Thanks for reading,
~Curtis Rx

He arrived in a muzzle flash—a speeding bullet ripping through the orange horizon. Orchestrated by a wild spinning of tires, a reanimated cemetery of dust arose in his wake. It hovered like an apparition behind Leonard’s sports car as he tore down a barren stretch of desolate desert road. Not a single living creature could be seen or heard for miles, except for the occasional persevering cactus. After a few seconds the resurrected dust fluttered back to its resting place, until it would be called upon to haunt the next unsuspecting passerby.
Leonard sat idly behind the wheel of his speeding bullet, en route from Las Vegas to Los Angeles for an upcoming weekend photo shoot. Any normal photographer, especially one of his ilk and notoriety, would have just taken a private jet, but Leonard refused to fly anywhere. Most of his clients considered this fear to be highly irrational and quite the business problem, causing his personal assistant many scheduling headaches. But based on Leonard’s theory, if an airplane malfunctioned while airborne, most likely it would fall twenty thousand feet toward its untimely demise, but no matter how dangerous automobiles were—they rarely fell from the sky.

Back on the ground, on the seat next to Leonard sat the instrument of his career, his trusty thirty-five millimeter camera, and next to it, a bruised and battered Polaroid camera. Nowadays, very few people used the Polaroid in day-to-day life since modern technology ushered in the era of digital photography, but Leonard was enamored with instant gratification. He was the type of man who wanted quick results, and that made the Polaroid camera perfect, but he would never use it on a paying gig. It was just a recreational toy he enjoyed from time to time.

Chewing noisily on a piece of two-hour-old flavorless gum, Leonard reached down and grabbed a bottle of water from his cup holder. In a single gulp he finished it off and tossed it onto the passenger seat. He cracked the window open, ever so slightly, extending an invitation to the arid desert wind. He felt it dance harshly through his thick brown hair. The overwhelming smell of dry sage assaulted his nostrils—

POP!

Something unknown from the depths of the iron giant’s boiling hood exploded like anti-aircraft fire. The piercing sound stung Leonard’s eardrums. He jerked the steering wheel and the car swerved violently across the disintegrating asphalt road. Thick white steam began to billow out from the underneath the hood. He quickly corrected the car’s path and mashed his boot down onto the awaiting brake pedal. The car lurched sharply under the pressure, spun around in a circle, and came to a screeching halt on the opposite side of the deserted highway. He sat quietly for a few seconds and then slammed his tightened fist down on the imported leather steering wheel. “Just my luck,” he said, more angry than startled. Already fashionably late, this put another tardy crimp in his plan.

Leonard yanked on the hood release cable under the dash and the hood popped loose. Swinging open the door, he emerged from the idle car and walked through the fluttering steam toward the front. Impatiently, he reached out his hand and grasped the hood latch—
Tender flesh met blistering metal.

The result boiled his fingers to the touch. “Damn it,” he ripped his hand away from the searing steel of the hood latch. His fingers erupting in a volcano of raised welts and pink flesh. “Damn it all to hell.”

He cringed from the throbbing pain. With Leonard’s remaining good hand, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a fancy silk handkerchief, nearly the color of the sand beneath his feet. With it, he forcefully pried open the hood. Scalding hot steam poured out from underneath it, like a banshee escaping from an iron tomb. He quickly backed away, deciding to let it cool off before burning himself any further—it was a smart decision. Leonard glanced down toward his grease-smudged hand. “Great, a perfectly good handkerchief gone to pot.”

Feeling invisible eyes prying, he quickly glanced up.

A lone, green cactus stood beside the road. It was staring straight at him, watching the scene play out, almost—laughing.

“What the hell are you looking at?” Leonard asked the motionless, prickly mass. The ill-mannered cactus did not feel the need to answer.

“Well then, you don’t happen to know a good mechanic around here, do you?”

Still no answer from the smiling cactus, it just continued to stand there. “You don’t have to be a prick about it,” Leonard laughed quietly to himself.

After a short while, the steam dissipated enough for him to finally spot the problem—the coolant reservoir. It was as dry as a sun-bleached skeleton. He walked around to the passenger side window and grabbed the water bottle from off the seat, but quickly realized he had selfishly drained it earlier. Now he was stranded, standing on a lonely stretch of highway in the blistering desert heat, without any trace of liquid. In a magnificent temper tantrum, he threw down the empty bottle and performed a glorious dance on its flattened corpse. The wind kicked up behind him, swirling the desert sand into the air. Leonard glanced up into the sky and saw the orange eye of the sun staring back at him, never blinking.

The desert is a strange and unnerving place to find yourself alone in. No matter how sardine-packed the world becomes, very few venture into the desert to make it their home. It’s the last of Mother Earth’s unpolluted, unrefined, and undeveloped masterpieces. You will never set foot on the same inch of sand twice. Is it any wonder why we hear so many tales of people wandering into the desert, never to be heard from again?

After trampling the defenseless water bottle, Leonard glanced back into the car. His Polaroid camera was lying there on the passenger seat, waiting like a small infant to be held in his embrace. “Hell, since it looks like I got some free time, might as well document the beauty of one-hundred-and-twenty degree weather,” he said as he swooped the camera up from the seat. He backed a few steps away and caught a glimpse of the ghostly steam writhing up from the dehydrated engine compartment. It danced back and forth on the breeze, ready to take flight at any moment. He snapped a photograph before it had a chance to disappear forever. The camera moaned and purged its recording of light. He slid the photograph into his shirt pocket.

