Vanishing Point

Scott Spackey: If you enjoyed this odd tale, please pay it forward. Please share it, like and subscribe. It takes a click and would be really appreciated. Road games, bizarre stories, curious tales. This seven and half minute story is the intro to the short story collection, Road Games Bizarre Stories, Curious Tales by Scott Spack. Vanishing Point Miller and Gene were in their seventh hour of traveling, far beyond city limits, on a road seemingly disconnected from modern America, a souvenir from another decade, possibly the same decade as these pilgrims. Miller's leathery face bore the creases of 78 years working a farm in Oklahoma. He and Gene had been married so long that audible speech was rarely required. Either each knew what the other was thinking, or they had stopped caring long ago. Miller liked the world better when his hearing aid turned way down low. When I was 22, I got my Class A license to drive tractor trailer, big rig trucks, and got a job with North American Van Lines. I would Bob tail a truck from Las Vegas, pick up a trailer in Los Angeles and haul round trip to Chicago. Your mind gets loopy when you sit behind a wheel for eight to 10 hours at a time, getting hypnotized by the road's optical illusions. If he hadn't heard something by now, he probably didn't need to. Gene hadn't said a word in over three hours. The old couple stared through the windshield of their 62 Buick at the long, straight road before them. The map told them that the road would take them to Albuquerque, where their little angels, their grandchildren were. Miller and Gene didn't get around much anymore. They mostly spent their days in the TV room of their comfortable house, leaving its sanctuary only occasionally for visits to doctors and local pharmacy. This was the first time the couple had been more than 50 miles from the farm in nine years. I-40 ran through their home state of Oklahoma, Driving through the deserts of California, Arizona, and New Mexico were these long straight highways that would just spread out in front of you to the horizon. The road's vanishing point looked like the edge of the earth. To pass the time and try to stay alert, I imagine these stories and vanishing point was one my first. across the panhandle of Texas and on through New Mexico, where Albuquerque hung like a frozen pendulum from the state's capital of Santa Fe. The map showed a nearly straight-edge, perfect route for the highway, a one-dimensional blue line that implied hundreds of miles of road that terminated in a place called San Bernardino in the cow country of Southern California. Though it was only 360 miles from their farm in Custer County to Albuquerque, it was a two-day trip for these old timers. Their arthritic tendons restricted their 50 miles per hour driving The odd and charming couple were somewhat based on my grandparents. My grandad was this tall, strong, silent man that had this grumpy exterior, was a gentle man. to roadside eateries like Stucky's for sodas and sandwiches, a kachina doll for Ann, a cowboy six shooter for Andy, and pecan logs for anyone brave enough. By the time evening was upon them, to them evening meant 4 p.m., their arthritis and the possibility of irregularity and other senior ailments and aches wreaked havoc on their old bodies. They hadn't had a rest stop for some time now, and they were about due. Gina had begun shifting in her seat about 20 minutes earlier, although Miller did everything he could to pretend not to notice. And my grandma was this simple, sweet lady, And the way they would tease each other was charming. Old Miller just sat up taller in his seat and moved his head closer to the windshield, his nose almost touching the fraying vinyl wrap on the Buick steering wheel. Well, said Jean, it was several moments before she uttered another word. But it was impossible to tell whether she had nothing more to say, had forgotten what she intended to say, or had just forgotten that she'd started speaking in the first place. There's something you don't see every day, Miller. When her husband didn't respond, she stared at him, waiting. Miller kept his gaze fixed on the highway ahead. Jean continued to stare at him with a growing intensity as a full minute went by. The tagline in the story. Now there's something you don't see every day and what's that dear was borrowed straight from the old Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoon that had this little old couple on a park bench that would see some crazy shit and say those lines. Road games, bizarre stories, curious tales, eight short stories you never know where you'll end up. Stories of odd and sensual occurrences, sociopaths, and surreal happenings. Road games happen on the road, in the air, the open scene, in the uncharted territory where the twilight meets the horizon, unpredictable and twisted. Still Miller said nothing. Miller! She shouted in her weak voice. Even with his hearing prosthesis turned almost off, Miller heard Gene's wail like a dog whistle that only he could hear. Miller had dedicated his senior years trying to tune into another frequency where Gene could not broadcast. Huh! He jerked at the sound. Finally he grumbled. What do you say? Gene shouted. I said, now there's something you don't see every day. Okay, okay, don't yell. I can hear you, old woman. Gene still stared at Miller, but he inquired no further. Vanishing Point is a light and clever intro story followed by six very intense tales that are madness. Instruments of torture takes place on a boat. The back in the back is a twisted tail on a road trip. She waited, growing more agitated. I said, now there's something you don't see every day, Miller. What's that, Gene? We haven't seen another car on this road since we stopped at that Stuckey's 200 miles ago. Hmm, well, that was