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.
from a reader —
“I just finished reading Opal and I want to tell you that we are so impressed with your skill and sensitivity. You are an outstanding story-teller!! I don’t know whether you were intentional but the variety of the tales you told certainly demonstrated the breadth of your writing ability–from quiet drama to thriller and, even, comedy.”
“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.