I’m moving; I'm through.
I'm alive to do it again.
Friday Flash Fiction |
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I am approaching the intersection, hyperventilating as I press brakes. The steering wheel slips through my sweaty palms. A phantom claw squeezes my heart. A taxi jumps the red light, and scooters swerve before me. Street vendors move through the rows of traffic, pushing their wares. Déjà vu of formerly a smash and grab, shattering glass, my handbag taken. I stare ahead and relock my doors, guiltily ignoring the passing beggar. The light turns green, my gears grind, I stall the car. Hooting and vulgar hand signals directed towards me.
I’m moving; I'm through. I'm alive to do it again.
Paul A. Freeman
25/8/2023 05:56:05 pm
That was me in Lusaka 20 years ago. You tried to time traffic lights to avoid the red. Fortunately, not every country in Africa is like this.
Sue Clayton
29/8/2023 05:15:00 am
My foot was hovering over the accelerator ready to make the charge. Comments are closed.
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"Classic"
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