Wednesday, November 30, 2011

Drive

Five times a year, I go back there. I don't know why it isn't six or twelve; five just feels right.

It's a quiet drive, but not peaceful; although it's only a hundred miles as the crow flies, the mountains make it into a 300 mile squiggle of steep ascents and sudden turns. I thread my car through their twisting gray slopes, like a Parkinson's patient doing needlework.

In the winter it's damn near impossible to get there in anything less than seven hours. Minutes tick by as I get stuck behind one tractor-trailer, then another. They struggle up the grade, and I follow in their slushy tracks. When my tires slip, which they always do, my heart beats a thumping staccato in my chest. I've hit a lot of gray sludge that made me think twice about the whole thing, but I've never turned around. I always make it.


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3 comments:

  1. One of the best in a while, which is honestly saying somthing, keep up the good work man, your an amazing writer =)

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  2. Vaguely reminds me of something Lovecraft might have written. Very nice.

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  3. Thank you!

    I honestly have no idea who or what the driver was visiting. I still don't, but I have a few theories.

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