Thems the brakes.
Thank goodness they work, for Pete's sake.
Driving to work, my place is not far.
I wiped off the snow, scraped off the ice, and hopped in my car.
I slow down before a turn, as I see a Civic coming in hot.
Parked for a moment, the Civic slams into the roundabout's spot.
Seeing frantic drivers arriving late, is nothing bizarre.
About the Creator
Thavien Yliaster
Thank You for stopping by. Please, make yourself comfortable. I'm a novice poet, fiction writer, and dream journalist.
Keep reading
More stories from Thavien Yliaster and writers in Poets and other communities.
A Destination Needs A Dreamer
Gatlin heard the violin every evening on the commute back from work. Wending between warm rushing bodies on the subway, eyes forward, bag clasped protectively at her side, she drank it in at the same time as she didn't slow. It was probably the best part of her day. The shivering strains crescendoed and collapsed, tugging at something in her core. She'd never seen the violinist, but whoever he was, he was clearly a master, clearly professionally trained. The music always seemed to be coming from somewhere further down the track, around a bend, just out of eyeshot. She'd come to think fancifully that it was something only she could hear. Sheโd come to think of it as her future, calling.
By Raistlin Allen4 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.