Drive
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.
Photo Credit: Zach Gingg
I had an imagine in my head while reading this.
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.