The Altar

a short story

Today I’ve got a new short story to share. It’s not quite speculative fiction, but you might detect where a little of the fantastical slips in. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

Photo by Vivian Arcidiacono on Unsplash

There was only one stop sign in town, though even that fact was contested.

“It’s too far out,” they said—those occasional backpackers and would-be tourists and amateur cartographers. “Beyond the city limit.” Everyone was always headed for the city limit, headed beyond the city limit.   

“And anyway, what’s it even there to do?” Those occasional backpackers and would-be tourists and amateur cartographers had little interest in stopping in Sandstone Hollow any longer than necessary.  

The stop sign was the town’s last gasp, that one final raspy shout, a wrinkly, arthritic outstretched hand, a half-hearted invitation to turn around, to come back. To stop.

It was an old thing, an odd thing, a run-down, not-quite-the-right-color thing. But it was red enough and you could still see the word that mattered: Stop.

And so, Ray did. Each and every day. A daily ritual born of the dry desert heat and a pair of restless legs and an even more restless mind and the sanitized smell of a haunting hospital room memory and the begrudging comfort of that solitary word.

Stop—and so he did. Each and every morning, his daily pilgrimage.

As far as Ray was concerned, the sign worked just fine.

It was a two mile walk from Ray’s dust strewn apartment to that solitary sign. He left early each morning—no later than 5 AM, before the desert sun crept up and over the far-off mountains.

The same questions came unbidden each day as he trudged through the sand and wind of his self-imposed exile: How was it that the general store stocked milk but never ice cream? And who was the intended audience for the antique doll shop? And if he bought a bike at Gretta’s Hot Wheels and Cool Spokes would a woman named Gretta actually appear to sell it to him? And why was he the only one who patronized the pub on Mondays as well as Fridays as well as all the days in between and after? And in a town of 500 people, why had he never seen more than six in all the months he’d rented that dusty apartment? And did she miss him? Did she miss what they’d had and lost and what they might yet regain and was that even possible?

He'd spin that old, worn ring around his finger, wondering.

And by then he’d passed out of the main street—the only street—his boots caked in yesterday’s dirt and his mind caked in last year’s grime and he’d find himself in the open desert air. And there he’d find peace.

Or, glimpse it, at least, dancing somewhere amidst the tall summer grass. Like she used to do.

And so, for Ray, one hand in his pocket and the other tugging at his graying, growing, unruly beard, the stop sign was a relief.

Stop, it said. Stop. You’ve being unkind, unfair, unwise. Stop.

And so he’d do just that, stop and lean against the broken down Toyota Corolla that sat just beneath that kind old sign. He’d pull of his cap and light up a cigarette.

The car was of an indeterminate age and color and had had its wheels stripped long ago, long before Ray had come to Sandstone. The grass had grown up and around it, dust and dirt and sand wearing away its frame. Only one window was broken, but it was enough to let in the unwelcome elements and the less welcome desert critters.

And Ray wondered, sometimes, how the car had come to be here: Who’s had it been—and what had become of the owner? Had they, too, been sucked into Sandstone’s orbit? Or, had they tried their luck somewhere beyond those city limits? In the far-off mountains and in the further-off cities and in some land of light and joy and dancing?

Either way, the car had been forgotten, had taken the spirit of the sign too literally and stopped, period. But Ray liked it just fine, liked its reliable presence, the feeling of the cool metal against his back as he stared out at the mountains.

And then, just like that, he’d put out his cigarette, flick it down the road a ways—past the stop sign, past the city limits—and into the open road where the fortunes of those occasional backpackers and would-be tourists and amateur cartographers and maybe even the Corolla’s old owner lay.

But not Ray’s. He’d turn back, head back to town, to the silence and stillness and sorrow that clung to him.

That was his ritual, his pilgrimage, his hamstrung habit. And so, on the day that another man leaned against that Corolla, gazing out into the early morning desert, a great wooden walking stick held loosely in one gnarled hand, Ray paused.

“Enough desert for both of us,” the man called, his eyes still resting on something far out and away. But he waved his hand to Ray, the one not holding the stick.

Ray approached slowly, his fingers playing with the cigarette in his pocket.

“Beautiful day,” the man said. He turned to Ray now, winked. It was an odd gesture, but Ray found that it put him at ease. Still, he stood a few feet away from the man, studying him peripherally with one eye while the other looked out at the desert.

The man was big—probably a full foot taller than Ray’s mere 5’5”. He wore overalls as though he’d just climbed down from a tractor and off the cover of a farming magazine, and his beard was thick and curly and white. He chewed on a piece of hay, and every slight movement of mouth seemed to etch ever deeper the wrinkles exploding out of the corners of his eyes.

