Short Story / Off Road
Drums pounded out the rhythmic beat of Sammy Hagar’s “I Can’t Drive 55” loud enough to shake the foundation of the scrap heap Kyle called a car. Electric guitars shredded the edges of his synapses, like cutting the tips of a nerve with a fiery metallic sound. This, needless to say, only seemed to fuel a rebellious nature which had taken hold of him.
The green glow of a CD player’s display illuminated his face in a sickly light. It was the kind of aqua color that can only be found in a shallow world, shaded with tints of broken reality, and hubris. Similar blue colors ran throughout his dashboard, accompanied by reds and icons of orange, but none were quite as bright as that single image of a track number. By that same token, nothing else would seem to lighten the Nevada highway in the manner of the Oldsmobile with utterly useless head lights.
Dull, black paint scuffed from years of neglect, concealed Kyle’s car. Save for hubcaps, and the reflection of the moon in the windshield, it was invisible. Pitch black consumed the desert and its road. Two joined circles of light scanned the ancient tar and faded yellow lines. Yellow-orange sand expanded in either direction from the highways sides, all barren waste land minus the occasional cacti or grouping of shrubs. Visible dust created a haze in the air, thickening the environment.
However, the darkness and strange air of the location did not way on Kyle’s mind. The deep rage of his fight, not one hour past, stayed fresh, shutting out the universe. If anything, the attributes of this night only presented a target to vent his anger on. Who did she think she was? Some kind of saint?
A broken neon-colored sign warned about something ahead, of some forgotten public works project, but Kyle paid no attention. If he had, he might have noticed the luminous eyes watching him roar past.
Hagars metal classic wound to a close, and, for the first time, Kyle knew how truly quiet his ride was. Broken only by the rushing of wind, a blunt course sound, the silence began to creep in.
A sudden wind swept sand onto the cracked dark, sticky surface of the road. Now, the yellow perforated line which divided the highway disappeared. The desolation was complete.
Blindly, Kyle stretched out his right arm groping for the correct switch. Leaning forward on the steering wheel, the probing fingers began to find knobs. His radio clicked on, but this far out, there was nothing to be heard.
Only the aqua-green lights kept him company. God, it was lonely. Every ghost story he had ever heard surfaced, slowly as though they were droplets of water, dripping in reverse, as to defy gravity. Word by word they arose, like dead leaving their graves. Kyle would catch strange details, like the echoes of children’s laughter, deep inside of them.
Anything was better than the macabre tales, which seemed to reach out to and scratch the tip of conciseness. Yet, despite his best efforts to forget these lurid remnants of memory, they persisted in displaying grotesque images to Kyle’s mind’s eye. There were so many of them, images of blood, and loss, and dark roads. Eventually, they grouped, and coagulated into a single incoherent vision, linked by the random segues of similar horrors. Kyle couldn’t help it as the train of thought came full circle. Was this one of those stories?
Ice ran through every one of his veins as he contemplated that idea. Or, perhaps, the temperature of the car’s cabin had simply fallen. Often times, the desert would drop to a freezing climate once the scorching sun had disappeared from it’s post as the lone object in a sky as desolate as the land it hung over.
Kyle’s St. Christopher medal dropped to the dashboard with the crisp stiletto, sound of a breaking chain and the dull, organic thump of metal on a soft material. Strangely enough the fall, for some reason, had pulled the rearview into a downward facing position. Kyle didn’t notice at first as he made a much-too-late grab for the engraved silver oval. He swore under his breath at the bad luck, and was no more pleased to discover the new angel of his mirror. Kyle placed his thumb on the glass surface, and his index and middle fingers on the thin plastic back. A quick jerk tore the rearview into rightful position, revealing two yellow orbs, wild with animal excitement and ferocious hunger, surrounded by crusted leather skin.
Kyle whirled around in his seat to face the inky blackness of an empty car.
Reluctant to face away from the abyss, he set his eyes back on the highway.
Just outside the taillights field of vision, two arms pumped, seeming to propel forward a long thin form. Minutes passed in silence. Kyle ran his hand through his thick brown hair, it came back wet. Now, the sickness of fear threatened to expel itself as the contents of Kyle’s stomach. With each breath, the fear grew stronger.
A recognizable shape materialized in the distance, like a messiah clearing the darkness. Metal legs supported a tarnished mint-green rectangle. Most of the letters were gone form ages of decay, but it was readable. “Gas Station Five Miles”, the sign sent waves of warm relief through his body. Only five miles to go. Weary eyes returned to an impermeably black roadway, hopeful of an end to this night. All was consumed by colorless nightfall once more.
The headlights dimmed.
”Not now! Please, not now!” Kyle begged the car, and in some strange way it must have heard him, for, it didn’t die. The motor’s roar became a soft sputtering, but continued.
The adjoined circles of light found something new. A black hand with long curled fingers and an outstretched thumb encroached on the road. His headlights caught the face only once, and it was enough. A pair of yellow luminous eyes set within the misshapen head of a wolf with mange appeared just as the orbs devoid of life and thought in the back seat had been, vivid against the dark matted fur and pinkish splotches of leathery skin. The body of a long, thin man trailed the grisly head, draped in what seemed to be a trench coat.
