In Table for Two Parker deftly explores the nature of relationships through a collection of modern short stories: Book Tour with Guest Post and Giveaway
In Eliot Parker’s engrossing Table for Two, human connection anchors the core. Through a collection of modern short stories, Parker deftly explores the nature of relationships: temporal and abiding.
Table For Two
A Collection of Short Stories
by Eliot Parker
Genre: Contemporary Fiction, Short Stories
Conversation is more than just words being spoken, interpreted, and acted upon by others. Conversation is also the ultimate human interest activity, bringing people into direct contact with people in all of their complexity and vulnerability. The main characters in Parker's ten multi-genre stories set in the heart of Appalachia want to be heard; to have others listen to them-really listen-and understand their needs and concerns.
The characters in these stories do not always get listened to, and many of them find that the need for attention comes from aggression. A woman confronts her father about his dementia. Two fathers whose guilt and shame over the disappearances of their sons hide more sinister motives. A young boy frustrated with a ring appraisal learns a lesson about how people and things can be valued equally. Each of the characters in the collection is faced with a balance of talking and listening with a need for action, which often leads to manipulation and coercion.
The characters in these stories want to be heard; to have others listen to them-really listen-and understand their needs and concerns. However, when they do not get listened to, there is often an attempted persuasion by aggression. One character often finds himself/herself faced with another character who believes that conversation has no place in their lives.
The belief of the antagonists in these stories is that- who needs to talk when there is action that needs to be done? The antagonists believe that there is no need for conversation when the protagonist can be manipulated, coerced, or discredited by actions. Each story is a thrilling adventure with unexpected turns. Parker's honest and provocative prose will captivate readers with its urgency.
From the Stars Above
There was
something about him that kept him going. He was a man of conviction.
Tabitha had been
jogging in the park and was surprised that on a warm, fall evening, she was the
only person jogging on the trails. The greenery around her became charcoal and
the grey path was melting into the night.
His figure was
discernable as she ran closer. To avoid scaring him, she slowed her run. As the
distance between her and the man grew larger, Tabitha studied him intently. He
was tall and courtly, with strands of white in his hair. He walked about with
no particular destination in mind.
Tabitha squinted
below the low-hanging moon. It had been a typical fall day in Southern Ohio.
The dry, sharp, and prickly smell that permeated the air when Tabitha was out
on her early morning run had been replaced with the rustling noise of orange
maple leaves that floated around the sidewalks. The howling wind snaked between
the rough and ragged trunks of the sweet gum trees that lined the park.
She thought about
the man for a moment longer. There was something about him that hinted at there
being more. He wore a button-down, red plaid shirt, blue jeans, and a pair of
brown sneakers. But was that really unique? Maybe it was the face. Tabitha decided
to break the silence to learn more. “Sir, are you alright?” Tabitha locked her
gaze dead ahead.
The old man had
not heard her, so he kept walking. Tabitha heard the snaps of twigs ahead as
his feet were jabbed by leaves and pebbles on the path.
“Sir?” The park
grew ever darker. Tabitha had been taking early evening runs in the park for
several years and she knew that soon the shadows of the trees would blend into
the blackness and his silhouette would grow less pronounced. She looked up and
caught a glimpse of the moon as a dark cloud drew close, threatening to erase
its silver rays. Tabitha felt her heart continue to slam into her chest,
despite the lack of running. She had an elderly mother herself at home and knew
people their age should not be left alone meandering in the dark. Before
Tabitha could call out again, the man stopped walking and slowly turned around.
“Lance,” said the
man. “My name is Lance.”
“Alright, Lance,
I’m Tabitha,” she said, introducing herself. “What, may I ask, are you doing
here by yourself?”
Lance did not
respond, but Tabitha knew he had not heard her question. His sea-blue eyes were
rheumy and the corners flecked with dry tears. His eyes pulsed with intensity,
but they darted back and forth like he was expecting something to happen at any
second.