“This your car?” the man asked with a chuckle.

Ray swallowed. “No.”

“Not mine, neither,” he said. “Glad to see it’s not gone anywhere.”

“You come here a… I’ve never seen you here before.”

The man shrug, bulky shoulder protested against denim. “I stop by when I can. Pay my respects.”

Ray cocked his head to one side. “You knew the owner then?”

Another chuckle. With the butt of his walking stick, the man gently tapped on the Corolla’s trunk. “No. Not sure any of ‘em did.”

Ray frowned, unsure of what he meant.

“Anyway, it’s just one place, right? We stop, remember, move on.” He nodded to himself, but Ray’s frown only deepened.

The man turned suddenly as though he meant to leave, meant to move on. He tapped his walking stick in the ground, kicking up a gentle cloud of dust. “What’s that you got in your hand?”

Ray pulled the cigarette out of his pocket, offered it to the man.

“Your other hand.”

“Nothing,” Ray said. He opened his left hand to prove his point.

The other man simply shrugged. “Sometimes we get so caught up collecting stuff in this life. We think we have to carry what’s ours the whole way, that we can’t set it down.”

“Set what down?”

Another shrug. “The things. Places like this”—and he spread wide his arms to take in the wholeness of that quiet morning— “say otherwise.” He tapped the trunk of the car again with his stick. “Just because you let go of those things, doesn’t mean they don’t still belong to you. Pick them up, hold them to the light, let them glisten and glimmer. But sometimes you don’t need the extra weight.”

He smiled at Ray, took up his stick and started walking.

“Where are you going?” Ray asked, incredulous. It was a long way to—well, anywhere.

“I never stop here for long,” the man said. He didn’t turn back.

Ray watched him for a long time until he was nothing but a distant speck. The sun was climbing, the heat was building, and Ray had stayed longer than usual. But something wasn’t right. Something was stalking the shadows of his mind.

He turned to the Corolla, noticed something. The trunk was open, ever so slightly ajar.

It hadn’t been that way before. Ray had never thought to open it, never thought to look inside. Never thought it even worth thinking about.

But he did so now.

And the trunk was full.

There were photos—some very nearly faded away and some practically brand new. He saw faces of children, smiling and playful, and of grandparents, stoic but proud. He saw wedding cakes and great ships leaving port and a baseball clutched happily in the hands of a man who was grinning. But not just photos: there were trophies—someone won second best for fencing—and there were pieces of jewelry, some clearly of great worth. There was a small but beautiful watch and three books with covers so faded he could barely detect any writing on them at all. There were coins from countries he couldn’t name and postcards from some he could. There were three bottles of a whiskey he’d seen only once at a bar near his old house and a pair of old sneakers. And there were other things, too, many other things.  

And in the corner of this rather full trunk there sat a small teddy bear—a ragged thing, fur all matted and worn—with a slight smile. And it was that smile that broke Ray, that brought not tears from his eyes but a rushing flood of something from somewhere deeper in his soul.

Ray sat there, clutching that bear in the shadow of the old Corolla for another hour. He rocked and thought and willed tears that eventually did tumble forth from his eyes but also from his soul, from that same place where something else was at work. And he stared up at the sign and it still told him to stop: Stop to remember. Stop to reverence. Stop to allow for grace.

And then heard that old traveler’s voice in his head: “I never stop here for long.” And so Ray stood up.

*

The following day, Ray woke early, as he always did, and made his way along Sandstone’s main and only street. He trudged past the general store and the antique doll shop and the place where one could theoretically buy a bike and the place where one could definitely buy a beer.

But today, Ray carried two things he usually didn’t: his pack—full, ready, equipped with what he needed and nothing more—and a photo.

When he arrived at the Corolla, he paused. He set down his pack, lit his cigarette, stared out at the mountains and the road and he wondered where the man from the previous day had gone. He felt the ring around his finger—still heavy, still tight—and he spun it once, twice.

Then he popped the trunk and walked around to stare at its many treasures. He pursed his lips together, nodded to himself.

He placed the photo in the arms of the teddy bear, arranging it just so. His daughter’s hopeful, frightened, beautiful face stared back, the smells of that hospital room suddenly washing over him. But just as suddenly, they were gone, and he was back in the desert staring at a bear and a lost love that had opened a chasm within his very self. But perhaps he could still discover something with which to fill it—or at the very least, with which to build a bridge.  

And he patted that bear on the head and closed the trunk and hefted his pack onto his shoulder. Ray nodded to the stop sign as though it was an old friend, a mentor, a companion. But today it said something different, something impossible, something that seemed contrary to its very being, its very purpose.

That old sign said two words: Keep going.

And so, Ray did.