No words penetrated Kyle’s frantic mind, only the instinct to run. There was an audible sound when the gas hit the floor, just barely audible over the sound of the engine dying.
The sun shone brightly on the car. It was a dull black Oldsmobile covered in yellow orange dust from the sand storm the night before. The driver’s side door hung open to full extension. White noise poured from the broken radio which, even in the bright of noon, gave a pale green glow. The sheriff had seen plenty of abandon cars in his work, usually by the roadside, though. Seldom did a driver abandon his vehicle in front of a 24 hour gas station in a hostel environment. Oh well…
Later that night, a woman from a nearby town would report seeing a young man in his late teens, covered in dried blood, trying to hitch a ride, a large black dog at his heels.
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However, the darkness and strange air of the location did not way on Kyle’s mind.
“Weigh” not “way.”
Kyle’s St. Christopher medal dropped to the dashboard with the crisp stiletto, sound of a breaking chain…
I think the word you mean is staccato. A stiletto is a knife, not a sound, and no comma is needed there. Where did the medal fall from, how and why?
Seldom did a driver abandon his vehicle in front of a 24 hour gas station in a hostel environment.
Hostile.
You only tell half of this story. You’ve got loads and loads of metaphor and description, but only skirt the action. You paint a vivid picture of the inside of the car at first, but you tell us little about Kyle or what he is angry about and what he is later fleeing from. You seem more interested in the blue light emanating from his Hagar-playing CD player than you do about anything else in this story.
You imply action around, but not through, your metaphor. And some of it is mixed. A metal medal falling on a plastic dashboard isn’t going to give you an organic sound.
When real action does happen, you blank out, leaving us in the next day with a sheriff and a rumour about a young man and a black dog.
You show lots of things passively, but neglect telling all but the barest bones of the story. You need to correct the balance here.
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December 08, 2006
Deleted User
Hagars metal – Hagar’s metal. The rest of the sentence that follows doesn’t need the commas. It would read nicely and easily without them. That aside, a pretty good piece of writing here. Good description the dahboard and of the roadside gas station sign.
The first and second paragraph are a good, strong, highly descriptive introduction into the narrative. The use of colour as describing mood is impressive. I feel that the third paragraph starts to become too much in terms of description without seemingly contributin to the events of the story unfolding – i.e. -it doesnt tell us muc, I don’t see why it is necessary.
‘did not way on Kyle’s mind’ – I think you mean ‘weigh’
There is an issue here with narrative flow. This is also evident if we stand back from the piece and look at the body of text – mostly the paragraphs consist of two three sentences. I think it would benefit the story if some of these paragraphs are brought together and made to flow into one another. In a sense the reader should not become aware of the full stops in the text, but be immersed in the story all the time.
‘course sound’ – coarse sound
‘Often times’ – ‘many times’ or ‘often’
‘The adjoined circles of light found something new.’ – considering what comes ater this sentence, I think ‘found’ is probably the wrong word here. Found sounds like finding a coin in the street, not a beast on a dark road. ‘Found’ is an understatement.
I didn’t see the relevance of the man’s thoughts about the woman who thinks she is a saint mentioned in the beginning of the narrative – the story never referred to it again. I suppose it is superfluous.
Other than thee minor points, a good little story.
Whilst i like your descriptive aproach. i think it does go on too long at the begining.
You spelled way on Kyles mind should of been weighed.
Forgotten public works project. why was it forgotten. was this line really needed.
I think you could of described the crash and how the dog was looking for an owner. I think you describe it as a wolf earlier. I think you should stick with it as a dog description to tie in with the ending.
I think you need to create a hint of horror in the beggining of the story to hook the reader as this occurs only after three or four para’s.
other than that not a bad story, just needs a bit more work
Kind of confusing sometimes but written quite well i must say. Also i got to add that commas are your friend. You could use just a few more in some spots you make it more understandable but otherwise. GREAT Job! It reminds me of Dean Koontz… So good job!
pertty good story, some of your imagery and descriptions were great.
the crisp stiletto, sound of a breaking… this really struck me.
one small grammatical thing, towards the end hostel should be hostile
good job and keep writing
November 30, 2006
Deleted User
Wow! You’ve got a way with description and vivid imagery. This was a great read all the way through. I noticed perhaps a couple of typos or errors but I leave them to the spelling/punctuation police. Otherwise I wouldn’t change anything. Oh, but can I borrow the dog?
Well written and precisely descriptive. The reader becomes a passenger sitting shotgun in the Oldsmobile. I had to reread a couple chapters over again to make sense of what was happening. ie. the rearview mirror scene and whether it was Kyle’s imagination or something really in the back seat. Perhaps that could be more clearly defined for the dense. (like me) A couple of misspells, but we all do that. A “form” instead of “from” and not sure if “hostel” was supposed to be “hostile” or a play on words, since hostel could actually work there nicely. Well done and write on!
Sincerely,
J.L. Campbell
www.jlcampbellbooks.com
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