In Which I Begin

Early this morning I had an idea to start something new here on my blog. Once a month, or about as often as I can, I'm going to write and post a new short story. It will always be a work of fiction, and I will limit myself to 500 words or less. By doing this, I hope to fill out some ideas that I have floating around my head, and it gives me a chance to get some feedback and constructive criticism from my toughest critics: my ever-faithful readers.

So, without delaying any further, here is the first installment of many (hopefully) to the Short Story Thursday series...

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Both the north and southbound lanes of the darkened highway were essentially vacant, as they are likely to be in the hours after midnight but still before dawn. The asphalt plays out like a wide, grey river, winding itself around large rocks and outcroppings of trees, lined with metal guardrail shores. In the southbound lane, the headlights from a single car cut into the semi-darkness as it pulls around a corner, illuminating the ever-changing road ahead.

The car, a classic 1970 Mustang, travels in the center lane, the miles falling fast behind it. The roar of its powerful engine and the rhythmic thrumming of its tires on the pavement disturb the otherwise silent surroundings. A whispering trail of exhaust hangs in the cool early morning air, the only evidence of it ever being there.

The driver, who at one point earlier in the evening had been seen sitting tense with both hands on the wheel, now sits with only one hand holding it steady, the other adjusting the radio.

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Static.

Nothing but shitty pop music and static.

With a quick movement with his right hand, the driver of the Mustang switches off the radio in frustration. He had hoped for a distraction from his erratic thoughts, but couldn’t find a station that suited his mood. Settling back in his seat, he let his right hand drop to his lap, and pushed just a little more on the accelerator.

A green mile marker on the right side of the road approached slowly and then flicked by, its number visible for just a moment before it became lost in the darkness behind him.

Mile number 27.

With a heavy sigh, the driver eases the accelerator down even further, the needle on the speedometer flirting with the higher end of eighty miles-per-hour now. I’ve got to hit the state line by daybreak, he thought. The sun was not quite visible on the horizon, but soon would be. I’ve got to get out before the sun comes, before the story hits the morning news. Before he knows I’m gone. Or else I…

Shuddering, the driver doesn’t let himself complete the thought.

“One thing at a time,” he says aloud. His voice sounds strange and hollow in the quiet interior of the car. A quick glance at the dashboard shows he’ll be out of gas soon.

Once I’m out of the state, he thinks to himself, I’ve got to ditch this car.

This gas mileage on this thing sucks.