Terlingua

“The topography of Big Bend is so barren and jagged that America’s astronauts in the 1960s took field trips to the park to prepare them for landing on the moon.”

It didn’t really surprise the man to find a ghost town out here, as the whole goddamn place felt abandoned. He knocks back another beer to help quench his thirst from the heat of the December sun, and walks into town.

Terlingua.
 Mexican skulls and metal-welded art pieces are scattered about randomly. He searches the deteriorated buildings to see what the people of the past have left behind.

He finds a church and slowly enters, as holy places are usually the creepiest. The eyes of a Christ figurine follow him around the chapel as an old painting of the Virgin Mary fades in the afternoon sunlight.
 A pillow for one to kneel and beg forgiveness has been left on the floor. The man bends down and for a moment asks for his sins to be washed away.

“Heal this sinner!”
 He laughs loudly at his own request, as only the spiders and scorpions hear his cry before they recede into the shadows. Time to carry on.

He finds a jail, a place that feels more comfortable to him than a church, and circles the small interior.

“This should be my final resting place.”
 At the edge of town is the cemetery, half of which is full of Mexican immigrants that helped build up this area, only to be treated like dogs and buried with no grave marker, only a pile of stones and a broken cross.

The man can’t help but think that he will have his own pile of rocks above him soon enough.

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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