DEAR
Mystery lovers:
Hiya, folks. I wrote a lyrical short story a while ago. Short, confusing, supernatural, and mysterious. You can read it on Wattpad as well, if you'd like, but here it is for your (hopefully) (possible) (maybe) enjoyment: Lights.
Mystery lovers:
Hiya, folks. I wrote a lyrical short story a while ago. Short, confusing, supernatural, and mysterious. You can read it on Wattpad as well, if you'd like, but here it is for your (hopefully) (possible) (maybe) enjoyment: Lights.
It had been twenty-four hours since he could think. Rotting trash molded beneath a pile of leaves was the last thing he remembered. The torpid scent of rot mingled with morning light tickled his eyelashes; he groaned and opened his eyes. The sky was bright, but cloudy. There was no trace of what had happened the night before but for the wavering colors still painted on the back of his eyelids.
He slowly pushed himself to his feet and staggered through the rusting leaves, trying to find the road. A blue glint beckoned him through the trees– his ancient Jalopy, caressed by a muddy ditch. He looked up and down the road, hoping to see a sign of civilization, though he’d searched last night in vain; but just past the bend there sat a shiny new diner.
The bell squeaked in time with the swinging of the door; he shoved his way through the rush of new smells toward a stool. There was no one else there but him, and he closed his eyes for a moment. “You all right, hon? Look like you’ve seen an alien.”
He looked up abruptly; a slim waitress stared back him, unashamed curiosity on her face. He frowned. “Why not a ghost?”
She shrugged and slapped a menu onto the counter. “We don’t get many of them around here.” She disappeared into the sizzling kitchen, leaving him alone for a moment. A high whistle pierced through the kitchen door, an odd tune that frightened him. He closed his eyes again to calm the storm within his head, trying to remember what had happened last night. He’d been driving, and… that tune… it was familiar…
The clatter of plastic against counter forced him from his reverie; the waitress was back. “So…” she looked at him appraisingly, “…watcha here for?”
His brow furrowed darkly as he observed the glass of water and small slice of pie she had placed in front of him. “Dunno. Needed to get away.”
“From what?” She snapped her gum; he jumped.
“The sameness of it all.” He stared at his fork, as if wondering what it was for. “Too much sameness. No change. Stuck in a loop.”
She stared at the fork, too, their reflections distorted in the bright tines. “Gotta job?”
“Computers.” He stopped; he hadn’t gone on a long drive to mull over what he had wanted to take a break from.
“What about computers?”
“Anything.”
“Tell me about it,” she said.
So he did. He told her what he loved about computers; what he hated. He told her that computers were sometimes better than any person; they listened to everything he said; they never talked back, they never gave advice. He told her what he wanted to do, which was a lot; he told her what he had done, which was little. He told her how everything was the same, every day, every night, every week. And then he looked up again; she was listening with rapt attention. “You listened.”
She nodded, snapping her gum; he didn’t jump this time. “Waitresses listen, hon. Part of the job description.”
“Do you want to know a secret?” She blinked curiously; the gum snapped.
“I think I saw a ghost last night.” He studied the fork, wondering why he couldn’t stop talking. “There was a lot of rain. I ran into a ditch. Then there was lightning, but it wasn’t lightning; it was all these round, fuzzy, colored lights, bouncing around in the rain.”
“A natural phenomenon.” She walked to the coffee machine and poured a mug, then came back.
He shook his head. “No. Unnatural. Definitely.” He watched the steam curl upward from her coffee, spinning itself into a weave above the mug. “There was music. Whistling– the lights were whistling. Some creepy, wandering melody.”
“Like this?” She puckered her lips. He jumped, knocking the fork and the crust of his pie to the shiny floor, and she stopped whistling to laugh.
“Like that,” he said.
She smiled strangely. “Ghosts. They like to sing.” Then she nodded toward the window; there was a blue flash in the corner of the glass. “Need a tow truck?”
He shook his head; she winked at him. “Seems like you do know what you came here for.” At his curious look, she went on: “Something to break the sameness. Like ghosts.”
He blinked slowly and took another sip of water before standing to leave. “I suppose it was ghosts, then.”
“Or aliens,” she said.
He smiled, pausing mid-step. “Or aliens.”
He pushed open the door, the bell squeaking, and walked to his old blue Jalopy. He stared at it for a moment, then opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine started after three tries, spitting out a rusty cough. It took three more tries to drive out of the ditch and onto the road; the old automobile shuddered as it climbed onto the weathered asphalt.
He took a deep breath, waiting for a moment, then drove on in the direction of town, past the spot where the diner sat.
The diner wasn’t there.
With A Knowing Smile,
Joélle.