Abstract image of speeding on the highway at night.After the diagnosis, Aunt Jessie quit teaching and bought a racecar, oxy-white, a real hot ride. I sat shotgun down to Miami so Jessie could street-race for pink slips. You need a second in that scene, a hostage: keeps you honest with your wager. I sat on the curb with the other gal’s kid. The big man laid a gun against my skull and stared Jessie down through her windshield. The trigger pulled with a noise like Jesus come, but it was only the starting pistol; Jessie flew off down the road—engine roar, dust cloud, each moment losing ground.


Maria Zoccola is a Southern writer working in nonprofit. BA Emory University, MA Falmouth University. Read her in Lunch Ticket, Gris-Gris, Exposition Review, and elsewhere.

Photo Credit: Zach Gingg

2 Responses to “Drive”

  1. greg says:

    I had an imagine in my head while reading this.

  2. Sally Smith says:

    Oh my! I thought someone was going to get shot! Great job of keeping me on the edge of my seat wanting to see what happens next.

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