Upon an oil-dark highway, slick with drizzle’s haunt, the car sped on. Though the hour was waning, of headlights it had none. Shadowless, beneath a star-erased sky of inky wool, it tracked route and target. It was not its predecessor's heir; it had neither hot blood nor pistons roar, yet a front grille to mangle owls and crickets to a static hum.
From grandest showroom in all the world, as cellophane wrapped dream, the car drove silently into the twilight hour. Silence, as a coffin lid, loomed over country and city same. Scant and withering sunny beams glinted as garroting wires. Around its blood red sleek form blew wind in icy crowns, wind enough to stretch nightingale song into a strangled cry. And all the while oak leaves fell to its skylight as fingers on piano keys, playing a tune lost on the self-deafening ear.
Clouds were kites that day, playing on sun-ray strings, dappling the T-bird ‘s curves. Her engine and radio sang, creating one sweet together-sound. High in the atmosphere, silence watched as a patient mother, listening, observing, guarding. From deep down in the Earth, magma sent up warmth - just enough to keep its road-grip strong. And, so it was that the little car made a journey that reason and science declared it could not.
Upon a midnight blue road, puddles moon-lit, the T-Bird flew on. As the countryside left and right became a Monet blur, yards became miles. There were hills and mountains along the way, at times a curveless, optically infinite, highway ahead. This was where eagles fly. This was the road from prairie to shore. White lights in front and rose lights as anti-shadows, it glided toward its destination as if it were a dream on automatic.
Starlight above, upon the rainwashed star-speckled blacktop, the T-bird cruised with headlamps at full beam. The chill night air came as relief to its warm engine, pistons singing as they fired. Hugging the curves, relishing the straights, it gripped the road without slowing. A blue moon in a cloudless sky kept silent vigil as it made its home-run, only every interrupted by the need to refuel.
The highway was Mozart's doodling pad; the T-bird lane-weaved as a dancing quaver. Bebop-a-lu-ba! It’s sunny yellow paint called up to the summer sun, inviting it to sing along. Green on both sides, the aroma of hope in the air, it cruised on. Engine humming, steering light, the refurbished classic brought happiness to every diner parking lot. It was a promise of classic days with modern updates below the hood.
Without awareness of the road or the rain, the car moved over the highway, lights on full beam. Aisha watched how the yellowed yet bright light played in the droplets, showing this deluge, this flood from the sky, in apparently solitary drops. Once upon a time she would have been driving the car, no longer, she let the quantum computer do that. This was her time to let her brain roam free and her heart explore new avenues, even as the city became ever closer.
The wind pushes on the car to no avail. We are going forwards and nothing but a blessed tragedy can change that. The tires make their monotonous hiss over the rain-washed highway and the air that makes its way though the filters is meadow-sweet. All around, through these tinted windows are fields. Inside this tin box destined for the horizon the world outside continues like some choreographed dance but without the soul it should have. What reason under the sun is there that we can't stop and walk barefoot in the grass and feel the keen rays of the spring? Is there none that can hold up a brave hand and say stop?
The driver fiddles with the radio to fill our ears with the latest popular tunes, starlets, the new pop "idols." The only part of me to escape the orange jumpsuit and boots, my hand, feels the plush fabric of the seat. No expense spared. I wonder who usually sits in this place. There is even a dispenser of single malt on the side, not that my hands will reach it in these shackles. If I close my eyes I can feel the gentle rise and fall of the road beneath us. I cannot imagine what is in store, but it isn't as bad as things could be. This ride, this car, this meeting - they have found a use for me and somewhere at the end of this road is the answer to what that could be.
The flag on the car flutters violently in the wind. It was cute on the city streets but here on the highway it moves so quickly and noisily that Vera wonders if it might break away from the pole. She watches the cheap plastic bending and the material beat as if it were trying to take flight. It stays that way, a battle between pole and flag until the car slows for the off ramp. Vera switches her attention to the changing scenery, so this will be her home for her university years. It feels so alien, yet no doubt when the time comes to go she'll feel a wrench to leave.
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