To the left of his car, off in the distance, Leonard noticed a strange circle of burned-out cacti, unfortunate victims of some horrible fire many years past. Lifeless and needleless, they stood like blackened headstones in a forgotten desert cemetery. A modern day Stonehenge, he thought, how—artsy. He walked closer toward them.

It was a strange growth pattern indeed. To an irrational mind it seemed as if the long-dead cacti consciously gathered there, instead of growing wherever the wind may have taken them. As Leonard entered the circle, he noticed a few sun-bleached bones and a decaying metal gas canister lying half buried in sand. He began to investigate the bones with the tip of his dusty boot. I really hope those belong to an animal, he thought. Leonard leaned forward and took an overhead photograph of the scene.

Allowing his mind to drift onto more pleasant thoughts, Leonard walked backwards a bit and crouched down to one knee. He slightly angled the camera upward and snapped a photograph of the burnt cluster of cacti. He stood up, brushed the sand from his pants and walked back toward the car. As he approached the driver’s side, something crunched under his heavy boot. He glanced down to investigate—a cute cartoon drawing of a helpful bear glanced back. It was an old metal sign, riddled with rusted bullet wounds and slowly returning to the earth from whence it came. “Only you can prevent forest fires,” he said quietly to the bear. Who would have guessed that this ferocious animal, known to rip a human apart in mere seconds, would make a good cartoon spokesperson? Wait, he thought, there isn’t a forest around for miles—and who needs to worry about a fire in the desert anyway—well, except for those poor cacti. I guess they didn’t read the sign before having their little cookout. Leonard held the camera at an angle and snapped a photograph of the weathering sign.

He spun back around to survey the surrounding area and slid the rest of the photographs into his shirt pocket. Great, he thought, I’m going to have to walk back now, but walk back to where? He remember seeing a gas station some miles back, but couldn’t be certain exactly how many miles back.

Leonard quickly rolled up the car window and popped open the trunk. He lifted the lid, carefully moved an overstuffed duffle bag aside, and pulled out a large red water jug—which just also happened to be empty. “I knew I should’ve filled this before I left,” he said as he slammed the trunk lid closed. He let out a long sigh. “The journey of a thousand miles takes place with the first step,” he announced for all the desert, and cactus, and bears to hear. “So where’s a taxi when you need one?” With the empty jug and trusty Polaroid camera by his side, he began to walk back up the road.

The seconds ticked and the minutes tocked. Leonard stumbled down the highway in the desert heat, his thick boots slowly beginning to melt. Each gooey step stuck onto the pavement below. The warmth rose through his soles, slowly roasting his tender feet. Shards of unfiltered sunlight stabbed through his unshielded forehead, sucking the moisture from his skin, like a thirsty diurnal vampire. His mouth became pasty. His flesh began to cook. The faint rumbling of a jet slowly filled the air as it passed overhead. He shielded his eyes and looked up toward the heavens. How comfortable were those passengers in the sky, he thought, reclining and sipping in first class? A person like Leonard, who lives in air-conditioned extravagance, is entirely unaccustomed to the unyielding power of the desert sun. This is one situation his agent did not prepare him for. Where was his personal assistant now?

On the road ahead, miles stretched out like thick beige taffy, distorting into oblivion. North, South, East, and West devoured each other, contorting until they bled into one singular direction. Seconds cascaded into minutes; minutes flooded into hours. Every so often an insignificant grain of sand discovered a secret entrance into Leonard’s squinting eye and he had to stop to fish it back out.

As he reached the top of yet another countless hill, Leonard spotted something off in the distance, glinting in the sunlight. About two hundred feet in front of him stood—a tiny diner, protruding from the shifting sands. A smile formed; help at last. He stumbled down the hill toward the beckoning oasis, kicking up scorching sand behind him as he ran. Between moments of exhalation, he noticed an array of glowing neon signs buzzing away in the diner windows—24 HOURS—FRESH COFFEE—ICE COLD SODA POP—FRESH PIES. With wild anticipation in his mind, he quickened his pace, despite his throbbing muscles. “Lovely beautiful neon,” he said between struggled breaths. “The signs of civilization.”

When Leonard burst through the diner door, a blast of cold air greeted him, sending chills down his spine and goose bumps up his arms. Expecting to be bombarded with the smell of sizzling bacon, golden brown toast, buttery scrambled eggs, and strong coffee, he was instead wrapped in a blanket of burnt firewood. The smell was almost overwhelming. They must be cooking with real wood in the back, he thought, instead of gas. The diner was sparsely decorated with a few tattered red plastic booths, rickety imitation wood tables, and a long soda bar adorned with sinful pies, cookies, doughnuts, and cases of fattening homemade pastries. A handful of grungy locals sat in the peeling booths, a little girl in a floral patterned blue dress sat at the soda bar, a particularly burly man was roving around the dusty jukebox, and a large woman dressed in a salmon pink uniform stood behind the counter, drying a fractured juice glass with an oily rag. At that moment, everybody inside the diner instantly stopped what they were doing and began staring at the stranger, as if a velvet curtain had been pulled back and he was a sideshow oddity—something to gawk and awe over.

“Thank God you’re open,” Leonard said as he plopped down on one of the lumpy bar stools next to the little girl.

“What do you want?” The large woman behind the counter belched.

“Well, hello to you too,” Leonard said. “I’m just looking for a little hospitality. My car broke down a few miles back and I desperately need some water for my radiator.”

“All right, but you’ll have to buy something first.”

“Really?”

The waitress didn’t answer, she just stood there silently, using her tongue to pry a piece of old food from between her back teeth.

