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You’re sitting in traffic. Tell me about the car and the person (people) in the car next to you.
400 words
‘O dolce mano’ another opera
Coming out of the theatre, in the carpark, beeping the car unlocked, you say ‘If we’re dropping Judy off, she’d be best in the front –‘
Because it’s SO difficult to get out of the back seat? Nevertheless, I say nothing. It was Judy – a work colleague –that offered him the tickets. I bought the third on seeing the involuntary twitch of his mouth, explaining. Neither checked the numbers, so two together and one four seats along surprised them. Judy slow to realise I’m not as stupid as she hoped – as Peter perhaps implied? – I made sure he went along the row first and I followed. Closely.‘Tosca’ was superb. Sad to say, Judy ‘didn’t see the point of all that foreign singing so you couldn’t tell what was going on’.
It was slow getting out the car park, traffic clogged. Cleared towards the edge of the city so we sped up, all the way to hitting the pitch dark, no streetlights stretch from here to home.
I’m no more deaf than I am stupid; hand alighting on thigh easily deciphered. Hers on his. His eyes, in the rear view mirror, fixed straight ahead. His breathing increasingly fast.Then, ahead, a scarlet and orange muster of brake lights. Hazard lights. Cars slowed to a stop.
Ahead, a stationary double-decker bus. Hand continued stroking as we crawled towards it I pulled my cigarettes from my bag. Slid one out and lit it, unsurprised by her coughed complaint; her glance at Peter to see if he’d tell me about her allergy or whatever. He’s not that stupid, either.
Someone ahead was directing traffic, allowing four cars one way then four another. As we edged out to overtake the bus, lights from its upper deck illuminated the front of the car, its occupants as able as I to see her hand creeping upwards.
I took my cigarette out of my mouth. Reached through the gap between seats, saying to Peter, ‘Want a drag?’ Then, silly me, my arm slid downwards and the lit end of the cigarette landed on the back of Judy’s hand.
A bit of voice control and she could’ve auditioned for ‘Tosca’.
[360 words excluding title]The Road to Wishes
My cheeks hurt from smiling.
“I’ve never had a passenger be happy to go to this town,” said the driver.
“And I’ve never had a taxi driver dressed in a top hat and tuxedo.”
Although now he mentioned it, the cars around us were filled with weeping people. I had been preoccupied with the beautiful overcast sky and the all-you-can-eat diners bordering the road.
I needed this traffic jam to get moving. Fun times were calling in this town.
“I’m surprised to see speed limit signs,” I said.
The driver’s face was white as if someone smeared chalk over it. “Because of the traffic? It’s not always like this.”
“Not because of the traffic. I figured this would be more an anything goes kind of place.”
“We still need some semblance of order.”
That was a strange remark from a man with a chicken bone dangling from his rearview mirror and dust covering his dashboard. I wasn’t even mentioning the glove compartment couldn’t shut with the mountain of old cigarettes stuffed in it.
“Why won’t this traffic get moving?” I drummed my fingers against my leg. “I can’t wait to see Tommy. We’re going to get so drunk, gamble, eat until we pass out.”
“Tommy’s not there.”
“What do you mean? Of course, Tommy’s going to be there. He’s the only reason I want to go.”
“He’s not.”
He had to be joking. Some sort of twisted humor.
“How could you know that? You can’t know every resident of this town.”
The driver winked. “Trust me, I do. The Tommy you’re looking for isn’t there. Not Thomas Alphonso Walters.”
“How could you -”
“I know.”
What was going on? What had I got myself into?
I patted my top pocket, pulled out my trusty pack of cigarettes.
“Sorry, no smoking’s allowed in this car or town.”
“What? But …” I pointed to the cigarettes jammed in the glove compartment.
“That’s where my passengers put their cigarettes when I tell them cigarettes are forbidden.”
I smoked five cigarettes each morning. Six in the afternoon. Seven at night for good luck. Okay, nine at night, I confess.
“But I need my smokes.”
“You’ll survive.”
Life without smokes was a mistake.
The driver snapped his fingers, smiled. “Traffic is moving. Looks like you got your wish.”
Word Count: 382 words excluding title
398 words exc title
Content warning: threat of terminal illnes
The Road to the Hospital I’ll be Visiting Tomorrow
The old sports model is red and open-topped, a Noddy car for the middle-aged and young elderly. How sniping I am today. From my hatchback I criticise the driver’s grey hair sticking out from his baseball cap. The passenger wears what looks like a gardening hat, old string knotted under her chin. Not that tying down is needed; we’ve come to a halt. On the motorway but motionless, my clawing hope to be somewhere else grows by the minute except that somewhere else, even in the philosophical sense, isn’t available.
While we are pinned here the couple must be my distraction, make themselves useful. He has one hand curled round the steering wheel; the other rests on the gear lever until he turns his wrist to see his watch and she lifts her wristwatch to do the same. He takes hold of her hand and she puts hers over his. Unlike me they each wear a wedding ring and, as the three parallel queues start to move, I believe – am convinced, with nervous imagination – they should have life jackets and helmets. The lorries behind us are rumbling and flat fronted as mallets. Air brakes hiss. The couple in the Noddy car are already hardly off the tarmac.
The woman reaches into a fabric bag and takes out a letter showing the NHS logo: blue rectangle – don’t think of coffins – and stamped white letters. I can’t see which one of them the letter is for but it jolts me. When the traffic moves freely she puts the letter away.
My hatchback has crumple zones and head rests. It has closed windows and air conditioning to exclude damaging fumes. At my exit the red car indicates too. I let them move in front and we speed along the main road until they slow for the turn to the hospital where I don’t want to slow behind them for superstitious reasons. But there’s no room to overtake, traffic is coming the other way.
