Lines in the Sand



A silver Vauxhall with alloy wheels. A 1600. Easy to break into. He knows how to hot wire. His father taught him.

Father gone. Left. Walked out. Five years back. Seems forever.

The car started, a Def Leppard CD stereo system. He turns the volume up. Loud. Louder. Fifteen minutes later he pulls over. Checks the cubby-hole. Only the car manual there and three CDs he doesn’t recognise.

The car is immaculate inside - nothing to identify the owner, not even a packet of sweets. The only personal touch is the chrome skull’s head on the gearstick, and the CDs. Out-of-date. Older guy, must be.

He runs his hand over the dashboard, feels the cold of the skull’s head. The seats are low and comfortable. He flicks the electric windows up and down, puts the car back into gear. He hasn’t got his licence yet but he’s been driving for years.

The needle hits sixty, and seventy on the long straight road. The seawall to the left, the caravan park to his right. He opens the window and the warm air rushes in and Def Leppard reaches a pitch and he accelerates but he’s not going to be another statistic, a stoned teenager dead in a ditch. He knows how to handle stuff.

The engine roars, he settles the car into third, slows a little to take the bend where the sand blows in, and at last he’s flying, he’s really flying.

Nothing left on the road now, only lines in the sand. 


Bronwen Griffiths

Bronwen Griffiths was the winner of the Mslexia Flash Fiction competition in December 2024.






Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

40 Units

  “ You take forever to order just like with everything else, you haven’t changed at all have you?” A familiar voice with an unfamiliar face calls from behind. A long-lost friend welcomes unfamiliar emotions. We stare at each other in silence because I don't want to have small talk. I know her life ain’t easy, and at the same time, I still fall into the same small talk I desperately want to avoid. Cause just looking at her I know it’s not easy. Taking care of four kids by herself while working at Church's chicken ain’t nothing to even smile about. But I still ask her “How's everything” because I have no clue what else I should say to you. I want to make a joke, cause you know me as a class clown but life is no joke, and I know that better than anyone. Life's not fair in the slightest and I’ve always known that from being in foster care. Yet even I didn’t think life could be so cruel to just steal Rufina’s life from her. You tell me about how tough things ha...
Read more

Why was the door alarmed?

Image
"This door is alarmed". The door was also the emergency exit. The fire started in the hardware department. A battery exploded and soon the department was filled with choking black smoke. Customers rushed to the door. It was locked. By chance, there was a display of hammers. The manager, a big brawny bloke, grabbed a hammer and made his way to the door.. "Stand back, everybody." It was the sort of commanding voice people obeyed. He attacked the door with a will and smashed it so the grateful customers could escape. The door had a good reason to be alarmed. Derek McMillan is a writer in Durringon in the UK. His editor is his wife, Angela. He has written for print and online publications in the UK, USA and Canada. His latest book is the audio-book "Flash Fiction" which is available on eBay. 
Read more

The Excited Courage I Needed

Image
The Excited Courage I Needed Dad was very protective of me as I grew up. I saw his safety rules as signs of a mean Dad. Everyone was riding a bike. Except me. We lived at the end of a short driveway which veered off from a 300-foot lane. The neighbour children flew down this lane with their bicycles, and I could only watch them enviously and wistfully, not partaking, forbidden from riding a bicycle. Often, in the midst of those long summers, I sat at the edge of our yard watching them ride. They loved the attention my close observation gave them, and they pedalled fast and furious past me, knowing they were the object of my envy. The winter I was eleven, five years after my sister died, my father surprised me with a bike. It was no ordinary bike that he had purchased it at a used bicycle shop and had hidden in a shed out back. Carefully, with his artist’s hand, he painted it light blue with white trim. He had even painted the handlebars and wheels with silver paint. I like to ha...
Read more