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Paths

by Cassian Holloway
Chapter 1
I saw it again tonight.
That light above the fuel pumps,
hovering too still for a plane,
too patient for a flare.
The flies froze midair when it came.
The clock behind the counter spun backward
until it forgot how to tick.

I was filling the mop bucket,
thinking about the noise the ice machine makes,
when it spoke, not in words,
but in the way the world tilted.
Something vast leaned down,
and my name wasn’t my name anymore.

I locked the doors,
left the sign flipped to closed.
The register hummed like it knew a secret.
The desert was waiting,
its sand lit from below,
like embers in a dying god’s throat.

I followed the hum.
Each mile another thought unraveled.
Out there, time tastes like copper.
The air smells of burnt rain.
I found a pendant first,
half-buried, still warm,
etched with symbols that shiver when touched.

Then a compass,
its needle shaking as if afraid of its own direction.
It pointed everywhere at once,
then stopped,
trembling toward something unseen.

A wooden case lay split beside a yucca,
filled with dust that pulsed faintly,
like the breath of something asleep.
The book was waiting near it,
its cover darker than shadow,
pages slick as fish skin.
The writing crawled when I looked away.

I read one word by accident.
The wind answered.
It called my name again,
but not the way it used to sound.
It stretched it, hollowed it,
turned it into a tunnel.

I know they’re calling.
I know they want me to keep walking.
The light is closer now,
and it hums through my teeth
like fuel through a pump line.