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There’s a small, rickety motel off a long winding road that calls out silently, begging for visitors. The walls are caving and the cheesy three dollar wallpaper is cracking and unrolling. The lights in every room are always on, though there are never visitors.

In the mornings they serve eggs lightly salted with a slice of toast. They make the most delicious coffee within ninety miles. But of course, nothing is within that range. The cream, if you ask for cream, floats across the milky surface of the coffee, as if dancing. It slowly melts into the coffee creating a beautifully perfected mix.

They have a large ball room dating back to the 1920’s. A large crystal chandelier hangs above in the center of the room, ready to give way at any moment. There are large paintings that lean against the golden painted walls, waiting & longing to be observed. The light from the chandelier bounces throughout the room, reflecting off of every surface. The bubbly persona of this room shines throughout the motel, in every nook and cranny.

The Emperor’s Suite is carefully and brilliantly decorated. Its master quality is an amazement to everyone who takes the time to speculate, no one. The gorgeous arch is painted mid silver. The king bed is placed in the middle of the large rectangular room. Pictures of the motel’s past are framed and hung proudly, two on each wall, equally spaced. The owner must’ve put a lot of thought into this room.

The lady who owns the place is sweet as sugar. Her red glasses are perched upon her nose and her grey soft hair is wound tightly in a bun. She checks on you every day, asks how you are doing. She seems genuinely interested. She usually sits at the front desk drinking her coffee and solving a crossword.

It’s a shame no one visits, a horror really. People drive by every day, not knowing what they are missing: great hospitality, wonderful food, and great sights.

There’s a small, rickety motel off a long winding road that calls out silently, begging for visitors. Too bad it has none.





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