By Cal Moore
The car rattles down the road, kicking up dirt and dust into the summer air. Gravel clinks against the belly of the vehicle, which moans in protest, and vomits smoke. The driver exhales his own. A flick of the wrist sends his half- lit cigarette out the paneless passenger window; it falls lifeless to the side of the road. The cooling wind whistles a warning of approaching evening. Dusk’s chill penetrates the rusted flesh of the car and drenches the driver.
The sun descends below the oaks, leaving blazes of colour in its wake. Wine reds, cider oranges, handicraft Bob Ross would envy. This canvas is reflected in the car’s withered, sun-bleached paint job.
Twigs, like brittle bones, snap under faded treads. The car’s redundant bellows are joined by a symphony of critters— soprano chipmunks— tenor moose— alto foxes— all singing a frantic Vesper as they scurry home to avoid predators on the prowl. In the towering branches roost silvery owls, feathers a prophecy of the lustrous moon stirring in the horizon. A few more moments pass and the car passes an illegible sign. The letters are crusted with copper, corners eroded. They continue past without a second thought; the driver knows the sign well. He knows where it leads.
Home.
The car’s bleary eyes blink as they turn their attention to an even bumpier road, shrouded by the shadows of stout huts and sunken dwellings. Waning sunlight casts a sheet of uncertainty on the street. One last corner and the car pulls into a drive, slows to a crawl, and then to a halt. The driver hunches down to the pedals where he is besieged by a burning stench that ravages his nose and back of his throat. Sulfurous. Putrid. Nauseating. He erupts in coughs and unravels two exposed wires, tearing them from their embrace. The car gasps once more before resigning to slumber.