Flash Fiction Friday: Riding in the Car at Night

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We have those moments when something--could be anything--connects us to a specific memory. A memory that we wonder why it is even a memory to begin with. It subconsciously sticks with us that years down the road, when it resurrects, we can recall our senses. Someday it will reveal its meaning, but until then we simply reflect on the memory connection. 

Riding In the Car at Night

By,
Jennifer E. Miller

Along the dark highway. Rarely another car in sight. I relax in the seat; the leather conforms to my curves.

Staring through the window, I watch the painted dotted lines tick by to the rhythm of Jim Croce’s soft tunes via the stereo speakers, moving me down the highway. I got a name, too, but I don’t need to say it.

The tires whir over the pavement spinning comforting background noise, like a vinyl record’s static. Sometimes a seam in the road interrupts with a click, as when the needle jumps; skipping lyrics. And just as the song continues to move ahead, I keep rolling down the highway.

I can’t tell if life is passing me by when the light poles repeat like a broken record. They flash by—short, then grow tall as they approach, finally shrinking down, out of sight. Pools of their orangey glow dabble across the windshield, momentarily illuminating my face allowing me to see my own reflection, perhaps like my daddy did, when he drove this route.

I’m headed nowhere; is anyone going my way? It’s a lonely road, and I must be a fool to dream of the pine trees shaking to life, giving me company. But nothing else Jim sings of is awake. It’s night and they all dream, hidden, as I move ahead—pass them by—rolling free down the highway.

Copyright 2018 Jennifer E. Miller