Desert Ride

A Dream

The Milky Way brushed across the sky like God’s spilled paint, gluing itself to the windshield.  By now, they were many miles north of Las Vegas, a whipping trail of dust kicked off the Ford Falcon like a frightened mustang.  No road per se, just piebald desert scrub that a friend had turned them on to.  The beating had depressurized the shocks; the frame bucking metal on metal.  Radio was not on; Sara in the passenger seat beside John presently was mute.  The needle danced on empty.  In the backseat lay a box of crackers, a few quarts of Acqua Panna spring water, a Vogue Magazine dog-tagged to a top ten list of women’s greatest pet peeves, a list she could have just as easily written herself. 

 

Neither were smiling nor any other way, mouths flat as the horizon, having accepted it, whatever that meant; anyone looking in finds only a cold muzzle caressing the temple.  It makes no sense.  Elegant low floating clouds sliced the moon in half along its westward race.  They were in the shape elephants or wildebeests or somewhere in-between, each one sure of it and they argued with each other just using their eyes, as the engine finally sputtered and shut off.  The wheels crunched the cacti grass to a terrible stop.  You could hear the wind.  You could hear the stars burn.  You could hear the doors swing open; their shoes crush into the grit and accelerate into a strange rhythm.  But the dark night quickly swallowed their bodies and they had hundreds of miles to go.

Reviews

[The Analog Kid]

This is kid of interesting how the ending crossed into a surreal image for me and left a lasting impression.