Date: Fri, 15 Nov 1996 08:17:05 -0600 From: Danny Lloyd Subject: INT: Highway 41 How about an interactive story that may involve a few twists and turns, the possible appearance of any number of strange-or-nice- or-bad-or-whatever characters, and leads into the sunset, it's ultimate destination a fleeting mystery, at the mercey of the whims of the next writer. What's that? You say you would endure a spelling lesson from Woof, an argument with Anthony or a five-hour conversation with Phanny and Roz just to be able to participate? Good. I hope so. I hate being all alone on this road. Let's call it: ----- HIGHWAY 41 Wanda lowered her skirt as another speeding vehicle breezed past her. She stood on highway's edge in plain sight of oncoming drivers, with even a clear blue sky to enhance the look of her legs. But no one as much as slowed down. Wanda suddenly regretted having never called that 1-800 number for Thigh Masters. Mark stood by the road about a mile from Wanda. He sluggishly moved his feet forward, his head bowed, having giving up hope for a ride hours before. The two wanderers, though on the same stretch of the long Arizona highway, were unaware of each other, out-of-sight due to the twisting, curving nature of highway 41. Wanda sat on the hot pavement, again pulling her skirt above her knees, this time not to catch a motorist's eye, but rather to ease the effects of a sweltering July afternoon. She decided not to worry any longer about her car, which sat beside the highway a few miles back. She even mustered enough courage to laugh - out-of-gas and out-of-luck, as usual, this time on an 80 mile stretch of unfriendly desert. Mark also tried to shrug off the gloom he felt. He had worried for hours not only about his grave situation, but why he had been so stupid to accept a ride from an obviously deranged trucker back in Phoenix. The guy was spooky. Mark could tell it was a mistake from the first, but, like an idiot, he got in the cab, closed the door and took off for Las Vegas with the guy. Spooky's the word, he thought, remembering how the crazed truck driver suddenly stopped the vehicle about 15 or 20 miles back and shoved him out on the pavement. More bad luck - more crazy luck. As usual. The slowly-setting sun remained unnoticed by the two tired travellers. They hadn't paid much attention to the reduction in traffic either. They, in fact, didn't realize the obscure nature of the long road fate had guided them to. Route 41 was, by no means, a major highway. The presense of two people on foot was a very rare occurence for this area. But, Mark and Wanda didn't have a clue as to how rare this situation was, for now there was a third traveller present. This wandereer stood off the road, about halfway between the other two. The new member of this forsaken group had quietly chosen a vantage point allowing a clear view of each of the others. The new pair of eyes merely watched and waited. --- To be continued (by anybody) --- ------------------------------ The on-going chronicles of Master Sleuth Sherman Home I first laid eyes on Mr. Home in the fall of 1979, a night I shall certainly never forget. I was on-foot, which is my typical and preferred mode of travel, returning from a late-evening conference with an associate. I suddenly saw him there, a tall sihloette on the foggy street corner ahead. The neighborhood was deserted except for myself and the mysterious figure beneath the light pole. I might add that this looming street light was in a state of malfunction, a circumstance that added to the enigmatic feel of the moment, the pole's tall darkness mirroring that of the man's image beneath it. His presense there was in itself not an unusual type of occurence, even in the post-midnight realm of this quiet neighborhood. Often there would be an extra, out-of-place feature dotting the unpredictable landscape of this town. Downing was and is a very small, but restless, community. --To be continued--