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Two-and-a-half-minute Fiction Prahject

Two-and-a-half-minute Fiction ‘Prahject’: Take 9

Wowza. Did I read that right? Take 9? Woooo. I’ve been out of town for a bit, so that’s my excuse for the lack of posting. But OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD IT’S MONDAY. And all you starved Prah 2.0 readers know what that means. FICTION.

So I realized pretty much every single one of my pieces involve a car. Parking a car. Driving in a car. Leaving in a car. A memory based on a car. So this time around I decided to take the car idea and run with it (pun intended. vroom vroom, baby). It’s a little different approach than I usually take, but I’m trying to expand my writing horizons, as they say. Or someone says it. I’m sure of it.

Kangaroo fight

This what a Google image search for "expand your horizons" yields. A kangaroo fight? Sure. Why not.

Without further ado …

Sunday Drive

Every time she drives down the mountain she gets the uncontrollable urge to drive head-long into one of those runaway truck ramps. Are those ramps ever used? You never see tracks in the gravel. What would happen if a car used it? Would it feel like a roller coaster? It might be a little scary to roll backward down the ramp though. Would the car still be in drive? Would it need to be in a lower gear? I bet it feels like flying for a few seconds …

He never understands why cops wait at the foot of the mountain to catch speeders. You’re gaining momentum as you come down the mountain, what do they expect? It’s not fair. I don’t want to ruin my brakes. Or my tires. Or rack up any more points on my license. Even if I put it into second gear, I’m still flying. I can’t help it I care about the integrity of my car. And there he is, just sitting, waiting. What a dick.

Thank God, no one can hear her singing in the car. Secretly I think I have a lovely alto. But none of the songs I blare are in that range. They’re all teenagers without voice changes yet. Driving in the car by yourself with the windows down and you control the radio is probably one of the best things about summer. Remember when we’d drive to Virginia in the summer and Mom would play that old Natalie Cole tape over and over? And we’d be driving on Route 66 and the song “Route 66” would come on and we just thought that was the coolest thing? I should find that tape.

She hates driving up and down the mountain. They think I’m going slow because I’m old but I’m going slow because I can’t reach the darn pedals. If I lose control, it’s easier to stop if I’m already going slow. Everyone has got to move so fast. They don’t have any patience for me. I wish Edith would move to that living community in town. I have more gray hair after making these drives than I ever did. I don’t think Edith appreciates that. How soon she forgets who gave her, her chicken salad recipe! Hmph!

He has never had to use one of those runaway truck ramps before. My buddies have, but I never have. They say it’s a little like flying, but then your lunch comes back up when you roll backward. One buddy said three of his tires blew out. They must not have been at the right pressure. It’s just gravel. You never see tracks in those things though. I should use second gear at this point. Come on, clutch, cooperate. I said, come on. What the hell. Oh, God, grandma, now is not the time to be in front of the freight truck. GET OUT OF THE WAY.

Why is that truck on my behind? Doesn’t he know tailgating is against the law? Oh fine, I’ll get out of your way, but only because I’m a Christian lady. There, happy? And he still doesn’t slow down! He’s going to get it, ohhh he’s going to get it.

Wow, that truck is flying almost as fast as I am. He really shouldn’t be going that fast. I shouldn’t either, but I’m in a car. That stupid girl better get out of his way! Stop singing you stupid chick and get in the other lane! Oh my God, she is so dumb. Wow, she is belting it out. What the hell, girl, get out of the way. So oblivious. So dumb.

Can’t she hear my horn?? Why won’t she change lanes? My truck will crush her little hybrid in seconds. Dear, God. GIRL GET OUT OF THE WAY. If I remember right, there’s a truck ramp coming up. God, I don’t want to have to use it. What if my tires blow? But I can’t run over this girl and I’m going to in one more minute. Less than that. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God. HOLD ON!

He bragged to his buddies that not a single tire of his burst. It was because he meticulously measured the tire pressure. They slapped him on the back and joked about the experience, like it was a rite of passage. One younger trucker asked what it felt like. It felt like flying.



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