faceless peopleI’m driving my rig, delivering a package to…somewhere.  I have no clue as to the destination.  On the inside, it’s a full-sized tractor rig.  On the outside, though, it’s a Dodge Omni.  This paradox doesn’t perturb me; in fact, I’m very much comfortable with the dimensional inconsistencies.

Driving down minor highways and biways.  Never knowing where I am or where I’m going. My directional sense and purpose is almost instinctual, like I know I’m supposed to be going a certain direction, but cannot explain why.

I arrive at an abandoned rest stop.  Inside the building, it’s an old, creaky Victorian-style house, lit by candles. The flickering light casts dancing shadows on the plaster walls. At a table are children playing with blank cards.

I ask them about my whereabouts; a girl looks up at me and says, “If you don’t know where you’re going, then maybe you’re where you’re supposed to be.”  The children giggle in unison.

I open up my road atlas.  The states all fall onto the floor, as it appears my atlas is an old sticker book, and the glue has disintegrated over the ages. I go into an adjacent room, where adults are sitting at a large card table.  I ask them what state I’m in.

They all turn and look at me.  One lady begins, “You’re in…” then stops.  I inquire further, but she only says, “If we told you, then it would spoil the surprise.”  Then the adults start giggling in unison.

I go back into the room I came from, only the children are dressed as if ready for bed.  They’re standing in the middle of the room, looking at me.  One girl steps forward, and asks, “You’re not leaving, are you?  We need you here.”

I don’t answer.  The children melt into the floor.  The candles are growing dim…

::END TRANSMISSION::

Advertisements