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Drive


by Christian Bell


We pushed through the countryside, blowing through stop signs and traffic lights.  We were a steel tornado marking a pathway of crumpled signs and leaves.   The police followed us for awhile but eventually they gave up because we were in the 200s and beyond, faster than racing cars, the speedometer needle maxed out and convulsing at its limit.  I was the one writing things down and not driving.  The driver didn't wanted to be known, but I can tell you that this person was a she, and she drove with a confidence that she didn't display in the rest of her life, hands firmly on the wheel but not clutching it, eyes straight ahead scanning the left and right sides as needed.  I wanted to tell you about our relationship but she insisted that I not write this one down and I obeyed.  I'm a writer, penning what I hope are fantastic tales of worlds not known, but she's the one that came up with this.  We reached such a fast speed that the world started to blur, the green country fields like strokes of paint on a wall.  We broke the sound barrier.  Outside was sun-bleached white.  The fuel gauge hit empty long ago.  She stopped driving; instead, we kissed.  The car still going.  Faster and faster.  The kiss was electricity.  Her skin tingled.  I could feel the hum of the world's electronics coursing through me.  I wasn't supposed to tell you about the kiss but there it is.  It lasted for both years and nanoseconds.  Eventually the car blew apart and we landed in a field somewhere, both of us clutching each other, car debris scattered and buried for miles.  We didn't know where we were.  We walked an unknown road in the dark for hours until we reached lights.  I'm not supposed to tell you we found a motel room and stayed there for two nights, created a fantastic tale of a world not known, but I can't help myself.  That last morning I woke up and she was gone.  She left me a note that I'm not supposed to tell you about.  And I won't.  I stayed in the room until I couldn't smell her anymore.  I knew I would never see her again, that I would spend years thinking about her, brilliant exploded light in the sky, writing things about her, wasting words about something long gone.  To describe her, she said, don't use the word supernova.  So I won't.

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