This story is a collaboration between Jill (JillianElf), Doug (Unstrung65) and Tara (auntietk). ..... auntietk: It's impossible to say, at this point, who contributed what. There's quite a bit of each of us in this. Jill and Doug came up with most of the ideas for this, and I did the re-writes. The accompanying image was done by Jill and Doug - as far as the artwork is concerned, I only acted as a creative consultant. (That means I spouted opinions and did nothing constructive!) After they were done, I made the thumbnail version. We had a great time putting this together. Collaboration rocks! ..... Jillianelf: This started out as one sentence with a dare to participate thrown in. And so it went. I went the poetic route and then Doug added contrasting surrealism which took this lark to a different dimension. Tara came in adding a spin (actually a twister!) and this little story began to take on a life of it's own. As for Tara's humbleness in the idea arena, you all know her multi-talents and if not for her additions, perserverance, enthusiasm and sheer hard work putting everyone's ideas, changes and paragraphs together, this would never have seen the light of day. It has been creative, a journey and more than fun. I myself think Tara rocks and Doug rolls! ..... Unstrung65: (We gave him a chance, but he didn't want to add anything.) :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: "You're traveling through another dimension -- a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind. A journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. That's a signpost up ahead: your next stop: the Twilight Zone!" --- Rod Serling :::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: HEADED FOR MYSTERY For your consideration, I give you a barren, windswept landscape and a dusty old diner. It's the kind of diner you used to see all over America, although as we shall soon see, this is no ordinary diner. Through the window we see one Rand R. Rosity, a visitor from our friendly neighbors to the North, pouring yet another sugar in his coffee. He's just taken a side spur in life, although he doesn't quite realize it yet. That turn will lead him quite soon, into . . . the Highlight Zone. ............. "If you need me for anything else, just holler," said the waitress as she topped off my coffee. A bottomless cup, as advertised. None of that fancy city stuff, either. This was just good, honest coffee, strong and hot. "I'll be around, getting a few chores done." I watched her walk away, careful not to be too obvious about it, in case she could see me in the reflection of the curved mirror next to the kitchen door. Sheet lightning lit up the horizon as I gripped the cracked coffee cup, curled steam slightly diffusing my window seat view. The lights in the diner flickered on and off making the stagnant air feel somehow charged with tension. Thunder rolled in the distance. I looked down at my folded newspaper, scanning it's banner for the local weather report: sunny and hot, chance of precipitation zero percent. I guess weathermen are wrong everywhere. Almost without thinking, I folded the paper into a tight little cylinder, carefully tucking in the edge - an old paperboy skill lost on most, but it always gave me a quiet pleasure. I slapped a Loonie down on the table with a clack! and realized, for the first time, how unnaturally quiet it was in this ancient diner. No noises coming from the kitchen, no hum of fluorescent lights, nothing. I looked around for the waitress to give her the high sign that I was leaving money on the table for the coffee, but didn't see her anywhere. I looked at the coin I'd just put down, and laughed at myself for leaving one dollar for both coffee and tip. Not only did I feel like an overly thrifty cheap bastard, and old to boot, but this coin was in the wrong country to curry flavor. Shaking my head, thinking of old dogs and new tricks, I pocketed the Canadian coin and replaced it with a portrait of Lincoln, took a last sip of java, picked up my newspaper, and headed for the door. As I cleared the front door, lightning cracked the twilight sky once again, closer this time, and the neon sign above the diner buzzed and went out. I thought about going back in to see if there was anything I could do to help, but that seemed kind of dumb. A power outage was probably a common occurrence here in the desert. If it was out for long, they undoubtedly had a generator. Nothing I could do except get in the way. Quickening my pace through the dusty parking area towards the familiarity of my old Karman Ghia, I looked around the empty parking lot. I would have sworn there were several vehicles parked there when I had walked into the old eatery, but no car or truck, nor even tire marks, obscured the dusty clay. Becoming slowly aware that the silence had followed me outside, I leaned up against the cold green metal of my vehicle and stared down the highway looking for any sign of life. A light frisson of unease ran up my spine for no apparent reason. Closing