Wormholes: Little Tales [fiction]

The sight before me was quite fascinating yet melancholy; a worn neon sign still half lit buzzing late into the night over an abandoned convenience store. As I walked closer to inspect further I noticed a row of dusty magazines in the rack by the door - some titles still proclaiming stories of worlds long passed.

An old issue of The New Yorker peeked out from behind faded issues of Time and Newsweek. I grinned to myself thinking of bygone editorial meetings, passionate discussions of which stories to tell and which words to use. The window of opportunity for those particular tales may have closed but new ones were always emerging, just waiting for the right words to bring them to life.

I gently extracted the magazine, wiping dust from the cover - a colorful illustration adorning the front. As I turned the pages I noticed scribbles in the margins, comments made by previous readers now forgotten. While the articles themselves were of little value now, the marks in the margins served as a reminder. Words remain, outliving their authors, waiting for a new generation to find meaning within them.

The fallen neon sign caught my eye once more and I paused, considering. A story remains within these walls, within this place, if only someone would tell it. And as a wise man once said, the secret of getting started is breaking your complex overwhelming tasks into small manageable tasks, and then starting on the first one.

With a nod and a grin, I pushed open the dusty door and we stepped inside the abandoned gas mart. Though dimly lit, I could see the potential for a story within these walls - the counter where countless snacks had been purchased, the cold case holding forgotten sodas and beer.

My companion walked around in wonder, picking up discarded artifacts that held a possible spark of a tale - a chewed pencil, an old cash register receipt. Together we began to piece together a mysterious saga born from this singular place suspended in time.

The story took shape of a young clerk working nights to save for college, dreaming of a life beyond this small town gas mart. Each overnight shift brought unusual customers and unusual experiences that shaped his perspective and dreams.

I wrote of hard won life lessons learned from listening to the tales of lonely truckers pulling through just before dawn, illuminating the perseverance needed to climb out of poverty and build a better life. My pen flew across the page, bringing the clerk’s hopes, struggles and dreams to life within colorful prose and vivid metaphor.

In my mind’s eye I saw the clerk finally closing the doors of the gas mart for the last time, ready to leave his surroundings behind and pursue his long-deferred dreams. The journey ahead would be difficult, but he had finally mustered the courage and confidence gained from nights spent surrounded by flickering neon and the wisdom of transient souls. His story was now ready to begin.

I read the completed tale aloud to my patient companion, and together we gazed upon the ghostly remnants of this forgotten place now reborn through words on the page. Every location holds within it infinite stories, if only someone steps inside and allows their heart and mind to build dreams from the humble ruins.

My companion and I stepped outside into the bright afternoon sun. As the dusty door closed behind us, the ramshackle storefront seemed to fade from view.

“A curious little tale,” my companion remarked. “But it felt more like a vision than reality.”

I smiled. “Perhaps it was both. A vision born from that strange place, that sparked the dream within.”

My companion returned my smile, a slight twinkle in their eye. “Some places are more than what they seem.” They nodded towards an odd metallic device partly concealed in the nearby bushes. “That one, it would appear, was a doorway not just of wood and glass..but of time itself.”

I grinned, walking over to inspect the machine. It was clearly of futuristic make, with dials and screens alight. “So that abandoned gas mart..”

“…was a glimpse into the past.” My companion finished. They pulled a leather notebook from within their coat, flipping solemnly through the pages. “But the stories remain. Words outlive all things.”

I placed a grateful hand on their shoulder. “And dreamers find dreamscapes everywhere, even within the most humble of relics.” I nodded back towards the time machine. “Shall we see what other tales await within the countless doorways of time?”

My companion smiled, slipping the notebook back within their coat. “Onwards and upwards. The journey itself births the best stories.”

And with that we entered the time machine together, vanishing into another doorway, in search of more humble ruins from which to build dreams anew. For some are gifted not just with sight, but with the words to bring even ghostly visions to life.