“In that case,” he said, studying the grease-splattered menu on the wall above his head. “I don’t have time for a meal, but I’ll take a glass of water and—some coffee sounds good, even though it’s hotter than hell outside.”

“Coffee and water coming right up for the big spender.” The waitress slammed down a yellowed glass full of swamp water and a dingy ceramic mug. She filled it to the brim with thick black tar.

“Thank you,” Leonard said as he pulled a cigarette from his pocket. “Can I get a light too?”

“No,” The waitress snapped in a wicked tone and ripped the cigarette from his chapped lips. She dropped into onto the ground and began to stomp on it, like a scuttling beetle, and didn’t stop until tobacco guts burst out from its papery chest. “We don’t allow smoking in here.” She forcefully snatched the water jug from his hand and walked over toward the grimy, dish filled sink.

“Whatever you say lady,” Leonard said. “You’re the boss.” He sat there amazed, stunned by the manner in which she treated a perfectly good cigarette. She began to fill the water jug. Leonard pressed his lips to the hazy glass and sucked down a big gulp of water; then switched to the mug and slurped down a gulp of black coffee. It was cold, stale, and tangy. It attacked his taste buds. He started to gag and quickly spit it back into the mug. “This coffee is cold.”

The wretched waitress stared up from the sink and said, “we don’t serve hot coffee.”

“But your sign says ‘Hot Coffee’,” he said as he pointed toward the neon sign hanging in the diner window.

“No it doesn’t, it says ‘Fresh Coffee’. The coffee was fresh—this morning,” the waitress replied.

“But coffee’s supposed to be hot—nice and hot.”

“Well, since I own this joint and everybody in here prefers not to have their mouth scalded, we only sell room-temperature coffee. If you don’t like it, go take your mug and stand outside a bit, that’ll warm it up for you. If not—you can order something else.”

“Fine then.” Leonard said, studying the menu a bit more. “I’ll just have a soda.”

“One soda, coming right up.” The waitress dropped the water jug and it slammed on top of the dirty dishes lying in the sink, splattering rancid food far and wide. She pulled an ancient soda bottle out from under the counter, pried the top off, and slid it across the bar toward Leonard. “You still have to pay for the coffee you know?”

“Don’t worry, my money’s good,” he said. The waitress glared and went back to filling the jug.

“She’s not always that mean,” said a small voice to his side.

“That’s hard to believe,” Leonard said as he turned around and saw the little girl in the blue dress staring up at him with a sweet smile and innocent blue eyes to match. A large rosy burn scar covering most of her face startled him, but he did his best to hide it.

“She just don’t trust strangers,” said the little girl.

“Is that so, I hadn’t noticed,” he said with a sarcastic smile and took a swig out of his dusty soda bottle. “Wait—how do you know I’m a stranger?” he asked the little girl.

“Because, you look strange.”

Leonard began to laugh. “What’s your name, little girl?”

“Emily.”

“Nice to meet you Emily. My name is Leonard.”

“Nice to meet’cha.”

“See,” he said. “Now we aren’t strangers anymore.”

Emily smiled in agreement.

Leonard couldn’t stop glancing at the large scar on her face. He selfishly wanted to ask about it, but didn’t want to upset the sweet little thing. Some questions, best go unanswered.

“So Emily,” he said. “Do you live here in the desert?”

“Yes sir—but I hate it.” A scowl formed on her tiny little face.

“Why’s that?”

“Because it’s too hot,” she answered. “It’s always too hot.”

“But you know what that means right?”
“Noooo—what?”

“That means you can eat as much ice cream as you want—to counteract the heat of course.”

A large smile formed on the Emily’s face “Yeah, I guess you’re right mister. But you know where I really want to live?”

“Where’s that?” Leonard asked.

She glanced back and forth over her shoulder to make sure nobody else was listening. “The North Pole. Ya’ know—where Santa Claus lives, so I can play in the snow and make snowmen—and snow angels—and throw snowballs—and stuff like that. Doesn’t that sound like fun Mister?”

“It sounds great. I sincerely hope you get to go there someday Emily.”

The waitress threw the jug of water down on the counter in front of Leonard, splattering water over the sides, startling him in the process.

“It’ll be three-fifty for the coffee and soda,” the waitress said. “You got the water for free.”

“Oh yeah?” Leonard whispered toward Emily. “I could’ve drank out of the toilet for free too.”

Emily quietly chuckled.

“One last thing, before our paths part,” Leonard said.

“What now?” The waitress replied.

“Could I get a sandwich and—another soda to go?”

“What kind of sandwich?”

“I dare to ask,” he said. “Do you have roast beef?”

“No,” she snapped again.

“Wait a second—no hot coffee—no roast beef,” Leonard said half jokingly. “What kind of place are you running here?”

“You’re trying my patience.”

“Ok—ok,” Leonard said. “What kind do you have?”

“Turkey and cheese or ham and cheese,” the waitress said.

“I’ll be adventurous—give me the turkey.” The waitress turned around, plucked a triangle shaped sandwich from the display case, and slammed it on the countertop next to his water jug. Wilted lettuce peeked out from between the sickly slices of bread. “It’ll be seven-fifty,” she barked. Leonard produced a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and slid it into the waitress’ grease streaked apron. He gave her a little wink.

“Here you go sweet-cheeks,” Leonard said. “Keep the change.” For the first time, a tiny hint of a smile rose to the surface of her face, but was quickly swallowed back into the depths again. She stomped off in a huff.

Leonard spun around toward the little girl. “Do you mind if I take a picture of you Emily? Just a little something to remember you by.”

“Sure, I like pic-a-tures.” Leonard smiled at the odd way she pronounced the word.