my eyes and listening carefully, I scanned the environment trying to pick up any sound. Even in the desert there are little noises, critters going about their business. I'd heard them earlier, stopping to look around, take in the scenery. Now there was nothing. Standing in the silence, wondering if I was going nuts, I thought about why I had changed my plans and headed out to the high desert to begin with. I'd bought a map at the gas station the night before. Unfolding it across my motel bed in the morning light, I found my eyes suddenly centering on the town of Fossil Bed. Such an intriguing name! I've been a sucker for odd names ever since my first trip out West with my dad. I must have inherited the fascination from him. As soon as I saw that name on the map, I knew I had to see what this little town had to offer. Sometimes a place lives up to it's name, but usually not. There seems to be a certain sameness that modern life confers on places that once oozed character. They say nostalgia isn't what it used to be, but as a child in the 50s, it seemed there was magic around every corner. As often as not, my dad and I would find it. Sure would be nice if he was with me now. He'd probably grab my shoulder, give me his trademark smile and say, "We're headed for mystery, son. Don't be afraid. Whatever we encounter, we're more than a match for!" Well, I was sure feeling like I had encountered a mystery! Another lightning strike. This one seemed farther away, somehow more benign. I counted to see how close it was, but never did hear thunder. The slowly darkening sky above me had taken on an odd cast. It seemed to spread a phosphorous-like translucent glow on the landscape around me. I blinked to make sure I wasn't seeing things, my eyes drawn to the horizon. It was as if an artist had dipped into his palette and painted a deep blue-black swath across the hills. It was like looking at the night sky in a patch of daylight. Fear and wonder suffused my body at the same time. I raised my left hand slowly, hoping to feel the comfort of the gentle splash of rain. Instead, I was amazed to see a fragile yellow butterfly land on my open palm, it's delicate wings slowly opening and closing. Was this little creature somehow seeking a sense of security and companionship in the storm? Did it have a message for me? What was it doing out here? I'm not usually such a fanciful person, but something about the un-natural quiet, the weird blackness on the horizon, the unexpected butterfly, gave rise to a feeling of unreality. The idea of butterflies with messages didn't seem quite so strange to me as it normally would. I moved my right hand slowly towards it to see if it would fly off, but it just flitted to the top of my right index finger. It continued to slowly, rhythmically, open and close it's wings. I stared at the thing, hypnotized. After a moment it flew up and around my head. As if by some prearranged signal, another butterfly appeared in front of me, and then another, and another. I turned my head, trying to track them, count them, but the motion gave me a sense of vertigo, and I closed my eyes against the spin. I thought of a story from my childhood - a Welsh legend, perhaps. Something about butterflies taking away memory. I don't know how long I was held in their sway, but the perception of light, this time in sheets, caused me to look up. I heard deep chords of thunder rumbling over the distant mesas, and thought I saw a ball of bright light running along the road. Eerie. I'd heard of ball lightning before, but had never seen it. In a break between the hills, just about where I'd seen the lightning ball, I noticed the small but unmistakable outline of an old black hearse coming down the highway towards me, it's silver chrome glinting every so often under the charged sky, the phosphorescent glow creating a silhouette where there should have been none. Talk about fanciful! How could I possibly know it was a hearse from so far away? Was it a trick of the light? Perhaps it was just a rancher in a station wagon, making his way out of the hills toward the diner. I looked over my shoulder, wondering if the waitress had ever come back to the counter, and stopped cold. From horizon to horizon, I was alone in the desert. No diner, no waitress. Just me and the Karman Ghia, out in the middle of nowhere. I checked my pocket. The Loonie was still there. I could still taste the coffee on my tongue. What in the world was happening to me? Headlights swept across the desert floor, pulling my attention back to that eerie hearse-like silhouette I had seen coming out of the hills. The vehicle pulled up in front of me, headlights blinding in the otherwise darkening night. Lights off, engine off. I stood there for a minute, listening to the engine ticking in the heat, wondering about the driver. I moved a few steps to the side to get a better look. No standard farmer's station wagon, as I had hoped. I had been right the first time. It was a hearse. I suppose any sane person would have jumped