Mobius Blvd: Stories from the Byway Between Reality and Dream No. 2 | December 2023: Mobius Blvd: Stories from the Byway Between Reality and Dream, #2

By Wayne Kyle Spitzer

There is a byway between reality and dream. A transit we call Möbius Blvd …

Inspired by the enigmatic Möbius strip, a mathematical construct that defies conventional notions of linearity and infinity, Möbius Blvd has no beginning or end but exists in a place where reality and dream have fused … coalesced … merged. With each turn of the page, you'll encounter a unique blend of horror, fantasy, and science-fiction—fiction that will challenge your perceptions and leave you in awe of the infinite possibilities that exist within the written word.

Indeed, Möbius Blvd is far more than a magazine; it's an experience. It's an exploration of the infinite, a passage through dimensions where the only constant is storytelling at its most daring, a kaleidoscope of wonder and terror. Join us on this winding, never-ending journey of speculative fiction that will keep you entranced from the first twist to the last loop. Open your mind to the limitless worlds of Möbius Blvd … and discover that the boundary between fiction and reality is as thin as a strip of paper with a twist.

In this issue:

DRIVING ALL NIGHT
Brad Goldberg

EXPIRATION DATE
Trish Renee

HOUSE MADE OF GINGER
Justin Fellows

HUNGER
Joseph Flynn

THE ELEPHANT SLAYER
Wayne Kyle Spitzer

OPTOPHOBIA
Ken Goldman

PERIOD.
Ginger Keller Gannaway

THAT FORGOTTEN MONDAY
Mark Connelly

THE DREAM THEATER
Joe Prosit

TYSON'S CORNER
Griffith Pound

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hobb's End Press
• Release date: Dec 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223848714

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

Wayne Kyle Spitzer (born July 15, 1966) is an American author and low-budget horror filmmaker from Spokane, Washington. He is the writer/director of the short horror film, Shadows in the Garden, as well as the author of Flashback, an SF/horror novel published in 1993. Spitzer's non-genre writing has appeared in subTerrain Magazine: Strong Words for a Polite Nation and Columbia: The Magazine of Northwest History. His recent fiction includes The Ferryman Pentalogy, consisting of Comes a Ferryman, The Tempter and the Taker, The Pierced Veil, Black Hole, White Fountain, and To the End of Ursathrax, as well as The X-Ray Rider Trilogy and a screen adaptation of Algernon Blackwood’s The Willows.

Book preview

CONTENTS

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DRIVING ALL NIGHT

Brad Goldberg

EXPIRATION DATE

Trish Renee

HOUSE MADE OF GINGER

Justin Fellows

HUNGER

Joseph Flynn

THE ELEPHANT SLAYER

Wayne Kyle Spitzer

OPTOPHOBIA

Ken Goldman

PERIOD.

Ginger Keller Gannaway

THAT FORGOTTEN MONDAY

Mark Connelly

THE DREAM THEATER

Joe Prosit

TYSON’S CORNER

Griffith Pound

DRIVING ALL NIGHT

Brad Goldberg

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Harold liked the quiet of his drive home. No phones, no colleagues poking their heads over his partition, no computers beeping to announce more emails, and mostly, no demands from a boss who acted as if everyone she dealt with were beneath her. With the windows rolled up and sentimental oldies filling the car, the freeway noise was a gentle whoosh. Lights from oncoming traffic passed with soothing regularity. For the half hour it would take to get home from downtown San Diego, it would be his world, his cocoon where no one, not even his wife Janice, could make him feel small. It was Friday. He thought about dinner. He thought about plans for the weekend. He thought about nothing.

Agua Caliente Boulevard? That wasn’t right. He didn’t recognize the name on the exit sign. Maybe he had forgotten one. He and Janice had moved only two months ago, but he thought he knew the exits between home and work. Agua Caliente wasn’t one of them. He was sure of it. He was pretty sure. But he didn’t recognize the next exit either. Or the next.

Call home.

Calling Rome Café, the not-quite-human voice of the car’s automated system responded.

No. Home! Not Rome.

Please say or press a line number.

Harold looked at the display. There were listings for Nostrum’s Homeopathics. Noah’s Drums. And Home Lawn Gnomes.

Never mind. Harold pressed the button to end the call. Picking up his cell phone to dial it himself, he looked in the rearview mirror and saw a Highway Patrol car behind him. It gave a short blast of the siren as a warning. The patrol car pulled up next to him. The officer mimed holding a phone then wagged his fingers. Harold sighed and looked for the next exit, so he could pull off to call Janice.

Traffic on Wainwright Boulevard sped by relentlessly. When Harold was finally able to merge from the exit ramp, he realized that pulling over was not an option. Cars sped by, there were barely any shoulders, and the road ran straight into the night with no intersections or side streets visible. He’d have to keep going until he could turn into a residential area.

