Free In Springdale Town by Robert Freeman Wexler

spun, forming whirlpools of virulent illumination and color. I reached toward them, spinning too, floating up and out, joining the evening air, where a pale moon hovered and trees sighed like long-lost lovers.

23
    Danielle Saul was bragging to Shelling about the photographs that she had commissioned from Crain, or some name like that, a famous celebrity photographer whom Shelling had never heard of. He smiled and nodded, the way people did in Hollywood. She had just finished filming a movie that was scheduled to be the summer’s biggest hit and was expected to be her final step toward super-stardom. Shelling felt detached from the conversation, from the party around him, which was in the cliffside home of Rod Spender, the television producer responsible for Precinct 10 , Gravity Man , Fresno Boulevard , and many others. Shelling had worked on several of them.
    He left Danielle Saul and drifted into Rod Spender’s “trophy room,” the walls of which were covered with photographs, awards, and assorted memorabilia (Duggal’s helmet from Gravity Man , a Fresno Blvd. street sign, a baseball uniform from some long-forgotten sports drama). Shelling’s attention wandered across the pictures, recognizing the original cast members of Blake’s River , posing in the town where the opening credits had been filmed. He couldn’t remember the real town’s name. On the show, they called it Springdale.
    The faces in the photograph, the buildings behind them–he had been there, and not solely for his guest appearance on the show. Another time, but when? Finding the photograph somehow threatening, he backed from the wall. What had happened to his house? The simplicity of his vegetable garden had given him such pleasure. He felt a sudden loss...intangible yet rooted deep within him. His eyes teared, but for what was he weeping? The patio doors stood open, and he stepped through them to the terrace. Crows called from a line of trees overlooking the ravine. He stared past them, toward a distant house, memorizing its shape as though it held a key to his future.
    And beyond these hills lay the city. Encircled by the arteries and veins that propel the life-giving metal corpuscles onward. The edge of the continent crossed by more roads than could ever be traveled. Roads, the reflections of roads, railroads, paved roads, busses, cars, houses along the way–the center of the earth is paved and waiting for the first drivers to arrive.
    “There you are.” Rod Spender slung an arm around Shelling. “Looks just awesome from here, doesn’t it?” Shelling agreed. “I’ve got something for you,” Spender said. “If you’re tired of masked aliens. This’ll be more like playing yourself.”
    “I’d like that,” Shelling said. “I might even use my real name.”

24
    I woke on a couch in an unfamiliar room. Soft light came through the drawn curtains, a lacy, ivory-colored material through which I could see an overhanging branch and, beyond it, the street. A car passed, its lights sweeping along the wall. An odd mix of antiques and rough-made furniture decorated the room. The coffee table in front of the couch appeared to have been constructed from wine crates: the words Cincque Terre appeared repeatedly over a logo of intertwined vines.
    I sat up and rubbed my eyes. They were irritated from my contact lenses, a gritty tiredness that made thinking difficult. I reached into a pants pocket for my eye drops, but couldn’t find them. After this...day I’d had...all I wanted was my damn eye drops.
    The groan came out before I could stop it. I held my breath, listening. I didn’t want anyone to know I was awake until I knew where I was. Sounds emanated from another room–water running, then the clang of metal against metal. I got up and, taking care to keep my movements silent, walked toward the source of the noises. An arched doorway separated the living room from a dining room, and through the dining room door I could see into the kitchen,