The woman lifts off her hat, hair glossy in a smart French twist. Glamour is re-assuring. Perhaps they’re visiting someone or are here for some minor nuisance – home by teatime. Perhaps I should think about how most lives are long and mine will be too.
I watch as, between one blocky hospital building and another, the little car drives forwards, open to the elements and brighter than blood.
Hand Signals
Molly matched the testy huff coming from the seat to her left, though neither were on account of the tailback as school runs jostled with motorway traffic on the approach to the roundabout. ‘For God’s sake, Jake. You’ll appreciate one day why I put school first, holidays with your father second.’
She ignored his mouthed words; the turning away of his head. It would have been so easy to bow to the pressure and enjoy a few days respite into the bargain, but one parent had to show some responsibility, if not the other.
The traffic lights switched to green, then back to red as Molly approached them. Pulling on the hand brake, she looked across at Jake and braced herself for more lip. Except his frown had lifted to a smile; not at her, but at the silver Ford Focus in the right-hand lane, signalling to turn onto the motorway …
… or rather, the girl in its back seat.
About Jake’s age, the girl looked as pleased (not) about her trip to school, although she didn’t appear to be in uniform. She was taking the same interest in Jake.
Molly wasn’t surprised: the boy was becoming the double of his father, hopefully no more than in looks. He had his tight, black curls, eyes and skin the same clear chestnut, and a smile to melt hearts. And she could see why the attraction was mutual. The girl was a raven-haired beauty.
Biting her lip, the girl cast an eye at her driver: a man more the age of a brother than a father, his attention on the lights, not her. She returned her gaze to Jake and raised her hand.
Jake’s smile widened as he acknowledged the guarded wave, thumb placed towards her palm, fingers curling then straightening. The girl’s eyes widened as she repeated her signal to Jake, who smiled.
Molly didn’t.
The lights changed to green. She manoeuvred her car behind the Focus.
‘What?’ Jake curled his lip. ‘Hey, is it Dad’s after all? I thought you said school had to come first.’
‘Not today, Son. Take out your phone.’ She cut into his questioning. ‘Now, please! Call the police. Describe the girl’s car. Tell them we’re following and will continue to give directions. It has a passenger of concern – make that clear.’
387 words
Car
Look at that bloke. Arm out of the window, cigarette in hand. Marks and Sparks polo shirt that his wife bought him. Revving the engine every five seconds; counting down the time until death. And he got the silver car, the GT model. He chose that. He calls it “my car”. But if anybody asks, “We chose it. Me and my lady.”
How old do you reckon? Forty? Forty-five? Yeah, forty-five. He’d describe himself as a working-class lad, I expect, but he hates the poor, and foreigners. Made his stash over the last fifteen years. Maybe he runs a business. Watches the footie at the weekend, might enjoy a pint. But these days he prefers a bottle of Rioja in the evening. And they both sit down with a little plate of Chorizo and some olives.
He favours me with a glance. I say favours, but it’s a blank, contemptuous scan. He sees nothing beyond a car that isn’t made any more. He could tell me all about its three cylinders and rust around the sills. In his eyes, alongside that scorn, I can see his two teenage children. The boy at the local grammar, and the girl doing well at St. Bernadette’s. She’ll be a day student next year if they get the move sorted out.
I understand that in a billion years, his body, with its builder’s physique and tattoos, will still exist. Some of it as energy, but every atom will be somewhere in the universe. Somewhere. But, closer to home, when he dies will his children mourn him? I wonder if he has any talent: painting, writing, sculpture? Ridiculous, but let’s suppose. Will he be remembered in a hundred years? Will people say, “That Wayne Smith made a great contribution to humanity.”? Watching him flick his cigarette away and scratch his humourless nose, I doubt it.
But allowing that he is remembered by somebody, what about two hundred years? For every Dickins, there were a million hopefuls lost in time. A thousand years? Will it matter, in a thousand years, that this man did OK for himself, married that Vickie who all the lads fancied, and has an irrational hatred of anybody not like himself?
With his atoms spread across infinite space in a billion years, will it matter then?
Green light at last! See if I can beat the bastard to the next set.
400
What is this? I turn my back for TWO days and I’m inundated!! ????
Please bear with me. Worked a fifteen hour shift today (with the same tomorrow). I promise to come back with a winner by Monday at the absolute latest x
I knew from the minute I started reading these that judging would be a tricky business…
Thanks all for entering! I love that you each took a perfectly mundane experience – like sitting in traffic – and gave me a fabulous peek into the headspace of your characters.
Ath, straight in there with your character reference of the man in the siler GT. The voice was so authentic, I could easily imagine being a passenger in your car and having this conversation with you. And you know what? I have him pegged with a latent talent in sculpting.
Janette, good to have you back and demonstrating that (seemingly) effortless way you pull together family dynamics. Thought-provoking change of pace at the end and I had to Google the hand signal you described to clarify the meaning.
Libby, this scene played out so beautifully in my mind – like a short film with the two elderly occupants driving off into the sunset (sandwiched between two big lorries). Really, though, you had me with the Noddy car.
Alex, I wasn’t entirely sure what was happening here but loved the exchange between the taxi driver and his passenger.
Sandra, the cheek of that Judy! Glad to see she got what was coming to her in typical, no-nonsense, style.
As expected, any one of these could win but, on this occasion, I’m going with Libby because the journey of the young elderly in the Noddy car keeps popping into my head.
Congratulations, Libby, and thank you Seagreen for such an enticing theme – I had a dozen possibilities in my head, and it was obvious others did too, strong voices all and I was glad not to have to do the judging.
Thank you @Seagreen ! This is a lovely surprise. The standard of entries is so high – I loved all the stories.
Thank you too @sandradavies for your congratulations.
Right, now I must try to think of a comp theme that will be as good as Seagreen’s …
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