How was it possible that a highway offered no chance to turn for over five miles? Harold was frustrated. He was about to take a chance on the narrow shoulder even though trucks would be speeding by dangerously close when he saw a stop light ahead. He turned off and stopped in a nearby parking lot.

I worry about you not paying attention to the road while you’re driving. Janice sounded concerned.

I am paying attention, Harold groused. He tugged at the few remaining strands of hair that dangled over the center of his forehead.

How can you be paying attention if you keep driving past our exit? This is the third time since we moved.

I know. I mean, I’m watching the road. Just not the signs.

Be careful, Harold. Where are you this time?

Well, I got off on Wainwright, but now, I’m not sure. He couldn’t see any street names anywhere. I’m near a Mr. Burger & Bun and a Westerall Gas station. He was looking at a cluster of businesses that included a strip mall with a Chick-A-Dee Split fried chicken place, a Car-Go convenience store, and an O-Aces Donut shop.

Harold, I don’t know where Wainwright—what is it, Road? Or Street?—is. Just get home as soon as you can. You want to get off at Summit Heights Way, right? I’ll keep dinner warm.

Harold sighed as he hung up. He turned on the car’s navigation system. Home! he barked at it.

Home not programmed, the system replied with disinterest. Harold thought he had asked the intern to program his navigation system. Then he remembered. The intern, as always, was co-opted by one of the other accountants, one who claimed his task was more important than Harold’s.

He started to read out his address but thought better of it. He punched in the street and house number. When he saw the estimated time, he couldn’t believe that he had driven an hour and a half out of his way. How long had he been daydreaming?

The car map led him further north, even though he was sure I-8 was south of him. Oh well, he hadn’t been doing that well on his own. He decided to trust the map for a while. Finally. He saw a sign, To I-8. He was pretty sure that’s what it said, but as he passed it, it was blocked by tree branches.

In one mile, turn left.

Left? He thought the sign for I-8 pointed right. Sure enough, the route showed a connector road heading back to I-8 and a left turn.

In 500 feet, turn left onto County Route 75.

Harold slammed on the brakes as he was making the turn. The black and white barrier blocked the entire road. Black letters on an orange background shouted Detour at him. But there was no arrow to tell him which way to go.

Harold, I thought you’d be home an hour ago. Where are you?

I’m not sure. He tried not to be irritated with Janice. But he was embarrassed trying to explain, even to himself, how he’d gotten so lost.

Well, what does the map say?

It wants me to take some county road back to I-8, but it’s blocked by a detour.

So, can’t you follow the detour?

It’s not marked and... Never mind. I’ll figure it out.

Well, be careful. You know your night vision is getting worse.

He sighed. Love you. See you soon as I can.

Heading back the way he came seemed like the safest option. He turned the navigation system off after the fourth time it told him to make a U-turn. It really wanted him to take the road that was blocked by the detour. The road back seemed only vaguely familiar, but he had been irritated and distracted. It made sense that he hadn’t paid attention to the scenery.

The blue and red light of the Westerall Gas sign glowed comfortingly in the distance. At last, he felt that things were making sense again. Not listening to the stupid map was the right decision. As he pulled into the parking lot, the smell from the Chick-A-Dee Split was making him hungry. He really wanted to get some fried chicken, or a Mr. Burger & Bun, but he knew Janice would be upset if she kept dinner waiting for him and he wasn’t hungry and he knew that he didn’t need to add any more pounds to his already portly body. He opted for O-Aces donuts instead.

So, Wainwright? Wainwright? No. I don’t... Oh, wait. Wainwright Boulevard? That’s ten miles in the other direction. The Chinese woman behind the counter adjusted the barrette with a large pink donut on it as she spoke.

Ten miles? That’s not possible. I just turned off it. It was right over there.

Check the map on your phone. So, it’s at least ten miles. Here, I’ll show you.

Harold was reluctant to give his phone to a stranger, but he was getting desperate.

So, you really need to put a password on this, the woman scolded as she opened his phone and found the map app without any help from Harold. So, you need to charge this. The phone had shut down before the map opened. You can get a charger over there. She pointed to the Car-Go convenience store across the parking lot.

Thanks. I have one. Harold took his bag of donuts and slumped back to his car. Ten miles. How? He had driven on this road to the detour turned around and come back. The gas station? Mr. Burger & Bun? The chicken place? The convenience store? O-Aces donuts? They were all exactly the same. How could he be so far away? He took a bite of his donut as he started the car. Jelly squirted all over his shirt. He turned the car off and slumped into the Car-Go convenience store.

Good evening. I help you? The large man at the register was friendly. He spoke with a slight Russian accent.

Harold couldn’t help but notice the Philadelphia Flyers jersey he was wearing. You from Philly? There weren’t many Flyers fans in California.

Hmm? Oh, no. I just like Gritty. I help you find something?

I need some wet naps or wipes or something. Harold grinned sheepishly and indicated the jelly on his shirt. And maybe a road map?

Baby wipes on three. No maps. Nobody buy them anymore.

