When his thin face hurled over the hood of her startled car, her body tightened. In that moment, the victims were joined as one: two disparate souls leaving abandoned families and friends, desperate to understand why.
The car door opened, a stranger, etched as witness to her demise, yanked her shoulder.
“Is he dead?”
“Not your fault. Let’s get you out.”
Tugged from the car, the woman blundered forward and collapsed into the soggy roadside bushes.
Flashing lights started the darkness; discordant noises ripped the stillness.
“Where’s the driver?” a man shouts.
“On the curb.”
“Get out of here with that camera.”
* * * * * * * *
Next morning, while crunching her cereal, a blurry photo traps Sandra’s eyes. Front-page center, a frail figure— headlined as “Devastated Driver”—is shown collapsed by the roadside, head in hands.
The reader is immobilized.
Now is not the time for good cheer or hugs: solace only for trivial events like wounds or stolen property. This is the moment to circle from the raging storm like buffalo, heads together, snorting and puffing steamy breath, against the force of fate.
Sandra yearned to pull the “Devastated Driver” into the circle, and would have, had she but known her name.
About the contributor: Melodie Corrigall is an eclectic Canadian writer who has been published in Blue Lake Review, S/tick, Halfway Down the Stairs, The Dirty Pool, Greensilk Journal, and Corner Bar Magazine.