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

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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

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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

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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

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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

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