Tabitha had seen
that look before. Her mother often gave the same facial expressions. Though the
doctors had not made any diagnosis, she had researched all of her symptoms,
including the hesitant steps and difficulty with visuospatial tasks such as
going up and down stairs. It was dementia. Could Lance be suffering from the
same disease? Tabitha blinked away the thought. She had only watched Lance for
several seconds and his indicators could be caused by other conditions. What
was considered normal for every
individual was always different.
Before Tabitha
could say anything else, Lance threw up his arms, then dug a heel into the path
and spun around. In another flurry of motion, Lance was scurrying off in the
opposite direction from where Tabitha had caught him.
Confused and
worried, she went after him, knowing it was the right thing to do. His shadow
grew tight and narrow as he turned around a sharp bend in the path,
disappearing into a dark maw between the space of two large tree trunks.
Tabitha retrieved her iPhone from her pocket and called 911. “Lance, wait!” she
called after him when he had sauntered dangerously away from her line of sight.
“911, what’s your
emergency?” said a woman from the other side of the phone. Tabitha was forced
to divide her attention between going after Lance and talking on her phone.
“Please send
someone to the trail lane at Jackson Lake State Park. I, I mean we, just passed
marker 404. A man needs help. Please hurry.”
“Is he in
immediate danger? What’s going on, ma’am?” asked the woman with a rote tone of
formality.
“No, nothing
serious. He is old and lost, dawdling around at a time like this … I look after
my mom. She has dementia. He’s … it’s…” Tabitha had a feeling she could not
explain. Something in her gut. “I—I think this man, Lance, has dementia, too.”
But just when Tabitha thought she had caught up with Lance, he had disappeared.
Excerpt
The River
Jeb
reached into his pocket and unspooled a locket that had been connected to a
silver, scalloped chain. Inside the locket was a picture of Tyler.
The
photograph had been taken by Rita on the morning that Tyler and Mitch had gone
on a weekend fishing trip on a shoreline where a bend in the Mississippi River
churned and pushed the virulent water upstream. It would be the last time Jeb
would see his son.
In
that moment, a pang of guilt hit Jeb hard as he remembered something else about
the last day he would see Tyler: Rita’s birthday. Tyler had forgotten about it
and didn’t realize the day had arrived until he came home on Saturday afternoon
and found a bouquet of flowers sitting on the kitchen counter from Jeb. Many of
the local stores in Iuka had closed for the day and Tyler didn’t have a chance
to get his mother a present. When Jeb came home from work and Tyler confessed,
Jeb told him to tell his mother the truth.
It's
fine honey. Really, Rita had said, her voice always smooth
and melodic. I just want to spend an evening at home with my two boys…
Jeb
remembers that Tyler paled at the statement. Mitch and I are taking his
daddies’ boat down the Mississippi River today to a spot that Mitch knows well
and do some fishin’…
Jeb
refused to let Tyler leave. He called Clint and told him Tyler wouldn’t be
going with Mitch. Clint practically begged Jeb to reconsider, insisting how
much Mitch had been looking forward to the trip. Jeb agreed to let Tyler go on
the trip. That decision would haunt Jeb forever, especially when Rita walked
out on their marriage a week later. Jeb never saw her again.
A
cold chill raced up the back of Jeb’s neck and snapped his mind from the
reverie. Jeb rocked back on the balls of his feet as the boat raced faster up
the river. The state police, Coast Guard, and Department of Natural Resources
officers had spent weeks combing the shorelines and the woods of the river
searching for Tyler and Mitch. During the investigation, law enforcement was
unable to find any blood or fingerprints on anything and no DNA evidence was
located around the riverbank where they went missing or in the clearing behind
it.
Jeb
cut a look over at Clint. Clint stood across the aisle from Jeb and alongside
the wheel. “Damn near going to get dark soon, Jeb. We need to get there so we
can get to lookin’,” he called out.
