The Great American Scream Machine

The Great American Scream Machine

A Story by Dana Spicer

“That damn squeaking!”

 

It was a complaint she clung to at the moment in an effort to stifle her minds racing.  It was funny how a worn out leaf spring bushing on her ’86 Blazer (normally an annoyance she would have to spend the weekend fixing; she was, after all, the only one that knew how to keep that old Chevy running) could provide her with just the distraction she needed right now.

 

She flew down 537, way faster than anyone should at this time of night.  Her BFG Mud Terrains howled on the pavement and the wind blowing through her topless K5 (she always took the hardtop off in the summer) buffeted her face and dried her tears.  Normally she would be blasting some depressing folk song to drown out her thoughts (Damien Rice always knew just when to scream), but not tonight. 

 

“God, not tonight.”

 

She had gone to see him.  Against every piece of advice she had gotten from friends and family.  Against every sting of conscience and faith.  She knew what she wanted was wrong but she didn’t care and she couldn’t resist anyway.  And it had felt as good as she imagined it.  But the guilt…

 

“That damn squeaking!” she thought as she pushed it further into her gut and let the anger take over.  Her gut responded in turn as the seatbelt grazed her stomach and she felt it through her American Eagle tank top (he always liked that shirt because it “made her tits look good”).  The delicate scar that ran from the base of her sternum to just above her belly button still hadn’t completely healed.  She tightened her grip on the steering wheel with her right hand (35’s and a 4-inch lift tend to make the steering a little squirelly on those old 4x4’s) and gently touched her tender belly.  It was wet.  She brought her fingers to her nose and smelled something she recognized - blood.

 

How had she been so careless? 

 

“I can’t escape him,” she thought.  “Even now, I can’t escape him.”

 

Nevertheless, she drove faster, pressing the pedal down to the floor.  The engine screamed doing all it could with the steep 4.10 gears.  She hit a bump and her cargo shifted with a distinctive thud, thus eliminating the squeaking.

 

“Finally!” she said out loud with a feigned satisfaction.  Now there was nothing to interrupt the stifling drone of the night drive.  She wouldn’t be able to take it much longer.

 

The truck eased to a stop at the intersection of 537 and 539.  It was a little too well lit and she didn’t want anyone to suspect that there was anything wrong.  At least the blood was drying.  That was a good sign.

 

She knew this road like the back of her hand, having traveled it consistently for years.  It was no problem for her to shut off her lights as she pulled into the dirt parking lot in front of Prospertown Lake.  The only illumination at this time of night were the accent lights on the track of the Great American Scream Machine, looming over the lake and casting an eerie reflection on the surface of the water.   She backed right up to the edge.  The water would be good to wash off with after she was done.  As she did her best to heave her cargo off the truck (she was only a hair above 110lbs.) his lifeless arm flopped out and splashed more of his blood on her already soaked shirt.  Great.  Just what she needed. 

 

She struggled with his heavy frame but finally got him in the water.  She was up to her hips before she started filling his jacket with bricks.  It was tedious but he finally sank, and took with him the pain and anguish he had caused her for so long.  She pulled off her bloody shirt and soaking pants after dousing her truck bed with several bucket-fulls of water (thank God for rhino-lining) and jumped in the driver’s seat, taking one final look at the bubbles trickling up out of the water in the spot she laid her love to rest.

 

The ghetto guys in the pimped out Navigator with the New York plates gawked as she pulled up next to them at the light by the Wawa.  She guessed that even in New York it wasn’t everyday you see a girl wearing nothing but a bra while driving a topless pickup.  They were probably making some snide remark about South Jersey girls in their awful “gaba gool” accents.  Feeling freer than ever, she peeled out before they could muster up any courage to open the window and left them behind, subsequently breaking an axle in her weak ten-bolt rear.  She sighed.

 

“A fitting end to this night, I suppose,” a little more loquacious than usual.

 

She got out (in nothing but a bra and panties; the whole world could see her and she wouldn’t mind, knowing that he would never lay eyes on her body again), locked the hubs, dropped her twin-stick NP205 into front wheel drive and limped home.  No sooner had she pulled into the road, her leaf spring bushing started squeaking again.

© 2008 Dana Spicer


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Extremely professional! You can usually tell the difference between a professional and amateur writer based on where they start the story (amateurs typically start from the beginning and professionals, in medias res) and you definitely sound professional. Also, you use very little imagery yet are still able to give the reader a very clear picture of the scenery and mood of the story; another very professional characteristic. My one small complaint is the way you use "way" in the first sentence of the third paragraph ("she flew down 537, way faster . . ."). It sounds a bit on the juvenile side. But that's certainly a very minor problem.

Posted 17 Years Ago


I had so much fun reading this story. I love your beginning; that is one of the more important parts of the reading. Your first task as a writer is to make the reader want to read you. The title does that perfectly. Your next task is to grab the reader and hook him or her into the story, to draw him or her in. Again, your beginning piqued my interest so that I wanted to read more. As I am a southern girl, some of your New Jersey references were initially lost on me. However, it didn't detract from the overall feel of the work. Indeed, it helped to place me more firmly into the story, which is another task as a writer. Like Cassandra, I appreciate the fact that the car-savvy character is female. It's a great twist. Also, I admired the character's strength. It's refreshing to come across a female who's not simply cowering in the corner waiting to be saved. Again, it was a great read and I thank you for sharing it with us.

Posted 17 Years Ago


An interesting spin. I love that the car knowledgeable main character is female .. and It's not like you get surprised with it at the end that this strong and pardon my language "take no s**t " character is female, we are never made to forget that. She is a strong and emotional character full of understanding of the consequences and yet she takes matters into her own hands, whether it be a car giving her trouble or a certain " cargo" ruining her. I also like all the Jersey references. I'm not from Jersey.. I'm a new yorker but I've gone to six flags quite enough to picture the details... and I love the title to this as well.

Posted 17 Years Ago



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Added on February 13, 2008

Author

Dana Spicer
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