The Wait at Sandy Station Motel (Flash Fiction)
This is a little flash fiction I wrote. It is surreal and open to interpretation.
Today I sit on a rock in front of what is left of my business: rusted beams from its structure and a yellow sign still with its red lettering clear: Sandy Station Motel. It could still represent a life not beyond repair. However, I can’t make my decision to start re-build this family business until I see that vision again. You see, days in the desert are now hotter, heaven and hell has moved down like a tired sun, compressing the air, hidden behind the deserts breeze. Over the past year tired wanderers and farmers have spoke of lucid hallucinations in this space of desert. Everyone now stays home in the over populated cities, comfortable starring at their walls in the familiar and known.
For me, it’s hard to leave this place. My mother and father are still heard in every breeze, ‘Johnny, why are you always digging?’ But they have now moved on, on to a populated city. I never let my eyes off those dark brown rectangles of ground where the back wall of the motel used to be for too long, just encase.
But just for today I want to go somewhere else. I long to revisit yesterday’s sight: the golden curtain turning day into night. Yesterday, the dark brown rectangles in the sand became contorted. Suddenly I stood in a dim spotlight, and saw perched in a seat made of splashed white paint an aged giant, his skin drained. He was wearing a white robe flittering like TV static. I could not help but wonder: what did I plunder? I said to the giant, “It was all I could do.”
The giant starred with sorrowful eyes, and like a stage production the vision rearranged for a new scene, the space fell pitch black for a moment. Then gave light to a large hotel at night signposted: Sandy Station Hotel. I edged through the steep glass door and saw a high ceiling lobby with dark maroon walls that felt sticky to touch, and were running with a sticky transparent goo. It felt no longer a place to catch a breath, but a place for rest.
Up the wide green carpeted staircase I placed each foot careful not to alert whatever or whoever was in here, as I took time to work out how far the corridor stretched in front of me. As I passed each room, I could hear chanting in another language, plus moaning, laughter and whispering. Was this the bodies I buried for so long, or the cult who left them at my front door? After I passed about half a dozen rooms I realised none were numbered. So I entered a room at random needing to see if this vision could show me what I wanted to know. In the room a man at least 8 feet tall in a butler’s suit stood with one hand on the shoulder of a wheelchair bound man in a red velvet suit. A thick layer of dust was covering Wheelchair Man like rotten sugar. The giant appeared to be typing on the screen of a monitor attached to the wheelchair, while Wheelchair Man’s hands and arms vibrated, tensing like he was trying to move them. His face in shock like Munch’s, The Scream. I moved around for a better view and saw the facial features of the man in the wheelchair. I see them in the car mirror every day.
My mouth went dry, my stomach cramping. I looked up to the giant, and saw his face contained lines carved into rock hard skin. His eyeballs like two dark bowling balls in a deep cave. His pupils like a pencil head and iris’s the exact same green as the hotels carpet, as if he somehow spawned out of the floor.
I grabbed the monitor out of its attachment and read what he had been typing. He’d written about cults in the desert and the bodies I have buried, that I found comfort starring into the lifeless eyes as it reassured me this person was worse off than me. He’d sent these ramblings to my parents’ email address. No, none of it was true. I always gave the bodies prayers and coffins. Always pushing their eyes closed, dressing them in clean clothes. Always giving them dignity, or what was left after whatever the cult needed them for. Nevertheless, I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I didn’t notice the giant push my wheelchair-self out of the door. They left me standing with the glowing monitor in the dark empty room, the surroundings begun to fade.
So the sign states Sandy Station Motel - all that is left of my family’s tenure. I wish to rebuild my motel. The cult who forced me to bury the bodies they used like unwanted toys have stopped coming over the hill to the West every Thursday night to visit me, all since my motel blew down and the desert became hotter and it’s air compressed. Maybe their work is done. But if I rebuild my motel, will the vision reveal itself to be my future, or what I will avoid?
Last edited by Mrtickle; 06-14-2016 at 05:41 AM..