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Feb. 28th, 2005 08:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewbearWow. I just came across an interesting link regarding a ghost town with a library of thousands of books. It's such an odd little thing, and somehow resonates with me. I don't know why.
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He was an odd man, John was. For longer than I'd known him he'd been wandering the backroads and by-ways of America, the lonesome trails and the busy thouroghfares. And every now and then, when I chanced to meet him in some quiet, peaceful little space that he seemed to carry around with him, he'd tell me stories he met along the way.
"Once," he began, "I met a woman who collected books like priceless artifacts and loved them like treasured children.
"It was somewhere in that great American Desert where the wasteland stretches from horizon to horizon. The gas cans sliding around in my pickup bed were mighty low. The water jugs beside me were, too. I spotted a little ol' town down the road and thanked God for it, 'cause the last sign of people was more'n 200 miles back.
"The town marker was faded and dust-scoured, but I slowed to make out the name. 'Silverton,' it said. Well, there wasn't any silver left, if there'd been any to start, 'cause the place was dead. You know, until then I'd always thought that watching a tumbleweed blow down a dusty, abandonded street was somethin' that only happened in movies. But that place showed me wrong. It showed me a lot of other things too.
"I pulled up to the only gas station, more out of hope than expectation, but found myself lucky again. As I was getting out of the cab, a weather-beaten man wearing worn coveralls stepped out of the shade of the building.
"'Howdy,' he said. 'What can I do yuh for?'
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That's all that's come to mind at the moment, but I think I'll keep working on it. For some reason, this story seems more "alive" than most other stuff I've written. Like it already existed and just needs a way out of someone's head.
*********************
He was an odd man, John was. For longer than I'd known him he'd been wandering the backroads and by-ways of America, the lonesome trails and the busy thouroghfares. And every now and then, when I chanced to meet him in some quiet, peaceful little space that he seemed to carry around with him, he'd tell me stories he met along the way.
"Once," he began, "I met a woman who collected books like priceless artifacts and loved them like treasured children.
"It was somewhere in that great American Desert where the wasteland stretches from horizon to horizon. The gas cans sliding around in my pickup bed were mighty low. The water jugs beside me were, too. I spotted a little ol' town down the road and thanked God for it, 'cause the last sign of people was more'n 200 miles back.
"The town marker was faded and dust-scoured, but I slowed to make out the name. 'Silverton,' it said. Well, there wasn't any silver left, if there'd been any to start, 'cause the place was dead. You know, until then I'd always thought that watching a tumbleweed blow down a dusty, abandonded street was somethin' that only happened in movies. But that place showed me wrong. It showed me a lot of other things too.
"I pulled up to the only gas station, more out of hope than expectation, but found myself lucky again. As I was getting out of the cab, a weather-beaten man wearing worn coveralls stepped out of the shade of the building.
"'Howdy,' he said. 'What can I do yuh for?'
***********************
That's all that's come to mind at the moment, but I think I'll keep working on it. For some reason, this story seems more "alive" than most other stuff I've written. Like it already existed and just needs a way out of someone's head.
