Jarred tapped the steering wheel in time to the drumbeat, as his black Ford Mustang cruised down the desert road, blaring heavy metal. Dust trailed him, clouding the view in his mirror. The song’s rhythm wasn’t doing much to cut his boredom. It wasn’t a particularly good one. It was however, the only track on the CD, given to him by a friend who’d told him he needed some decent road music. Sometimes he really hated Tristan’s sense of humour.

His eyes scanned the horizon, running over the border between desert and sky blankly until they alit on something curious. It grew as he drove nearer, slowly morphing from a curious, small, black speck into an even more curious, tall, black girl.

Published in
Something Wicked Issue 10