over three hours ago. Don't you think that's strange? She asked. Miller said nothing. He didn't know if hers was a rhetorical question. It wasn't. I said, don't you think that's strange? Well, what the hell's so strange about it? Asked Miller. All that means that no one's seen us neither. What? What the hell does that mean? Skyline is an eerie romance. Lucia Blanco is a different kind of love story with guns, violence, whores and Mexican federales Gene thought, that all the standing in a cornfield had really rusted the old man's mind. But it was strange. They were on an interstate highway that went through four states and met up with the always busy I-10, yet they hadn't seen even one other traveler for over three hours. They had spent the day traveling through the Texan deserts, and they should now have been just about 50 miles from the land of Enchantment border. Surely there should be someone else traveling to or from New Mexico. The highway ahead and behind was so straight and so flat that the old couple could see it stretching out before them as far as their eyes would permit. And Country Killer is about a sociopathic serial killer and the good-sam citizen trying to catch him before he kills again. Our elderly couple from Vanishing Point make a final appearance, wrapping it up as they turn back to head home which was admittedly not very far, but still. They could view the open road all the way to the horizon, where it appeared to come to a very small point in the distance. That point seemed to move farther and farther out as the miles slipped beneath their wheels. The desert was changeless and dry, with the occasional mountain off to the north, a pile of rocks a couple of stories tall to the south, and a variety of desert flowers and bushes and cactus dotting the landscape in all directions. There had been no crossroads for some time either, as Jean was now trying to point out to her husband, there's something you don't see every day. Mm, Miller said grunting. and discover a different anomaly in another perspective. More stories, free downloads and more at scottspackey.com. What's that now, Gene? There hasn't been a crossroad for as long as there hasn't been a car, she said. Don't you think that's strange, No, Ma, I think that's why there ain't been no other cars. Gene mumbled that the old man was about as smart as a three-week-old orange and just as fresh. He heard that all right and responded, I'm not trying to be fresh, just driving the car. The old couple motored on in silence, once again abandoning conversation. At just after four o'clock, on a November afternoon when the sky was beginning to take on a sleepy look that suggested the sun would soon be lying down in its celestial bed and would eventually wink out asleep. Jean shifted in her seat. That made the vinyl interior squeak, creak, and crackle under her. And Miller looked sideways and then back to the road. She caught his quick glance and gave him a pitiful look that softened his rough exterior. We'll stop at the next town to stretch and find some bathrooms, the old man said, as though he had just invented the idea and he was presenting her with a gift. Jean bristled, but her little smile crinkled her eyes as she relaxed in her seat and patted the old man's knee. Fifteen more minutes of driving offered still no sign of any gas stations, roadside fruit stands, or even mile markers. The couple scanned the countryside for any signs of civilization, all four eyes peering intently through the windshield and side windows, but they saw no such thing. Well, well, Jean said, there's something you don't see every day, Miller. Well, what's that, Jean? Well, we just passed that highway sign that said road narrows, and darn if the road didn't get smaller. Well, what do expect? Another sign that says no kidding? Sign says the road gonna narrow? And then it does. Thought there's what you call truth in advertising. He chuckled, teasing her. Jean made a face. Yes, but it don't usually mean that the lane for the other direction's going to go away, she said. What if you was headed east? Where would you drive? Maybe there was another sign a way back that said one lane highway ahead, and you didn't see that one. It probably wasn't kidding either. The road did get narrower. In a few moments, the road seemed no wider than the Buick. Miller said nothing, neither did Jean. Nevertheless, they were in silent agreement that there was something odd about the highway. The silent agreement grew into a quiet but anxious concern as the road continued to diminish in size. Soon, they could hear loose gravel from the sides of the road being kicked up under the car as the wheels straddled the narrowing paving. Miller slowed to 20 miles per hour. The couple gazed into the distance, looking toward the point where the road seemed to meet the horizon. But the point no longer was moving away in tandem with their travels. It was drawing closer. The vanishing point was no longer an illusion, but an end to the road. Miller stopped the car. The Buick's doors creaked simultaneously as Miller and Jean exited the car, their jaws slack with disbelief. They stood in front of the ticking hood, feeling the heat from the engine mixing with the cool November wind that swept and whistled the desert around them. The old couple looked down together, just a yard in front of them, the road came to a gravelly point and stopped. Nothing but open desert in front of them now, the black asphalt road disappearing under loose dirt and gravel into a pie-shaped point. It was gone. They stood and stared down. The point in the road seemed to stare back at them. Miller pushes John Deere Farmcap back on his head and scratches his forehead, still staring, without taking his eyes off the point. He said, now there's something you don't see every day, Gene.