Jeb
studied his friend for a moment. Clint had a scraggly, grey beard that hung
down past his chest, but was now being whipped around by the wind. He was small and compact with a moon face and
bat ears. He walked with a slight limp from too many hours standing on a
concrete floor assembling furniture at the plant in Iuka. When a large pulley
fell from the ceiling and crushed his leg, Clint got to leave the plant forever
and received a large check for his pain and suffering.
Clint
caught Jeb staring at him. Clint chinned over the glass window that bracketed
the bridge deck on the boat. “Pier is up ahead, Jeb. Be there in a sec.”
“I
hate coming here,” Jeb said, his voice thin and deflated. He knew that Clint
couldn’t hear him, but the words were a reminder of what happened beyond that
pier and in the woods and how everything made him feel. Jeb knew that the
disappearance would connect the two of them together forever in a harrowing
way.
Overhead,
an intense assortment of orange, yellow, and pink ribbons of color banded
together and stretched across the sky. The rays off the late setting sun
started to warm up Jeb’s face and arms. Sweat trickled down his skin.
Jeb
overdressed for the trip, but it was necessary. He wore a tan, rugged upland
long-sleeved shirt. The lightweight cotton felt soft and comfortable against
his skin, even on a smoldering June afternoon and it would protect him against
some thorns or a wild animal that had the wrong idea. His dark brown hunting
pants and boots would provide him the protection and support he would need for
hiking and searching. Jeb carried a 9-millimeter revolver, holstered on his
belt.
Clint
angled the boat to the right side of the river. Ahead, just past a bend in the
river, Jeb could make out the outline of the pier, jutting a few feet into the
water. Over time, the river water had dissolved the wood into a rustic, woven
brown color, the golden grains now a sickly brown. This was the last pier that
could be seen from the Mississippi River before it moved South, which is
probably why Tyler and Mitch had decided to dock the boat and fish there.
Clint
pushed back on the engine throttle, slowing the boat. The screeching noise from
the motor subsided and the exhaust thinned into flat ribbons of smoke. Clint
killed the engine and guided the boat alongside the pier.
Clint’s
Salon Express boat had a stateroom, and the bridge decks and the deckhouse were
used as the galley and saloon. The boat didn’t yaw in rough water, which it
made it great for long trips and, more importantly, an easy boat to steer and
dock.
Jeb
pocketed the locket and stepped forward to the front of the boat. Clint reached
back and secured the rope from the floor. He anchored the boat and tossed the
lassoed rope over one of the pier posts.
Jeb
held onto the slack in the rope tightly, inching it out slowly as Clint
tightened the hard knot against the pier. The swirling current created by the
propeller continued pushing ribbons of water into the pier and the shore,
crashing small waves into the wood and sand. The sloped, tree-lined forest that
bracketed the shore and clearing on this side of the river stood silently
around them, a brooding presence of majesty. To Jeb, the space between the
shore and the forest felt like a tomb.
The
boat lurched forward for a moment as Clint stepped off the front and onto the
shore. Clint crossed his arms. The muscles in his neck strained and bulged as
he smacked his lips. Jeb looked up and out over the river.
“We
ain’t going to find them this way,” Clint called out.
Jeb
sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. For a moment, his feet were leaden.
After a few seconds, Jeb sauntered to the front of the boat and slowly stepped
onto the shore. Clint wore blue jeans and a white shirt that had been stained
with streaks of food grease. A stench of sweat and exhaust from the engine
wafted between them as Jeb stepped closer.
“What
are we doing here, Clint?” Jeb asked, his voice and words knotted with sadness.
Clint
blinked in bewilderment. His grey eyes darkened and became unnerving. “Trying
to find out what happened to our boys, Jeb. That’s why we are here.” His voice
and words poked at Jeb’s pain.
“I
know that, But this ain’t right, Clint. They aren’t here. I don’t know where
they are, but it’s not here.”
Clint
paused and let the silence pool. “It’s up to us to find them now.”
Jeb
lowered his gaze and shook his head. “I know that. But it’s been four months
and we’ve been coming out here on your fancy boat every weekend since then. I’m
not even sure what it is we’re looking for anymore.”
