The Phone Call
by Betty Gordon
I settled on the seat of my pride and joy, the “Horseman,” a black Harley with maroon stripes down its side, remembering the phone call I received hours before. “Come to County Road 96 at dusk for the ride of your life.” The caller didn’t give a name but spoke in familiar terms, a practical joke in all probability. I admit caution lights blinked, but I love a mystery and I love to ride during this time of the evening, so ‘nuff said.
I pulled out of a ridiculous amount of traffic onto County Road 96 and found it void of cars—strange, weird, enough to make me feel like I had wandered into “The Twilight Zone” with Rod Serling riding on my shoulder. The sun kissed the earth welcoming impending nightfall. I shook my head longing to hear the whip-poor-wills that I knew would be singing and see the dragonflies I knew would be flying along with me at 36 mph.
Sweet fragrances filled my nostrils, but it wasn’t long before the aromas flowered into robust odors causing my head to spin. About that time, I reached the end of the road that faced a dense forest. A man emerged from the woods holding a vibrant crystal unlike any I’ve ever seen. He said I could have one wish that would come true immediately. I wished to ride on this road during dusk forever.
I am still riding.