in their car and squealed out of there as fast as they could. Me? I remembered my father's worlds again. "Whatever we encounter, we're more than a match for!" My mother would have shaken her head. "Honestly! You men are so full of yourselves. Wouldn't know trouble if it shook your hand in the street!" I reached into my pocket, rubbed the Loonie for luck, and walked up to the driver's side of the hearse. The passenger door opened, and a man unfolded himself from the vehicle, eventually stretching himself to his full height. It was kind of hard to tell across the roof of the hearse, but the guy must have been six foot four. Long, skinny drink of water, cadaver thin, with greasy black hair. Pretty much what you would expect of someone riding around in a hearse. He was wearing a pair of ratty old denim cutoffs and a Grateful Dead t-shirt, though, which put paid to the idea of him being an undertaker. The dome light must have been out, because I couldn't see into the vehicle through the tinted windows. "Man! That is one long-assed ride out here!" he rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. "Somebody told me there was a diner out here that had some great grub, and I decided to hitch out here looking for it. You know the place?" I hesitated to tell him my story: the mystery of the disappearing diner. Sounded like the Nancy Drew stories I used to buy for my daughter. No way was I going to try explaining what had just happened to me. "Looking for it myself," I said carelessly. "Thought this was the right place when I pulled off, but..." Another bolt of lightning lit up the sky, farther away this time. The thunder came much later, barely audible. The driver opened the door and stepped lightly onto the baked clay. The dome light inside the hearse was working just fine now, and showed no coffin, no dead body, only the familiar shape of a guitar in an old black soft case, covered with stickers slapped over each other like some random abstract. At first glance the driver appeared to be fairly tall, but once she stood before me, I realized she was actually quite diminutive. Maybe it was her long legs encased in what appeared to be 100 year old Levis. She wore an equally faded Picasso blue bandana wrapped around long hair that appeared silver in this light. It was plaited into a braid that rested nonchalantly over one shoulder, falling down the front of her ancient denim jacket to the silver and turquoise belt she wore at her waist. There were markings of some sort incised on the blue-green stones. I finally looked at her face, and was shocked to see that her eyes were the same color as those mysterious stones. Her gaze nailed me to the floor. She was staring at me as if she expected an answer to a question I hadn't heard. The less exotic but no less odd Mr. Deadhead walked around the front of the hearse and stopped next to me. He looked me up and down, slowly turning his head to take in my car. A thin smile faintly animated his gaunt face. "Nice car, buddy," he walked over and smacked the hood of the Karman Ghia with a thud that broke the silence. "Had one myself many moons ago. Color sucks though, but then there's no accounting for taste , is there?" He smiled broadly then, and gave me a wink. I know the game of course, but my attention was elsewhere and I didn't reply. At that moment a crack of lightning and the simultaneous boom of thunder made me jump, and I tore my eyes away from the woman's face. Lightning had struck the ground only a few meters in front of us! A tingling sensation crawled up my arms and along the top of my head, and the smell of ozone filled the air. "Jesus Jenny! That was a close one!" The man's exclamation came out strangled, and he coughed a bit. His hair was sticking out in all directions, and I knew the tingling sensation I was experiencing was static, that the hair on my head and arms was also standing on end. As the sensation faded, I heard a woman calling out to us, faintly at first but louder as she went on. "You idiots better get inside here! I can't believe you're standin' out there gawkin' in the middle of a storm!" I turned to see the waitress beckoning us into the diner. A two-year-old Ford F-150 and a '74 Impala were parked right in front, and through the window I could see two old-timers drinking coffee at the counter. I looked back at the driver of the hearse. A small yellow butterfly walked the highway of her long braid, slowly opening and closing it's wings. As she slammed the hearse door, she smiled, and spoke for the first time. "The desert's a great place to lose yourself," she said in a low, gravelly voice, looking at me intently. "Are you lost?" I stood there looking at my two companions. The guy was pulling one Loonie after another out of his pocket. The woman stood, eyes to the horizon, ignoring the butterfly, the Deadhead and me. "Headed for mystery," I mumbled under my breath, shaking my head. The thin man looked at me like I was nuts. "Let's get inside before we fry!" "After you," I said, "coffee's on me."