Short Fiction
to drive any further. Only forty miles from the diner, the light outside is already changing, but she can’t wait for a gas station. She must rest. She exits the highway onto a small road and stops at what appears to be a meadow. Dry, brown grass. Stalks of runaway wheatgrass. A gray house faces the road further along, at the edge of the clearing. But Anne stays where she is, inching the car into the grass and nosing the Honda alongside two straggly bushes. Branches scratch against the windshield. When the engine quiets down she places both hands on the steering wheel and takes a deep breath. She can smell the dew damp fields outside. She takes another breath, pulling the air deep into her lungs and feeling the swell of her chest cavity. She rests her forehead against the steering wheel. Anne crawls into the back seat with her forty-four years and ten superfluous pounds, her fragile anger and perfectly healthy breasts. She lies down on the back seat and spreads her coat across her lower back and side. She cradles what is left of her mother and closes her eyes to wait for the day.
Atticus Review│Get Lit: Round 1
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