The Trading Post was as an oasis in the arid American South. Its dilapidated decor was designed to lure customers in search of nostalgia. Enthusiasts of highway lore and lost travelers alike would stop by and drink in Jack’s cool smile.
Jack perennially sat behind the register, chewing tobacco and waiting for someone to sell his “authentic souvenirs” to. In fact, he was the only authentic curio of the Trading Post. His mass-produced wares were the corporate vision of America’s collective memory. He sold fictions of a nonexistent era.
Jack knew this. His customers knew this. And yet, they came.
Written for this week’s Friday Fictioneers. It has been a decent while since I last wrote about the weekly prompt. I figured it was about time for another go!
PHOTO PROMPT © Jean L. Hays
Word Count: 100