The strange part really happened

 

Forced Landing

By: Zobostic Corwin

Part One: Crash with a Side of Cringe

It wasn’t a crash so much as a forced landing. The pilot suddenly died — no warning, no last words, just slumped forward like someone unplugged him — and we simply dropped the last few feet to the ground and rolled to a stop. I reached over and shut the engine off.

Being the only passenger, I didn’t have to check on anyone else. It was just me — and I was fine. Except, of course, for being stuck in the desert.

I clicked the mic a few times and asked if anyone could hear me. Nothing. The second I opened the door, the heat hit me like a furnace blast. I closed it right away. Maybe staying put was smarter. There wasn’t much I could do outside anyway.

But sitting next to a dead guy didn’t seem like the thing to do either. So I climbed out.

I wasn’t exactly dressed for a desert hike. The heat from the ground came straight through my tennis shoes like the sand was trying to cook me medium-rare. I could see snowcapped mountains in the distance, but walking to them seemed wildly optimistic. Still, better than doing nothing. I took one last look in the cockpit, hoping to find a hat. No such luck.

I set off toward the mountains. Either I’d make it or I wouldn’t — but standing still didn’t seem like a long-term strategy.

I tried to think about anything but the heat, but my burning feet kept yanking me back to the moment. I figured I’d been walking for about an hour and a half when it hit me: I probably should’ve left the ignition on when I tried the radio. That’s likely why it didn’t work. Brilliant.

To distract myself, my mind latched onto a memory of our mail lady back home. She drives this old minivan, delivering letters to roadside mailboxes. Since the boxes are on the passenger side, she sits in the middle of the front seat — steering with her left hand and somehow working the pedals with her foot. It's kind of incredible, really.

Now, was that a rattlesnake?
Hard to say, but I’m not going to find out. I veered wide around it.

Anyway, whenever she had packages too big for the mailbox, she’d pull into our driveway and walk them to the front door. I bet she didn’t have to deal with snakes.

She probably woke up before the sun, sorting mail and packages into her van, stacking everything by address, with little notes attached reminding her which house had a parcel in the back. I’ve seen her make U-turns, but only when absolutely necessary.

I looked back. The plane was now just a dot — barely visible. But the mountains ahead? Still looked impossibly far.

Have I mentioned how hot it is?

I’m standing in those weird wavy heat lines you usually see from a distance. From the plane, I’d probably look like a hallucination. Every now and then I spot little sparkles in the sand. Tiny diamonds, maybe. Not likely — but I see them.

I don’t feel wavy, for the record.

Wavy… like those potato chips. Wavy Chips. Good for scooping dip. They don’t break like regular chips. Now I’m hungry.

If I ever reach those snowcapped mountains, I have no idea what I’ll do. I’m not dressed for winter either. I don’t have a Plan B.

Not that this was my Plan A.
Honestly, I don’t think this was anyone’s plan.

Part Two: Dust, Dips, and Delirium

About twenty minutes later, I stopped walking. Not because I was tired — although I was — but because there was something standing in the distance.

It looked like a sign. Not a tree or a rock or a mirage, but an honest-to-goodness road sign, sticking out of the desert floor like it had no idea where it was supposed to be.

I moved toward it. Slowly. Suspiciously. Like it might scurry off if I got too close.

When I got near enough to read it, I squinted and wiped the sweat from my eyes. The sign said:

“YOU ARE HERE.”

That’s it. No town name, no mileage, no directions. Just a reminder that, yes, in fact, I was somewhere. Which I already knew, but thanks anyway.

I kept walking past the sign, not sure whether to laugh or be worried that the desert was now editorializing my situation. I started thinking again about food. Wavy chips. French onion dip. A cold soda. I imagined biting into a sandwich so cold it hurt my teeth. Then I imagined biting into sand. Less fun.

Up ahead, something shimmered again — but not the usual wavy shimmer. This one had angles. Edges.

