The car was old and its suspension complained. In the first town, everyone was busy talking about the ghosts. It was a very normal town but nonetheless seemed to be ghost-themed. In the next town, everyone was talking about cinnamon. You stayed in a hotel with dancing bugs on the ceiling and a breakfast service with no food and no other guests and some guy who presumably worked at the hotel dozing on a chair.
You drove on. On your left the rocks relented somewhat and gave way to a dry, wickery wood. The third town had a fountain in it. In a café someone kept staring at you but when you met their stare they smirked and looked away. In the hotel room there was a girl dressed in some bits of black string who looked at you over her shoulder. Blue eyes under a black fringe. You remembered that.
On the side of the empty road a figure appeared, waving at you. You slowed down. He beamed, and tapped on the glass, mouthing something at you, gesturing to wind down the window. Instead you accelerated. Better to be safe than sorry. In the next town the hotel was all on one floor. In the poky room a skinny girl in just a t-shirt and a boy with his dick poking out of his jeans were playing catch with an orange. They ignored you.
Christopher Riesco lives and works in Manchester, UK. His attempts at poetry have appeared in PN Review, Bodega, and other magazines.