Harold found the wipes and stopped briefly to consider an over-the-counter hair restorative. He was put off by how much he resembled the before picture of a tired, dreary man, made old before his time by his barren pate.

As he checked out, Harold realized he hadn’t gotten directions from the woman at the donut shop. How do I get to Wainwright Boulevard?

Wainwright? That’s twenty miles away. You need Route 297, I think.

Twenty miles!? That’s not even possible. As the cashier raised his thick eyebrows, Harold knew it was no use. How do I get to 297?

Follow that sign. The Russian grinned and pointed out the window to a brightly lit sign. The entrance to 297 was right next to the parking lot. Take east.

How had he not seen that sign before? East? Are you sure? The man’s eyebrows once again made it clear that Harold shouldn’t question his directions. East. And then what?

Twenty miles to Wainwright exit.

Route 297 was bleak. There were few houses and no lights. Harold’s world was confined to the area lit by his headlights. Trucks passed impatiently and shook his car with the turbulent blowback as they sped by. It seemed like he had driven much further than twenty miles with few route signs or exits.

Call! Home! Harold enunciated as clearly as he could.

Please connect phone.

Oh, right. He had forgotten that he needed to charge the damn cellphone. He turned on the navigation system. He was desperate. He’d give it another try. All of the options for entering a destination were grayed out. He couldn’t enter his address while the car was moving. One! Eight! Nine! Two! Seven! Summit Drive, he over-pronounced to the car once he had gotten the voice recognition system to the right page, a process frustrating in itself.

Please say a town or city.

Summit View Heights.

The screen showed pulsing dots while it searched for the address. Please select a town or city. The list included Summit Drives in cities all over the western United States, some as far away as Oregon. None of them were Summit View Heights. None of them were where Harold lived.

Maybe it was Summit Lane. He was sure it was Drive. He thought it was Drive. He was pretty sure. He tried Summit Lane. He started to doubt that Summit View Heights was actually the name of the town. It was really just a subdivision. Summit Lane. He tried. Rancho Aguacate, he barked for the town name. There were just as many Summit Lanes as there were Summit Drives. None of them were in Rancho Aguacate. None of them were in Summit View Heights. Most of them were in towns Harold had never heard of. And none of them were where he lived. He tried Summit Court. Summit Circle. Summit Park. And finally, Summit Fucking Dead End. None of them produced results that would get him home.

The aura of lights on the horizon brought him some comfort. He wasn’t totally in the middle of nowhere, but he also hadn’t seen a sign for Wainwright Boulevard. He had no idea where he was. He got off at the next exit, Mill Creek Road. The absolute flatness of the surrounding landscape made him wonder if there was a mill or a creek for a hundred miles. At least there was a road. Left, or right? He had no idea how to decide. He thought the lights he had seen were off to the left, so he went with his gut.

After fifteen minutes of driving through darkness, he was seriously questioning his gut when he saw the lights from a small grouping of houses. There was a strip mall just past it. He pulled into the parking lot, a very familiar parking lot. Adjacent to the Westerall Gas station, a Mr. Burger & Bun, a Chick-A-Dee Split, an O-Aces Donuts, and a Car-Go convenience store were arrayed around the parking lot. At least, the people who worked at these stores seemed friendly. He was embarrassed to have to keep asking for directions.

There was a Chinese woman behind the counter of the O-Aces donuts. Not just a Chinese woman—the Chinese woman. She had on the same flower-print top. The same bobbed haircut. And the same barrette with the pink donut. Hi, Harold said as he entered. He tried to sound as friendly as he could since he had just talked to her not long ago.

Hello. So, can I help you? She was friendly but gave no sign of recognition.

How can you be working here too? He tried to ask in a way that didn’t sound like an accusation.

Too? She clearly had no idea what Harold meant. Oh. She suddenly understood. So, you must have seen me at the grocery store. I sometimes help my dad out on weekends. He’s getting too old to run that place without more help.

No. I mean. I just talked to you earlier tonight at another donut place. I bought two jelly donuts.

So, I been here all night. I didn’t see you. You want some jelly donuts? They’re fresh.

You told me how to get to Wainwright Boulevard. You tried to show me on my phone, but it went dead.

So, that never happened. I don’t know why you think you saw... Her face became just a touch less friendly. A Chinese woman?

Yes. Harold felt like they were getting somewhere. Maybe she had a twin or a sister.

So, maybe we all look the same to you.

No, he said defensively. It was you. You had that, ah... donut thing in your hair. Is that part of the uniform?

So, I just like it. It’s a donut. I work in a donut shop. It’s funny. She must have forgiven him. She was back to being friendly. Do you want some donuts? The coffee’s not bad.

No. He took a breath and looked at the floor. I’m still lost. I live in Summit View Heights, that new development near Rancho Aguacate. I can’t seem to find it.

Her face was a blank. She shook her head as if he were speaking a foreign language. "So, I never heard of those places. The guy