I picked up the pace. My brain warned me I was being an idiot, that it was definitely a mirage. But my feet ignored it.

It wasn’t a mirage.

It was… a gas station.

Not a working one, mind you. More like a leftover prop from an old movie. Rusted signs. A cracked Coke machine. A roof barely hanging on. And yet, weirdly, a rocking chair was moving slightly on the front porch like someone had just left it.

There was also a vending machine next to the door. I walked straight to it, even though I knew how this would go.

I pressed the button for water.
It blinked. Then beeped.

Then — and I swear I’m not making this up — a bottle clunked down.

I picked it up. Cold. Unopened. Water.

“Thank you, vending god,” I muttered, and drank half of it in one go.

I sat down on the porch next to the rocking chair, just to rest for a minute. My shoes were making a squish sound now, not from water, but probably melted rubber.

Then the door creaked open.

Not wide — just a little. Enough to make me freeze. I stared at it for a full thirty seconds. It didn’t move again.

I thought of my mail lady. She’d probably knock politely, wait, and if no one answered, leave a notice and walk away.

I, on the other hand, pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Part Three: Welcome to the Weird

It was dim. Cool, somehow. And in the middle of the room was a table… set for one. Sandwich. Chips. A dip container labeled “FRENCH ONION.” Next to it: another bottle of water and a small note.

It read:
“Don’t worry. You’re doing fine.”

I wasn’t sure if it was encouragement or sarcasm. Honestly, it felt like something a therapist might say right before handing you a coloring book and quietly locking the door.

The sandwich was ham and cheese — simple, familiar. The chips were Wavy. I took that as a personal sign. Maybe I was dead. If the dip was actually cold, I’d know for sure. I peeled the lid.

It was cold.

“Okay, what the hell,” I said aloud, because apparently I talk to myself now.

I ate it all. Slowly. Suspiciously. Like it might vanish if I blinked too hard. Everything tasted exactly right. Real. The sandwich had mustard. The chips were crisp. The dip was French onion-y enough to make me emotional.

I leaned back in the chair and let out a sigh that probably echoed into next week.

That’s when I noticed the camera.

It was tucked up in the corner — not hidden, not obvious, just there. One of those old security cameras with a little red light that blinks like it has something important to say but refuses to tell you what it is.

“Are you watching this?” I said to it. “Because if this is some kind of psychological experiment, I’d like to speak to your manager. Also, compliments to the chef.”

The light blinked.

Twice.

I stood up, half-expecting the room to shift like a movie set being wheeled away, revealing sound guys and craft services. But nothing happened. Just me. Just the sandwich. Just the camera.

I walked around the room. There were shelves stocked with canned goods, a map of the desert tacked to one wall, and — inexplicably — a full rack of clean white socks, all size 10–12.

Next to the socks was a small sign:

“Take what you need. Leave what you don’t.”

Next to that: a basket of neatly folded hand-written letters addressed “To Whom It May Concern.”

I took one and opened it.

“Dear stranger, 
If you’re reading this, you’ve made it farther than most. 
Rest as long as you need. 
When you’re ready, go out the back door. 
Follow the tire tracks. 
Try not to question how any of this is happening. 
The desert is full of things that don’t make sense.

Good luck.”

I read it twice. Then a third time. It wasn’t helpful. But it was comforting in that eerie, cult-y kind of way.

I grabbed a pair of socks — because my shoes now felt like warm pudding — and walked to the back door.

It opened without resistance.

The sun was lower now. Still hot, but less aggressively so. And sure enough, there they were: faint tire tracks curving out into the sand like some trail left by a ghost truck.

I stood there a moment.

Then I stepped into the tracks, fresh socks and all, and started walking.

Behind me, I thought I heard the rocking chair move again.

But when I looked back, the station was gone.

 

Here’s the truly strange part.

Just before I wrote this story, I ordered some socks from Amazon.  When I asked AI to check for spelling errors and proper grammar in this adventure, it added new socks into the story.  Not kidding.