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Paranormal Excerpt of the day
From "Looking Down the Road." Unpublished.
The traffic did its mechanical dance, a slow waltz of vehicles out here in the country which could turn into a brutally fast polka in city rush hours. Me, I drove. I drove and kept time for that dance.
The road ran clear ahead, and I sent my mind flying along the black ribbon. There. Up near mile marker thirty-five. I Saw the big green rig tangle up with the kid who'd fallen asleep at the wheel. Lurid emergency lights flashed over a bodybag. Not good. A death meant a driver might never work again, or want to. A lot lost their nerve if they killed someone. I checked the other timeline. The kid ditched it and got a concussion.
I ran the same lanes all the time and I recognized that rig, as well as its purple aura. There weren't too many voudunists on the road this far north. I flipped the CB to channel seven and sang out. “Yo, Phillippe! That you in the big green rig?”
“Hey, bébé!” Phillippe's New Orleans Creole poured out of the CB like fresh praline sauce. “You got a load today?”
“Yeah. Look, pull off at thirty-two. You got a sleepyhead gonna hitch a ride on your ICC bumper if you don't.”
“You sure? Look-ahead gals ain't always right, bébé.”
“Voodoo man, if you want to dig another pouch of graveyard dirt instead of looking at it being piled on a college kid's face, you'll get off at the rest area. Listen to the witch with the capital B.”
Phillippe laughed over the CB. “But if you make me late, you getting snakes in your truck, cheri.”
“I'll take that risk. Better'n you doing time for manslaughter.”
“Pulling off to the rest area now.” I saw his signal lights come on as he headed off the ramp.
“Good man. Your sleepyhead just passed that exit and is heading on.” I breathed a little easier. “Give him about ten minutes.”
“Merci, bébé. Next week, I'll bring you something nice from my auntie. Love potion, maybe?” He laughed and a couple other truckers in range laughed with him. Seers tended to stay unattached. Family life was hard enough by itself, but adding in the Sight made it worse. There was a reason my family had a five generation history of madwomen.
“Thanks, but no thanks, pal. Rootwork generally goes bad in my hands, especially that kind. I'm just a cranky old Celt and I'll stick to Seeing.”
“Take care, cheri,” Phillippe said.
I kicked my cruise up a few miles an hour and passed the kid, who was starting to weave, at mile marker thirty-four. I watched in the rear-view as he drifted off the shoulder and into the ditch. Another 911 call. I really hoped I wouldn't be making too many more. Two lives saved for this one.
“Phillippe, you can get back on the road, sugar. He's safe.”
No answer. Phillippe was in the restroom or reading the informative plaque about the Trail of Tears. Upward and Onward, or at least Northward.
The traffic did its mechanical dance, a slow waltz of vehicles out here in the country which could turn into a brutally fast polka in city rush hours. Me, I drove. I drove and kept time for that dance.
The road ran clear ahead, and I sent my mind flying along the black ribbon. There. Up near mile marker thirty-five. I Saw the big green rig tangle up with the kid who'd fallen asleep at the wheel. Lurid emergency lights flashed over a bodybag. Not good. A death meant a driver might never work again, or want to. A lot lost their nerve if they killed someone. I checked the other timeline. The kid ditched it and got a concussion.
I ran the same lanes all the time and I recognized that rig, as well as its purple aura. There weren't too many voudunists on the road this far north. I flipped the CB to channel seven and sang out. “Yo, Phillippe! That you in the big green rig?”
“Hey, bébé!” Phillippe's New Orleans Creole poured out of the CB like fresh praline sauce. “You got a load today?”
“Yeah. Look, pull off at thirty-two. You got a sleepyhead gonna hitch a ride on your ICC bumper if you don't.”
“You sure? Look-ahead gals ain't always right, bébé.”
“Voodoo man, if you want to dig another pouch of graveyard dirt instead of looking at it being piled on a college kid's face, you'll get off at the rest area. Listen to the witch with the capital B.”
Phillippe laughed over the CB. “But if you make me late, you getting snakes in your truck, cheri.”
“I'll take that risk. Better'n you doing time for manslaughter.”
“Pulling off to the rest area now.” I saw his signal lights come on as he headed off the ramp.
“Good man. Your sleepyhead just passed that exit and is heading on.” I breathed a little easier. “Give him about ten minutes.”
“Merci, bébé. Next week, I'll bring you something nice from my auntie. Love potion, maybe?” He laughed and a couple other truckers in range laughed with him. Seers tended to stay unattached. Family life was hard enough by itself, but adding in the Sight made it worse. There was a reason my family had a five generation history of madwomen.
“Thanks, but no thanks, pal. Rootwork generally goes bad in my hands, especially that kind. I'm just a cranky old Celt and I'll stick to Seeing.”
“Take care, cheri,” Phillippe said.
I kicked my cruise up a few miles an hour and passed the kid, who was starting to weave, at mile marker thirty-four. I watched in the rear-view as he drifted off the shoulder and into the ditch. Another 911 call. I really hoped I wouldn't be making too many more. Two lives saved for this one.
“Phillippe, you can get back on the road, sugar. He's safe.”
No answer. Phillippe was in the restroom or reading the informative plaque about the Trail of Tears. Upward and Onward, or at least Northward.