Tag Archives: Driving
More Road Stories
When you get to the other end of town, outside the town proper and past the furthest reach of the shadows of the giant oaks, the sky opens up and the buildings fall away. But you are still not safe; in fact, you are in more jeopardy here. The broad horizons make you feel you are safely out of the grip of the town, but Wellington has one last surprise for you. Continue reading
Search The Sky
The machine was now under its own power, and I could let up on the starter. The sharp quivers of the start-up faded away into a smooth, soothing hum as the main motors came online. Lisa was already in the captain’s chair, ready to fly us out. And perhaps that was a little dishonest, taking our ship like this. But there was no one to check out with. And it was part of our original deal here.… we had not pawned our flying saucer, just sort of lent it to him. Continue reading
Mashed Potatoes
The cost and implications of changing the viaduct to an overpass was studied, committeed, investigated, briefed, rebudgeted, open-housed and town-halled ad infinitum, with no decisive conclusion ever drawn. So, like any good idea over-thought, nothing was done or changed; the dip remained a legacy to bureaucratic indecisiveness that cost Utahans in every storm ever since. Ultimately, we– the men and women looking at the accident from the embankment on the side– made the decision not to fix the flooded viaduct in front of us. We would not fund the fix, nor force the nameless, faceless, spineless pen pushers to be responsible and do the right thing. Continue reading
Can’t Quite Go Home Again
I have no real drive to smoke this cigarette at all, but I smoke it anyway. It tastes good, and I can feel the power of the nicotine coursing through my veins. I like it, it feels great, it feels like old times. I am scared because I like it so much. Bonnie comes over to me and offers me a cigarette. I decide to grab one for later… in fact, I grab two. Bonnie is surprised. Continue reading
Dave’s Deliverence
The scissors cut some, but other treads just slipped through the blades. Many of the strings were snarled with strands from other seams, too. My shorts were a tangled mess of threads from everywhere. The more fiber I sliced with the nearly-worthless scissors, the more I found I needed to cut. Continue reading
