c. 2003 · Short story — a writer, a driver, and what transfers.
The writer sat at the desk, frowning at the blank screen before him. How many hours had been spent at this desk, in front of the same screen, with the same lack of progress reflecting back at him? Too many, he thought. With a decision as wrenching as initiating divorce, he tore himself from his chair and departed his city home. What I really need is to get out some… Experience a little life. The reason I can’t write right now is because I’ve got nothing to write about! He shrugged his shoulders against the brisk wind and ambled on toward the city library.
The streets were busy with traffic. Cars sped along the roads with a sense of impatience, their drivers focused on getting to their destinations as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, one man’s attention wasn’t focused on the writer crossing the road and hit the brakes far too late to make a difference in the pedestrian’s life.
After the paperwork had been completed, the questions answered, and countless apologies emphasized by the way his lips mouthed the words, “I can’t believe it,” James Culligan collapsed on his bed…his head reeling with the reality that he had crushed a man beneath the wheels of his Ford Bronco… Trampled would be more like it, my vehicle’s name be damned. The thought startled him, since it was so alien to him to think along those lines. He wasn’t a morbid man, or one with any particular streak of creativity, yet it seemed that he was absorbing his surroundings with a new kind of passion, like someone who really wanted to experience life. Weird. He closed his eyes…and opened them wider than he thought possible as he clenched his teeth and turned the steering wheel to the right, simultaneously slamming on the brakes. Oh my god! All he’d done was make a point of smearing the man’s body across two lanes. He leapt from his bed and poured some scotch into a glass of ice. His hand shaking like an invalid’s he carried the glass to a table beside his favorite chair, and sat down. Picking up the remote, he switched the television on.
“And earlier today on Chicago’s Superior Street, accomplished writer William Cunningham, 36 years old, was hit by a Ford Bronco, resulting in a tragic accident that delayed traffic for several hours while police forensics teams investigated the scene. The driver of the Bronco, a James Culligan, 23 years old, claimed Cunningham had ‘come from nowhere.’ Sandy Morris reporting from the Windy City, with NCR News.” He shut off the television did his best to sink in his chair. If only he could fall asleep to wake to a reality where he hadn’t just killed someone. He sat there in silence for an hour, but it only seemed to fatigue him more.
Composed 2003 · part of the Short Stories collection · authorship documented on the Provenance page.