Story Idea: An exercise in magic realism (Rough Draft)

Dante’s K-car, a rental provided to him by the company, slows to a stop, a popping rising from underneath the tires as it rolls over rocks, a persistent hissing pressing out from under its hood, a greyish cloud seeping from the hood’s seams. Dante, standing next to the over-heated automobile, could smell what he assumed was a mixture of rubber and auto fluid wandering through his nose, a fine perspiration dotting his forehead and pooling underneath his eyes.

Dust spreads across the South Texas town in large wisps, a searing hush twisting in devilish whirls, brushing past Dante’s ears, finding hollow, empty spaces echoing the ghostly voices of dead aliens who penetrated the border, only to find their mortal body could not outrun the need for hydration. Dante surveyed the area for any signs of life.

The town bears the appellation of a Spanish namesake, an inheritance of from a saint, transformed from the English, made holy by adding the word “san” in front of it, something like San Miguel or Santa Juana. Dante recalled spotting the town’s name on a number of signs sprouted along the highway. But the name slips from his memory, kind of like a dream forgotten after awaking.

For Dante, the town’s name lacks significance, means nothing. The town might be any number of habitations dotting the Rio Grande Valley, the same set of businesses lining the same main street, a First City Bank, the First Baptist Church, a Dairy Queen, a town hall, a small park with a gazebo. Off of the main road, a number of branch streets intersect, streets where a number of residences are located. A few small trees grow where the hot sun permits.

This tiny town, a set of buildings really, loosely connected by geographic proximity, linked by a town lane road, barely paved with a gravelly mixture of caliche, insuring bits of pebbles would get trapped in the tread of truck tires. The buildings abut the rough road, their doors opening right onto the street where only the spare vehicle travels, a rusty Ford pick-up truck, a wooden bed in the back, a rounded hood, kept alive by the constant tinkering of the owner, a man, also rustic and rusty, grizzly, with a suspicion of a gruff beard around the edges of his jowls, wearing a pair of overalls hung lightly over his shoulders, a stomach, rounding out his torso.

A highway flows past the town in the rear, where trucks carrying oil, and produce, and other commercial goods, rush past, seeking out larger markets to ply their wares.