BOULDERS CAN DANCE • by Paul Shaw Smith

The boulder had trailed an inexplicably straight and solitary path along the flat, desert floor. It had then travelled a short distance at a right angle, and now appeared to be pointing to a building just visible at the end of the road.

The warmth of the day was tiring, the sun sinking into the sand.

I pulled back onto the main road up and drove toward the lone structure.

MOTEL. A palm tree stood beside the top-heavy, optimistic, sign with all the pride it could muster.

I went inside. 

My eyes adjusted slowly to the dimly lit room. Not a soul in sight. I scanned the array of tourist leaflets lined up opposite the small cashier’s booth.

“Hey. Pilgrim.”

I started at the raised voice, and turned toward the apparition.

A middle-aged man, waiflike and balding, stood staring at me intently through the glazing that enveloped his cramped enclosure.

“Hi.” I nodded once in his direction in reply, my hands searching inside my trouser pockets for something to prove my innocence. Resigned, I jerked my chin toward the door I had just entered. “Erm, by the way, just wondering, those… how do they…”

“Sailing stones. Wind and melting ice.” Without taking a breath he continued. “One night. Credit card?”

I walked toward him, taking out my wallet as I did.

Our eyes met again momentarily as he swiped my card.

Before I could speak he continued solemnly. “You won’t find what you’re looking for here.”

I hoped my gulp wasn’t obvious. I drew a small circle with a downward pointing index finger as I replied. “He… here?” I stumbled.

He swept a wisp of hair over his crown. “I ain’t got nothing against you, pilgrim.”

I shook my head apologetically. “No, no, of course.” He handed the card back to me.

“You’ve already got it. Here and here.” He pointed to his temple and chest before continuing. “If boulders can dance…”


Scottish writer and playwright Paul Shaw Smith is a former physics student and current Japanese fiction lover, father of two, and husband to a long-suffering Californian wife. Lover of small word counts, and author of the short play Moscow, Scotland (published by Lazy Bee Scripts).


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