“Great,” he said, putting the viewfinder up to his eye. “Now say cheese. Wait—say turkey and cheese.”

A huge smile formed on Emily’s face, “Turkey and cheese.”

SNAP!

There was a flutter of metal butterfly wings and a sweet moment was trapped forever, captured by a mechanical eye. Leonard slid the photograph into his pocket, lifted the water jug, and swooped the sad looking sandwich from off the damp countertop. “Thanks for the picture Emily and when you finally get to meet Santa Claus,” he said while sliding off the lumpy barstool. “Please say hi for me.”

“I will—I promise I will,” Emily said gleefully.

Just like a famous Broadway actor, Leonard completed his final line of dialogue and quickly exited stage left. He opened the door back into his desert hell. A blast of dry air grabbed him by the collar and yanked him outside into the awaiting heat. The door slammed shut behind him. The blanket of burnt firewood lifted and the smell of sage came back out to play in his nostrils. All of the cacti, once again, congregated outside the diner and stood patiently awaiting his return. They were staring again, but Leonard didn’t notice. They began to laugh again, but he wasn’t aware.

Before beginning the long hike back, he spun around and took one last look at the tiny diner. The waitress stood solemnly at one of the windows, wiping her damp hands with a dirty dishrag. She was watching him. Emily had jumped off the barstool, climbed across one of the booths and was now waving at him. Leonard waved back. He lifted his camera, framed the shot, and took one last photograph—a frozen moment in time. He slipped it into his pocket with the rest of the suspended memories. He ripped the plastic wrapper off his sandwich, took an unpleasant bite, and started on his long hike back to the car. Emily and the waitress continued to watch as he began his slow disappearance into the horizon.

The walk back wasn’t so bad, it was almost—charming. The sun hung low in the painted sky. A cool breeze blew gently on Leonard’s sunburned face. He looked forward to a steak dinner, a cold beer, and a simple tube of cherry chapstick. His mind wandered back to the cacti and how they stood by the side of the road, watching him as he passed. They seemed to mock him. They were letting him know that he was out of his element. They wanted to show him who was boss in desert.

A quiet and peaceful hour passed. His sleeping car now appeared in the distance, but something was wrong. There was something next to it. He couldn’t quite tell what it was, but from this distance it looked like—another car. Yes, it was a car—a police car. That’s funny, he thought, where were the cops when you really need them? Start running, his mind raced, catch him before he leaves.

Run.

Now.

Leonard took off in a blaze, fast enough to outrun the sun. As he rapidly approached the cars, he could see the officer standing by his front windshield. He was slipping something yellow under Leonard’s windshield wiper. Leonard was now only a few short feet away. “Thank God you’re here,” Leonard spit out between breaths.

The officer turned toward the sound of his voice. “Is this your car?”

“Yes it is,” Leonard said.

“Then this,” The officer said as he slid the yellow piece of paper out from under the windshield wiper and handed it to Leonard, “belongs to you too.”

“A ticket—you’re giving me a ticket? What for?

“For abandoning your car here.”

“What?” Leonard said. “I didn’t abandon it, I broke down. I had to hike all the way back to that diner and get some water for my radiator—”

“Wait—what did you say?” The officer cut him off.

“My car broke down and had to hike back to that diner to get some water—”

“What diner?”

“I don’t know,” Leonard said. “That little 24 hour one back there, off the road.”

“There isn’t any diner on this highway,” the officer said.

Leonard noticed that same damn cactus standing along the road, staring at him again, just like before. It was laughing again, even louder this time; it had a front row seat to this comedy. “Yes, there is. I just came from there. Where do you think I got this from?” Leonard shook the water jug toward the officer—

The jug was now empty.

“What the hell,” Leonard said to himself. Did it spill out, he thought? I was running, so it must have spilled out? He turned around to check. Nope, nothing, not a single drop. He was sure the jug had been full when he left the diner, but now the water was nowhere to be found.

“I swear this was full when I left the diner. I sat down for a while, had a cup of coffee too. There was even this little girl named—Emily!” He froze and a series of triggers went off in his brain.

The pictures.

“For the last time, there isn’t any damn diner on this road—there isn’t anything on this road. There used to be a diner, but it burned down almost fifteen years ago. I know this for a fact—because I had to help pull the bodies out myself.”

“Yes, that’s a very scary story, but I’m telling the truth—you’ll see.” Leonard pulled the photographs from his pocket. “I took a picture of it, one of the little girl too.” He began to shuffle through them: The swirling mass of scalding steam writhing from his engine compartment, the disintegrating gas canister keeping watch over a hidden cache of unidentified bones, the graveyard circle of scorched cacti leaning toward the orange horizon, the gun-downed metal sign beckoning to all who return its stare: Say No To Forest Fires. He quickly flipped to the next picture—

Dread pulsed in his brain. Horror engulfed him. His knees began to shake like a cornfield scarecrow in the wind. The blood drained from his face and scurried down his veins. His nerves surrendered and retreated into the hills.

For in the picture, which should have been Emily’s smiling face, was a charred human skull. Eye sockets, which once held radiant blue marbles, now stared back through burned out fire pits. Unable to speak a word, he flipped to the last picture—the diner. It was a raging inferno. Leonard thought he could still see Emily and the waitress in the picture, clawing at the window, scratching at the glass, struggling to get out. It can’t be, he thought, they were real. They were—alive, flesh and blood. He talked to them. He drank the horrible coffee, ate that sickly sandwich. That must have been real—he could still taste it. Finally, the clicking in Leonard’s throat began became a stutter.

