’d never really been there.

Oh, well, she sighed, and went back to her writing. What was she supposed to be writing about anyway? Everybody around her was scratching determinedly on their paper, crafting action-filled tales of cops and robbers, poignant stories of bittersweet childhood, poetry to arouse the senses and fire the imagination, perhaps even the beginning paragraphs of the next Great American Novel. All she had managed was a few doodles and a series of highly unsatisfying games of tic-tac-toe with herself. She was either a very good or a very bad player on both sides because so far the score was Herself—0, Her Other Self—0, and the Cat—4.

Get with the program, she told herself and was immediately distracted by the rattling of the doorknob as the man came back into the room. This time, he carried a towering pyramid of clear plastic containers in his arms, but somehow managed to tip his hat again. She sat up a little straighter, but as the man continued his journey down the hallway, she found herself tipping over at the waist, leaning out from her chair to follow his progress. She noticed a few details she missed the first time around, having been so focused on the relatively small area surrounding and adjacent to the label on the back pocket. What was that particular label, anyway? Ah, Cinch, as in to cinch up a cowboy’s saddle, she figured, although she rather wistfully hoped it meant what a cinch to get that man! The man’s legs were long and lean, bowed just enough in the starched jeans to be cowboy-cute.

Molly looked back at her paper, pretending to focus on her writing but really on alert for the tip-tapping of boots that would announce the man’s trek back down the hallway. It didn’t happen. She doodled a bit more and played a few more games of tic-tac-toe and an even more unsatisfying game of connect the dots, somehow ending in a tied score with herself. In desperation, she began a game of hangman, winning it without ever having put as much as a head in the noose.

She looked around. Damn, what were these people writing? Foreheads furrowed, pens occasionally tapped out a steady beat as they stared at the table, beseeching it to provide the next sentence. Jim, the guy next to her, had already flipped four pages over in his loose-leaf notebook—and he was writing on the back. The other women in the group—Elaine and Nina Sue and Trish and Lindy—were equally involved. Giving up on an encore performance by the Cinch man, Molly looked at the walls for inspiration. Three pictures decorated the small room. One was a framed poster of characters from several children’s books, featuring a large horned beastie from Where the Wild Things Are sitting on his furry haunches while a couple of characters she didn’t recognize took off in a hot air balloon. The poster said Imagination Celebration, and the imagination part kicked her mind back to the mysterious cowboy. Too bad there’d never be anything to celebrate. The middle picture was much smaller, and her eyes refused to bring it into focus so she turned to the third picture, an oldish-looking black and white photograph of a couple of prizefighters, one knocked to the mat, a referee going through the count that would declare him out, and the second leaning against the ropes for support. The lettering identifying the fighters was too small to read, but a much larger red headline, separated into three separate lines, read Fight to the Finish. Actually it said Fig to the Finish, the last two letters of the first word being hidden under the frame, but she was a writer and a player of hangman and could fill in the blanks.

Wondering if the headline had some cosmic significance, or if it was just some editor’s attempt to make the cheesy snapshot more than it was, she stared at the wall and tried to apply the words’ message to herself. Nope, nothing, and her eyes glazed over with the effort. She shook her head and blinked, and her eyes landed on the small center picture. Ah, it was becoming clearer. There was some sort of building and a couple of trees and—what else? She squinted, hard. A horse, maybe two. And was that a saddle? Hmmm, she knew what that meant: Where there was a saddled horse, there had to be a cowboy, or maybe a Canadian Mountie, who had no place at all in a small Texas Hill Country coffee shop. So she nixed that idea as soon as it popped into her mind. Then it all snapped together, like pieces of a puzzle. Imagination: that was easy. And then the fight to the finish, and then, after a job well done, a celebration.

What to do now? The cowboy hadn’t made a return trip, which meant he had either left by the front door, highly unlikely since he’d already made a couple of trips out the back door, or he was still in the front of the shop. She leaned out away from the table again. There was the shop owner, perched on her customary seat at one of the high-topped front tables, talking to a couple of customers and the cowboy, still wearing his black Stetson. The owner greeted another customer coming through the door, and she heard murmurs of conversation. She glanced