The prompt this week was to write about a car. I was going to write about my beloved 1989 Camry… until this happened. This story comes to us from Val Muller, author of The Scarred Letter, Faulkner’s Apprentice, and the Corgi Capers kidlit mystery series.
By Val Muller
It’s late September, and Autumn is just starting to color the trees
Like the first startling traces of gray in the mirror.
The trees bend across Dry Spring Road,
Enclosing cars in a woodland embrace
That blocks away highway traffic to the north.
It is a commute that sees horses and fields and sometimes cows,
A commute that sees thick mist evaporate in the low morning sun,
That smells of manure and pollen and fireplaces,
A commute that forgets the city is only an hour away.
But the city is close enough to make cars forget
That the woods once owned the road
And may yet again.
And then, a blur of tan,
A spotted white, determined muzzle—
It’s Kamikaze Bambi
Racing my car.
The hanging trees do not care
Whether I swerve over the yellow lines
Into oncoming traffic.
So I continue on the fast, dangerous asphalt
And the tan streak continues toward my car.
Two thundering hoofprints echo against my heart and my door
As I speed onward, leaving a gyrating tan sphere in the rear view mirror,
Recovering from the dangerous high five
Exchanged with my car.
The Spot Writers—Our Members:
Catherine A. MacKenzie