“There’s something horribly wrong here,” Leonard said. “These aren’t the pictures I took. They’ve—changed somehow, but I swear to God—what I saw was real. Here,” Leonard handed the last two photographs to the officer, “you make some sense of these.”

The officer lowered his sunglasses onto the tip of his nose and stared down at the photographs in his hand. Unamused, he quickly slid his glasses back into place and handed the photographs back to Leonard. “You might want to take of the lens cap next time you feel like being a photographer.”

“What?” Leonard snatched the photographs from the officer’s hand and stared down at them—they were now blank. “This—can’t be, I just looked at these. This one,” Leonard said, holding up one of the blank photographs, “was the diner on fire, and this one was—a human skull.” What the hell was going on here, he thought? What happened to the images in the photographs? There definitely was a diner, but nobody would ever believe him. He didn’t have any proof—other than those pictures, but now they wouldn’t do any good. There were no witnesses, no people to back up his story. There wasn’t even a single living creature for miles, except for those damn cacti, but unfortunately they couldn’t talk—

Leonard finally realized why they were laughing.

Thanks for reading,
~Curtis Rx

God, how Raymond hated the city—it was a festering disease, spreading across the countryside. Every time he blinked, every time he slept, every time he turned his back, the steel girders creaked and the concrete walls closed in around him. In his forty-three years of life, he had remained the same, still a country bumpkin by heart. Not just by heart, but by liver and kidneys, brain and lungs, sinew and skin. He couldn’t stomach the city; his anatomy just wasn’t designed for it. Where the country expanded, the city contracted. Where the country stretched, the city shrank.

Monday through Friday, Raymond couldn’t wait for the workday to end, so he could jump in his car and watch the city disappear in his rearview mirror. His wife on the other hand, loved the city and cursed the day Raymond bought their ‘charming’ country home, but ‘charming’ was in the eye of the beholder. She wanted a modern loft in the commercial district, surround by trendy boutiques and fancy restaurants. After some impressive fights, or what Raymond liked to call ‘martial negotiations’, he ultimately got his way and their relationship had become as divided as their views.

On the drive home, Raymond watched the towering pines march by his open window, chased by the occasional grove of orange trees. He rejoiced in the warmth of the wind blowing through his brown hair. Sure, he could have saved an extra ten minutes on his daily commute if he had taken the main road, but he enjoyed sticking to the back road, even if it was longer.

What made this road different from the millions of others crisscrossing through the receding countryside? That’s simple, its seemingly wide-open expanse, its apparent lack of beginning, its evident lack of end—and that smell, the most wonderful of smells lingering through the valley. A recipe of sweet citrus and fresh pine trees—not like those generic store bought, tree shaped, green air fresheners—but real fresh pine needles. The scent awoke some far-off corner of his brain where the thoughts of his childhood had been banished to live, forced to make room for those pressing adult thoughts of money, health, and pension plans. It lured those darkness dwelling memories out into the open and he felt like a kid again, bounding through an endless Christmas tree farm. Running over branches, leaping over logs. This was definitely the life for Raymond, alone with his thoughts, breathing in the air of the wild, making his way home to a cozy cottage and a beautiful wife.

About twenty minutes into Raymond’s nightly trek home, something about a mile up the road caught his eye—a building of some sort. Oh dear God no, he thought, please don’t let it be more housing, not out here. I wish these damn people would just stop building—stop expanding. We don’t need to cut down any more trees just to build more malls. How many more stores with black scarves and dangly earrings do we need? Raymond had hoped that he moved far enough away from the disease of the city—but the true nature of a disease is to spread. That’s it, he thought, no more. He was making his diagnosis. He was going to march right in there and let them have it, serve them a mouthful.

Raymond pressed his foot down on the accelerator, shortening the distance between the structure and himself. Relief flooded his body like an analgesic opiate as the new building came into view. It wasn’t a parasitic monster land developer, or a cancerous mini-mall, or corndog and French fry pusher. It was just a small flower shop, off to the side of the road, bordered by the towering pine trees. He recoiled, backing off his premeditated thoughts of verbal murder and returned back to his happy state. How odd, he thought, I’ve never noticed a flower stand on this road before.

As he got a little closer, he realized it resembled more of a small lean-to than actual full-fledged shop. Raymond craned his head out the window to read the homemade wooden sign above the shop. A smile formed as he read it. Crude letters, painted in black, spelled—

FLOUR SHOP.

Raymond, amused by the sign, decided to pull his car over toward the side of the road to investigate the scene. He could hear the crunch of rocks under the tires as he rolled to a stop. He silenced the engine and just as he stepped out of his car, an old Hispanic man with a large straw hat came out to greet him. Dust settled quietly around them. The man flashed a friendly crescent-shaped grin and outstretched one of his sun-dried tomato hands.

“Hello my friend, I am Manuel Rolando Ortega—but you can call me Manny.”

Raymond extended one of his own hands in reply. As they clasped and shook, he felt the man’s hand; it was stiff and callused. From years of hard labor no doubt, Raymond thought. Until that moment, he had never though about the appearance of his own hands. Never forced to exert themselves or weather with the world around them, they were remarkably soft and smooth—the unrealized reward of life less laborious. The taste of embarrassment soured his gut and he felt as if he were almost insulting the man by having such privileged hands.

“Nice to meet you Manny. I’m Raymond, but you can call me—Raymond.” He smiled, amused by his witty humor.

“Ah, you made a joke,” Manny said. “Come my friend, take a look at all my beautiful flowers.” He took hold of Raymond tenderly by the forearm and led him toward the flower shop.

