To Nowhere, and the Black Beyond a work of Fiction by Wintermute (Brendan McCallum) A failed life reflectedÖ Each day I've followed this road. Ever-changing; winding, over hills, down into the deeps of the verdant valleys and through wondrous caverns where the light of the fire-flies glows phosphorus and beautiful. I've followed, allowing it to lead my way and light my path. Never knowing where it would lead to. No - not true. Knowing, yet somehow not knowing as though not wanting to admit what lay in wait at last stop. The road to nowhere. I never used to think there was such a thing, always thinking (hoping) it was just a figure of speech. Like the 'road to success'. At least I knew first hand that that's real. I found myself there quite by accident - and what a road it is. Paved with gleaming gold, lined with many-hued trees of splendour and caked, like old soap on reptilian skin, with the houses of the wealthy. Everyone gives way to you on that road; there are no stop signs. Somewhere, I took a sharp left and lost the road. Cruised until I came upon the Boulevard of Broken Dreams and drank myself into a stupor. Not knowing what had happened Again - not true. I knew but yet did not admit where my life looked like leading. Elvis nodded sagely as he poured me another. He understood. They all did. Bogart patted me on the back and offered words of solace. Marilyn gave me a peck on the cheek, saying that 'everything'll be fine, sugah.' James rose, glared at me and went to the men's room to relieve himself, but from that glare he cast I could see that he too understood. Everyone understood. Except me. And so I left the diner with more questions than answers. Swerving. Momentary loss of control; the car swerves and jumps the gutter of Memory Lane. Images flood my mind, images good, images bad, flitting through my head like a speeding child fiddling with a toy projector: A small girl, playing with a blue and yellow ball (my girl) who then throws it to me (my daughter) while in the distance, a young woman stands (Rebecca) alone and cries. A beautiful young woman. My wife. Snapped to my senses, fingers dig into the wheel and I wage war with the laws of physics for control of the car. Loss of traction/control - too late, too fucking late. To stop, to go backÖtoo late. Exponential increase in speed, the accelerator pedal jammed down though my foot falls like a feather upon its impersonal metal face. With a jarring, cracking sound the car breaks through a black and yellow barrier that bars the way. A sign flies past, too fast, and I glimpse it before it is again swallowed by the desert night. It reads "You are now leaving Reality. Hope you had a pleasant stay!" Then another: "Road to Nowhere. No more gas for you, buddy." A barren stretch, the many-hued trees shrivelled and dead by the roadside. No scenery. NothingÖwait. Another sign. As the car draws to a halt of its own accord, I feel ghostly and cold and wonder if this is my Death. The headlights aim directly at the sign, as if facilitating ease of reading. I have to stifle a small, insane titter. "Welcome to Nowhere. Population: You" The engine dies; with a sigh of realisation I know that there is nothing else for it but to sit, and to wait for the opiate touch of eternal night to envelope me. Created on Thu, 22 Jan 1998 and last modified on Tue, 27 Jan 1998.

LOUDonline - http://www.loud.net.au - Fri, 10 Apr 1998