BY JOAN CONNOR

At the base of Horrible Hill rots the blinkered Dead Motel. No tourists stop here now, but their memories fight over the erased lines of the parking spaces. They drive vintage T-Birds, finned Caddie convertibles, old Ford Galaxie 500s, Dodge Meadowbrooks, Gray Ghosts.
They check in at the desk. The silent echoes of the summoning desk-clerk bell reverberate as quiet as snow. Perhaps the memories are tired, tired of driving, tired of being insubstantial, tired of vacationing on evaporating lakes with shadow children and shadow dogs named Inconsequential or Pall who squabble in cranky silences.

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