Jeb
blinked back tears at the memory. He sighed. Jeb could hear Tyler spitting out
those same words, his thick drawl full of long vowels that would make the
excitement in his voice sound charming.
Clint
thumbed over to the gleaming white boat. “Now, listen here, Jeb. I’ve put over
3,000 miles on her looking for my boy. And Tyler.” Jeb looked at his
friend in amazement. The reaction wasn’t lost on Clint.
“That’s
right. Over three thousand! That’s how many miles I’ve been on the water. I
can’t get Mary to come with me, so I come with you, and I come by myself. It
gets rough out here alone, especially if a South wind comes up the river. But I
do it.”
Where were you born/grew up at?
Charleston, West Virginia
Describe yourself in 5 words or less:
Passionate, loyal, anxious, stubborn, thinker
What do you do to unwind and relax?
Read and take long walks. I also like to play basketball,
which I do very badly, but it's good exercise.
What inspired you to write this book?
I've always been a big reader of short stories. As a writer, I feel like I
learned the conventions of language, word choice, plot, etc. from writing short
stories. The idea for this collection came from conversations I had with people
after the pandemic ended. I heard so many people say they missed being able to
have one-on-one conversations with other people, face-to-face, during the
pandemic without having to worry about wearing masks, getting too close to each
other, etc. I decided to challenge myself as a writer and see if I could write
a series of multi-genre short stories where the central tensions involve
two-person conversations. It was a great challenge to write these stories, but
also a lot of fun.
How did you come up with the name of this book?
The name came from the central story in the collection,
titled TABLE FOR TWO, about a man who celebrates a special occasion with his
partner, even though his partner has been dead for some time.
What is Your Favorite Part of the Book and Why?
My favorite part of the book is that all of these stories are
a blend of mystery, pain, and unexpected kindness, creating a tapestry of
experiences that I hope will resonate deeply with the reader.
What Are Your Top 10 Favorite books/authors?
East of Eden by John Steinbeck
The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne
The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison
Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee
The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy
All the Colors of the Dark by Chris Whitaker
John Adams by David McCullough
A Prayer for Owen Meany by John Irving
Proof by David Auburn
What do you think about the current publishing market?
I think when writers are pitching their projects to
publishers, they need to ask themselves, is the publisher a book producer or a book publisher? There is a difference and the
experience for the author and the book will be vastly different depending on
which one they chose.
What is your writing Kryptonite?
Dialogue. It's a challenge for me to ensure that not all of the characters
"talk" the same way. I also struggle with trying not to have
characters sounding like soap opera actors in terms of having characters
talk to each other instead
of past each other, like
they often do in soap operas.
Eliot Parker is the author of the thriller novel A FINAL CALL, which was named a "Best Indie Book to Discover in 2022" by Kirkus Magazine and was a finalist in thriller novel from the London Book Festival. His short story collection SNAPSHOTS, won the 2020 PenCraft Literary Award and the 2021 Feathered Quill Book Award for Short Story Anthology. His thriller novel, A KNIFE'S EDGE, was an Amazon #1 bestseller. Eliot has received the West Virginia Literary Merit Award for his works and has also been a finalist for the Southern Book Prize in Thriller Writing in 2016 for his novel FRAGILE BRILLIANCE.
He hosts the podcast program, "Now Appalachia" on the Authors on the Air Global Radio Network, which profiles authors, editors, and publishers in the Appalachian region. He also hosts a Youtube/Booktube program called "Page Break," featuring book reviews, interviews with authors, and news about the publishing industry.
A graduate of the Bluegrass Writers Studio at Eastern Kentucky University with his M.F.A. in Creative Writing and a graduate of Murray State University with his Doctorate in English, Eliot teaches writing that the University of Mississippi. For more information, visit his website http://www.eliotparker.com
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This looks really interesting. Thanks for sharing.
ReplyDeleteI like the excerpt. This sounds like something I would enjoy reading.
ReplyDelete