“You are my first customer of the day,” Manny said.

Raymond glanced down at his wristwatch. “But it’s almost five ‘o’ clock.”

Manny just shrugged his shoulders. “It’s been a slow day.”

“Doesn’t look like you get much business out here?”

“No,” Manny said. “Not since they built that new highway a year ago.”

“Really, how do you manage now?”

“Oh—I do all right. I’m happy. I’m my own boss. I get to close whenever I want. I never have to work on holidays.”

“Sound’s like you got it made,” Raymond said as he scanned the front of the flower shop. The words tumbled out of his mouth, but he didn’t believe them, they were just costume pieces sewn together to hide his real feelings. From the road, the shop looked fine, but up close he could tell that it was in desperate need of repair. The roof was sagging inward, the walls were riddled with holes, and the floor was rotted clean through in most places. In contrast, all the flowers inside were magnificent and bright, some of the most beautiful he had ever seen, an array of colors from an artist’s palette.

As Manny turned to face Raymond, he noticed that the man’s clothing, just like the shop, had also seen better days. His work shirt was sheer and nearly worn through in quite a few areas and his faded tan khakis were stained and severely moth eaten. A strange feeling of sorrow fell over Raymond, sorrow for this man named Manny. A man who he knew absolutely nothing about, but knew everything at the same time. Manny did say that he was happy, didn’t he? So who are you to think otherwise, Raymond thought? You know that nose of yours? Keep it between your eyes and out of other people’s business.

Manny, protected by the shade of the flower shop’s sun-faded awning, took off his large straw hat, exposing his salt and peppered hair. “So let me guess,” Manny said, pulling Raymond from his thoughts. “You saw my store and stopped off for some curious reason—and now want to buy your wife some flowers?”

“Yeah,” Raymond said, with a touch of surprise in his voice. “How’d you know?”

“Oh, I’m psychic,” Manny said.

“Really?” Raymond held the breath in his throat.

“No—not really. It was just my turn to make a joke. I noticed your wedding ring.”

Raymond looked down at his ring and spun it with his thumb. “You’re very perceptive.”

“Why thank you, my friend.”

Raymond reached into the front pocket of his slacks and pulled out two crisp twenty-dollar bills, his left over change from his stop at the gas station earlier that morning. “I need a dozen of something, but I haven’t a clue what? I’m ashamed to say that my wife and I haven’t been getting along lately. I need something that says ‘I’m sorry’, something that will—flush all this troubled water under the bridge.”

Raymond handed Manny the two crumpled bills and his crescent smiled returned, doubling in size this time.

“What can this get me?” Raymond said, believing that forty dollars was way too much to pay for a dozen worth of anything, but even though he didn’t know a single thing about Manny, he sincerely liked him. It was the least he could do. He probably would have just offered to give the man some money, but he had the notion that Manny wasn’t the kind of person who accepted charity.

“Oh,” Manny said. “I will give you some of my special roses—a whole dozen of my special roses. That’ll do the trick, quiet down the—rough waters.”

“Perfect,” Raymond said. “What makes them special?”

“Why—you tell me?” Manny said, standing proud. “Can’t you smell them?”

Why hadn’t Raymond noticed it before? That overwhelming smell—a smell of roses so potent that he could no longer smell the wonderful Christmas tree scent of the hidden valley.

“I can smell them.”

“Of course you can my friend, you can smell them for miles. They are the most succulent smelling roses in the world,” Manny assured him. Sprouting with the glee of a child at show-and-tell, he hurried over behind his makeshift counter. “There’s nothing in the world my roses can’t fix.”

Manny produced a clouded glass vase from under the counter and filled with a dozen of the largest, brightest red roses Raymond had ever seen. The rose buds were the size of apples. “You like?” Manny said.

“They’re perfect,” Raymond replied. “I’ll take them.”

“Trust your friend Manny, you won’t regret it—but remember to take care of them. These roses are like a beautiful woman, you have to treat them right or they will shrivel before their time. Their beauty will be lost for all eternity.”

“I promise, Scouts honor.”

Manny looked up at him with a confused look on face. “What is this ‘scouts honor’?”

Raymond searched his memory for a simple way to explain the term. “A special promise I learned when I was a kid.”

“Ah, a promise from the child inside you?”

“Yeah,” Raymond said. “I guess that’s what I meant.”

Manny handed the dozen of red roses to Raymond.

“My wife will really love these,” Raymond said as he dropped his glance down to his wristwatch. He snapped his eyes back up toward Manny.

“I better hurry up and get going, my wife’s supposed to go out with friends tonight and want to give these to her before she leaves.”

“Don’t worry my friend, I’m sure once she sees those—she’ll pay no attention to her duties with her friends.”

“I don’t know. She really looks forward to taking the train down to Fillmore and meeting her friends for dinner once a week. Here,” Raymond said, fishing another twenty-dollar bill out of his black leather wallet. He handed it over to Manny.

“I feel like I’m stealing these roses for only forty-dollars, so take this and we’ll call it even.”

Manny, now holding three twenty-dollar bills, stared down at his sun-dried hands. Raymond could see the hint of a tear building up in the corner of his eyes.

“Thank you so much.”

“No thanks needed—I should be thanking you.” Raymond said. “Well, I better get going.”

Manny’s took Raymond’s hand in his and shook it happily. Raymond patted him on the shoulder and began to walk back to his car.

“Have a wonderful day my friend,” Manny said.

Raymond quickly spun back around toward Manny.

“You too—and I hope business picks up.”

“That’s why I made the new sign. Do you like it?”

