UK Bank Holiday Weather (CC BY 2.0)

Glad to be getting back into the Flash Fiction swing of things again and this is probably my favorite of my most recent forays.

Traffic Jam was the central theme for Microcosms 34. After spinning the writing wheel, I had to incorporate the following:

Character: Driver                              Location: Roadway                           Genre: Horror

I received Second-Runner Up for this piece; you can read AJ Walker’s winning piece by clicking here.

IcanIcanIcan’t breathe, I can’t bre—bre—bre breathe. A busy chest, a busy street. Blasting horns, breaths like land mines. Too many cars, too many cars. Someone’s dead, I just know it. Know it. Knowit knowit knowit. Wagons twist into tanks. Fuming motorists pop cigs between their lips. Smoke billows. Car-bomb aftermath. Terrorists mount motorcycles, buried behind masks. Gas masks. Chemical weapons. Roll the window up, roll the window up. Turn off the a/c. Close the vents. Sidewalk jackhammers answer assault rifles. Screams and outside shouts. Shut it out, shut it out. Radio. Radio. Turn on the radio. Fingers fumble. Dials dilate. Hip-hop. No. Jazz. No. Something jagged, something heavy, something sharp. Something punishing. Outside must match inside. Death metal? Death metal. Swedish death metal. Hypocrisy. Grave. Entombed. At the Gates. Play the playlist. List the names. Jonny. Frankie. Gumbo, Jay-Jay, and Earle. Jonny, Frankie, Gumbo, Jay-Jay, and Earle. Castigating bass; gunshot drum. Growls and snarls and screams from the monstrous depths that is war, that is life, that is life after war. Whistles, sharp and wicked. Inch car forward, forward, forward. Stop. Dead bodies, carnal bodies, limbs and severations. Jonny. Gumbo. Jay-Jay. Earle. And…and…and…Frankie. Whew. Shells and mortars and missiles. Exploding speakers. Concussive chords. Daze after day after day. Nothing real but this. Nothing else but this. Whistles, sharp and wicked. Inch car forward, forward, forward. Stop. Man with gun, waving, waving, directing. Open the glove box. Pull out the gun. They won’t get me this time, not like they got Jonny and Frankie and Gumbo and Jay-Jay and Earle.

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