by Terry Phillius

           Carl didn’t see the raccoon flash in the glow of his headlights as they traversed the slick mountain pavement much too quickly to be safe. He never heard the squeal of tires as his ’78 MG skidded through graveled corners at every turn, knocking dirt and rocks loose and sending them flying over the often straight drop-offs of the narrow canyon road. He didn’t see the wipers vainly slapping away a torrent of rain as it dumped from the stormy midnight sky. All he could see and hear was her.

            Twenty miles behind him he heard a song come on the radio that reminded him of their first kiss. As he tore through the canyon he nearly ran a white Mazda Miata off the road that had been coming the other way; what she used to drive. It was only quick reflexes of the other driver that saved them both. Carl never heard the horn honking nor did he see the finger raised at him in anger as they passed each other in the night.

            “Wouldn’t that have been ironic,” was all Carl thought to himself cynically, selfishly, as he continued racing through the night.

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This story in its entirety is currently under review in the Zoetrope Short Story Contest.