A smile formed on Raymond’s face as he remembered the sign and it’s crude letters painted in black.

FLOUR SHOP.

“Yes I do. It’s just like your roses—it couldn’t be more perfect. See you soon.”

“Goodbye my friend.”

Raymond spun back around, walked up to his car and began to unlock the door.

“Her name is Rose, isn’t it?” Manny yelled out, catching Raymond off guard.

Raymond, opening his car door, looked up in surprise.

“Excuse me?”

“Rose—your wife’s name is Rose isn’t it?”

“Yes, how did you now?” Raymond said, bewildered by the comment.

“I’m psychic, remember?”

Manny flashed him the crescent smile and Raymond returned the favor.

“That you are Manny, that you are. Have a nice night.”

“You too and don’t worry, I’m sure once you give her the roses, everything will be just fine between you and your wife.”

Raymond, still bewildered by the strange exchange of words, waved. He slowly got into his car and started the engine. He stared at Manny through the rearview mirror. He was still standing in the same spot, staring down at the money in his hands.

Raymond slowly pulled back onto the road—destination home sweet home. With the bright red roses on the passenger seat next to him, he watched as Manny shrank in the rearview mirror, until he was just a small speck amongst the towering trees.

Ten minutes later, Raymond arrived at his country cottage, some forty miles from the closest suburb, where none of the city’s wicked sounds could penetrate. Carrying the vase of roses in one hand, he walked up the porch and reached out his free hand to unlock the front door. Without warning, his wife, on her way out of the house, swiftly swung open the door and they startled each other. His wife, Rose, was dressed in her favorite pair of black dress slacks with her favorite baby blue sweater. Raymond smiled at her and she returned with one of her famous smiles that could melt ice.

“I was just on my way out,” She said.

“Here beautiful, I brought these for you.” Raymond said as he handed her the vase of Manny’s special roses. Her cheeks blushed, turning the same color as the roses.

“Oh honey, you shouldn’t have,” She said, hugging him. “They’re so beautiful.”

“Roses for a rose named Rose,” He said softly.

“Where did you get them? I’ve never seen any near this big?” Rose leaned her head forward to inhale the scent of the roses. “And they smell so—amazing.”

“I stopped of at a this flower shop down the road.”

“On your way home from work?”

“Yeah.”

“I never knew we had a flower shop out here.”

“Me neither, but Manny just put up a big sign, that’s how I noticed it.”

Raymond smiled as he remembered Manny’s hand painted and perfectly misspelled sign.

FLOUR SHOP.

Rose looked utterly confused. “Who’s Manny?”

“Oh, Manny’s the gentleman who owns the flower shop.”

“Well, look’s like you’ll have to stop by there more often.” She smiled another one of her rose smiles.

“We’ll see.” Raymond said. He glanced down at his watch and quickly snapped his eyes back up toward Rose.

“You better get going, or you’re going to miss the train.”

“All of a sudden,” Rose said. “I don’t fell like going anymore.”

Manny was right, Raymond thought to himself.

“What about your friends?”

“They’ll still be there next week.”

“Then it’s settled.” Hand in hand, they walked into the house and closed the door. That night as Raymond and Rose slept, they held each other tightly. Never once did they let go, until the sun rose the following day.

In the morning, after showering and shaving, Raymond sat down and enjoyed a wonderful breakfast of toast, bacon, and hardboiled eggs with his wife. As they sat across from each other sipping coffee, he unfolded his morning newspaper and the front-page headline caught his eye

TERROR ON THE TRACKS it was called. The picture below it was a scene of panic and horror; a crumpled and burning train lay some fifty feet from the tracks with a small army of firefighters battling the blaze—the product of an unfortunate derailment. As he read further, he learned that the previous night, a train bound for the small town of fillmore, collided with a herd of cattle, causing it to careen from the tracks, where it exploded only minutes later. There were no survivors. His jaw dropped and he stared at his wife.

It was her train.

She glanced up and saw the look of horror on his face. “What’s the matter dear?”

Raymond couldn’t speak, he just handed her the newspaper. She skimmed the headline and looked back up at him. Raymond’s eyes began to water; hers began to drain. Raymond got out of his chair and pulled her close—tighter than he had ever done before.

“I could’ve been on that train,” She said in-between faint sobs.

“But you weren’t,” Raymond said. “That’s all that matters now—you weren’t.” As he held her in his arms, he thought about the prospect of nearly losing his wife—his only love in life. She could have been there—mangled, lying underneath that train, screaming for help as the flames licked her body like a serpent’s forked tongue. Their twenty years of marriage over in a flash, snuffed out. Their hopes of the future extinguished in the blink of an eye. Every night coming home alone to an empty house in a dark canyon, sitting quietly in a lonely loveseat in a dark corner, alone with the thoughts of a darkened mind and memories of a life stolen. Then Raymond’s thoughts quickly shifted to a small flower shop, on a long stretch of deserted road, and a small man named Manny, with a crescent shaped smile and sun-dried tomato hands, that held a dozen special roses. The same roses that would ultimately save his wife from dying in that horrible train wreck. At that instant, he knew what he had to do.

“I have to go dear,” Raymond said.

“No please,” She cried. “Not right now,”

“I have to, I need to thank the man who saved your life—and mine too.”

He gave his wife the longest kiss goodbye he had ever given her and quickly hopped into his car. He was going to the ‘flour shop’. He was going to visit his new friend Manny.

I will give you two different endings and allow you to control the outcome of the story and the fate of its characters.

