Opal, by Diane Thomas-Plunk, is a collection of related short stories set in 1950s rural Mississippi. Opal is a middle-aged, reclusive spinster who doesn’t seek out the world at large, but gathers up her courage when she must.
The book may be purchased through amazon, barnesandnoble, booksamillion or other online bookselelrs.
“OPAL is not soon to be forgotten for it delights readers with a character so perfectly described and understood that one finishes the stories and hungers for sequels.”
If you have a group that would like to invite Diane Thomas-Plunk to speak, please contact her through a comment on this page. Be sure to provide your email address and the type of group.
Opal Pratt now has her own facebook page — Opal – the Book. Today, there is a short quiz, but she’s willing (after my encouragement) to answer some of your questions about the contents and characters of her book. Take a look, ask a question and give her a like.
When my book, Opal, is released in approximately a month, this will be the image of Opal’s house that will appear on the cover. Opal is a collection of related short stories set in 1950s rural Mississippi. You’ll recognize the features of this house as you read the stories. By the way, the window you see on the left of the door once belonged to her parents.
The painting of the house was created by artist John Robinette. Click the ‘fiction’ tab to the left to read some Opal stories.
Mike & I wish you a Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.
Published in Deep South Magazine
Opal Pratt didn’t recognize the old pickup truck that turned off the main road onto the dusty lane to her house. She was sitting in the front porch rocker as was her late afternoon habit, particularly now when the Mississippi summer settled in and she could catch a breeze out there.
A tall, lanky man stepped out of the truck when it stopped near her porch. There was a familiar look to him, but Opal couldn’t place him. He approached the bottom porch step and tipped his hat.
“I’m Lemuel Parker, and I come to court.”
Turning, twisting, and wrenching away,
Dissolve, then reappear.
Not in Chalot or a viper pit,
Your room, top floor, in the rear.
A place bereft of childish joy,
A place that’s filled with tears.
Where ice cream tastes like castor oil
And probity disappears.
Your very private kinder-hell,
A too-exclusive club.
No dogs or girls may enter here.
No laughter and no love.
You’ve built a wall with anger boards
Nailed in place with fear.
You slip inside that secret space
And then you disappear.
I climb the stairs.
I speak your name.
But no trace can I find
Of the child I once called happiness,
Of the boy who once was mine.
My friend the river never fit their mold either.
He’d carry their barges and pleasure boats, then
Reclaim a field that once had been his or hold
A swimmer too close, not giving up what he took.
I tried the carnival balls and white gloves prescribed
For proper Southern girls, but was more Southern
Than prim, understanding the sameness of the
River’s currents and mine pushing against our banks.
No corsets for him or me; I stole his dogwoods
For a gown while matrons clucked at my shame and
Their regret – still needing us to validate
The tight patterns of life ordained for gentle folk.
So I threw away hats and teas and ritual crap
For a beach, typewriter and me, succeeding
At my grandest failure in conformity.
My river egged me on and reclaimed a whole street.
It’s the spooky season of October, so I’ve re-posted an appropriate story I wrote a year ago this month for Deep South Magazine. Read Kith and Kin at —