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I'm sure I should have reached the garage by now. I'd only been driving a few minutes since passing it before the engine threw a rather spectacular fit. I would have thought that the village couldn't have been more than a couple of miles back through the quiet country lanes, but I've been walking for hours, I'm sure of it. My watch has stopped. First time it's ever done that.
I'm certain I haven't taken a wrong turn as the surroundings all look familiar, but the houses seem a little more run-down than before, and the plant-life not as healthy. It could just be the light, although the sky is as clear and the sun is as bright as they were before. Not a single car has passed me, though. No people, either. No dog walkers, nothing.
At last I see the hump-backed stone bridge I crossed earlier. As I draw closer, a terrible smell hits me. Breathing through my mouth, I start to cross the bridge. It looks un-safe, bits of the stone wall have fallen away. Glancing over the side, I see that what I had expected to be a sparkling flowing stream is in fact no more than a thick layer of green sludge in a muddy ditch.
Having no real choice in the matter, I continue onwards. A couple of bends in the road later and there, at last, is the garage. It looks deserted. In fact, it looks as if it has been abandoned for years.
I cross the yard, with its rusted pumps and scattered car parts, and push the shop door open. The hinges shriek (the only sound besides that of my own breathing and footsteps), and flecks of paint shower onto me. Inside, everything is covered with dust. I'm surprised to see there is actually a figure standing behind the counter.
I take a few steps towards him. My leg brushes against a small display of cans, some of which fall to the spongy linoleum floor. They stay where they fall, as if it would be too much effort to roll any further. The figure behind the counter makes no comment.
I start to apologize, but the words never emerge, as my eyes have adjusted to the lack of light and the figure has become clearer. He is an old, old man, eyes a sickly yellow, a toothless mouth that appears to be attempting to speak, opening slowly and saying nothing but a low rattling sound. He lifts one of his arms at the same slowed-down manner, the start of some movement that I do not stay to see. I back out of the shop and run towards to the road.
adapted from: http://www.heavyglow.net/SeanParker_issue6.html
How does the setting affect the plot of the story?
The setting provides a solution to the narrator's problem.
The setting creates a conflict for the narrator.
The setting creates inspiration for the narrator.
The setting has little to do with the plot of the story.
I'm attracted like a fly lol hold up, I needa answer this