If you thirst for unhappy endings and enjoy situations most vile, then click the link below:

If you thirst for happy ending and rejoice in good fortune, then click the link below:

Thanks for reading,
~Curtis Rx

As Raymond drove down his favorite stretch of forgotten road, in his favorite forgotten valley, he sped.

Faster, faster.

The pine trees whipped past his window and a barrage of thoughts pummeled his weary mind. How did Manny know his wife’s name—was it really just coincidence? What about his suggestion of the special roses, or his precognition that Raymond’s wife would stay home after he presented them to her? Sure, it could be coincidence—but it could be much more.

Raymond, mystified by the sight before him, quickly slammed on the brake pedal, causing his car to swerve off onto the side of the road. Chunks of gravel shot out from under his skidding tires and ricocheted through the pine trees as his car came to a halt against a large dead tree trunk, badly denting the hood of his car. Ignoring the crash, he leaped from the driver’s seat, not bothering to shift the transmission into park or shut the engine off. He stood in awe at the sight before him.

Where was the flower shop?

There was no sign of Manny. No sign of the flower shop. No sign of the misspelled sign. Where its ramshackle edifice once stood, less than twenty-four short hours before, now stood a small cemetery.

Raymond stood in awe, mouth gapping wide open. Am I going crazy, he asked himself, did I imagine the whole incident? Where did this cemetery come from, was it behind the flower shop the whole time? Maybe I pulled off in the wrong spot? He glanced down at his feet, searching for the previous days tire tracks. Nope, there they are there. That’s swell, at least I’m not crazy. Manny couldn’t have just packed up and left town over night, it’s impossible. Plus there wasn’t even a single trace that the shop had ever really even been there in the first place.

Raymond walked toward the small cemetery, on the side of his favorite forgotten road, in his favorite forgotten valley, thinking of his new friend Manny, remembering his crescent smile and his sun-dried hands. He examined the gravestones as he passed by. Hidden under brambles, choked by vines, obscured by mud, swallowed by briars. He wondered if the cemetery had a gardener, or if they even bothered with its upkeep. From the looks of it, the answer was no. He could see why, none of the dates were even near recent; 1952, 1933, 1947. Most of the headstones were at least twenty years old; 1971, 1958, 1966. Some were so old that the dates had been entirely worn off by the elements, names erased from a chalkboard; 1929, 1967, 1943, 1931, 19—

As Raymond read the date on the gravestone nearest him, the muscles in his legs collapsed and he fell to his knees in the front of it. He could feel dampness of the soil soaking through his pant legs and a sharp pain where a jagged stone dug into the flesh of his shin. He stared at the chiseled slab of granite jutting from the earth in front of him and read its engraved inscription.

Raymond was forced to remember everything now. He remembered that fateful day when Rose left the house to catch the train. He remembered getting ‘the call’ and the second his world come to a screeching halt. The day his beautiful flower Rose was taken from him, a beauty lost for all eternity. He remembered writing the obituary, picking out the coffin, and choosing the inscription for her gravestone. He remembered how Manny, the mortuary’s new stonemason, misspelled ‘flower’ and how nobody realized it until the day of the funeral. He remembered how he laughed when he first saw it and thought that Rose, being the strict book editor she was, would find it hilarious and decided to keep it, one final inside joke between the two of them. It had been nearly three years passed now and Raymond had done his best to forget, to ignore, to change destiny and live happily ever after, but his mind found a way around his denial, a way to remind him. He could no longer lie to himself, Rose was dead.

Thanks for reading,
~Curtis Rx

As he drove down his favorite stretch of forgotten road, in his favorite forgotten valley, he sped.

Faster, faster.

The pine trees whipped past his window and a barrage of thoughts pummeled his weary mind. How did Manny know his wife’s name—was it really just coincidence? What about his suggestion of the special roses, or his precognition that Raymond’s wife would stay home after he presented them to her? Sure, it could be coincidence—but it could be much more.

Raymond, mystified by the sight before him, quickly slammed on the brake pedal, causing his car to swerve off onto the side of the road. Chunks of gravel shot out from under his skidding tires and ricocheted through the pine trees as his car came to a halt against a large dead tree trunk, badly denting the hood of his car. Ignoring the crash, he leaped from the driver’s seat, not bothering to shift the transmission into park or shut the engine off. He stood in awe at the sight before him.

Where was the flower shop?

There was no sign of Manny. No sign of the flower shop. No sign of the misspelled sign.
Where its ramshackle edifice once stood, less than twenty-four short hours before, now stood nothing but a shriveled and dead rosebush.  Its days of emerald leaves and crimson petals were long gone, leaving behind only hollowed-out stems and jagged thorns. 

Raymond stood in awe, mouth gapping wide open.  Am I going crazy, he asked himself, did I imagine the whole incident? He glanced down at his feet, searching for the previous days tire tracks.  Yup, there they are there.  That’s swell, at least I’m not crazy.  Manny couldn’t have just packed up and left town over night, it’s impossible.  Plus there wasn’t even a single trace that the shop had ever really even been there in the first place.

Raymond stood there on the side of his favorite forgotten road, in his favorite forgotten valley, thinking of his new friend Manny, remembering his crescent smile and his sun-dried hands.  He just continued to stand there, feeling the warm wind run it’s fingers through his hair and for one slight moment, he could almost smell the most succulent smelling roses in the world—Manny’s special roses and his thoughts drifted to a beauty.

A beauty that was not lost for all eternity.

Well, at least for twenty-seven more years, thirteen more days, forty-two more minutes, and eleven more seconds.

Ten more seconds

Nine more seconds…

Eight more seconds…

Thanks For Reading,
~Curtis Rx