My writing sister and close freind, Jan Morrill challenges us every week to “show not tell” with a writing prompt on her blog, Jan Morrill’s Thoughts Over Coffee. blogspot.com.. This week’s test comes from this picture. Too long to put in the comments of her blog, my story is as follows:
Spooky that’s what it is. Down- right spooky.
I shouldn’t have stayed so long at the party.
Shouldn’t have drunk “just one more.” What did they care all safe and snug in the warmth of their beds? I’m the one that has to drive home in the wee, small hours of the morning—alone.
Damn trees, so friendly in the daylight, but in the dark—ominous, live spirits. Their naked bodies and skeleton arms reach out to catch the door handle of my weary yet spunky, baby-shit- green VW bug. Hit the gas! Ha! Missed me. Long, brittle fingers only rake the fender.
Heart pounding now, blood roaring in my ears, I check the rear-view mirror praying for pin pricks of light to appear, to reassure me I haven’t fallen into some scene straight out of the Twilight Zone. Home is only a few miles away. But the road stretches before me like a slimy, slippery black snake. Will it never end? Even the full moon is evil, hanging there in the inky sky—one giant orange eye keeping pace with me as I speed even faster down the serpentine road.
What’s that? High beams catch an iridescent glow and reflect back in a blinding, white light. A person? A deer? Big Foot ? All shimmering and silver the little figure glides toward me. Slam on the brakes! Screeching like a banshee from hell, smelling like black, hot tar they catch hold. The seat beat locks, snaps me flat against the faded, Tinker Bell seatcover.
The little grey stares. Huge, onyx eyes shine like glassy black orbs in the night.
A terrified heart hammers my ribs fighting to escape my heaving chest. Guts twist into knots. Sweat pops on my forehead.
A light so brilliant my eyes ache pierces the dark. An eighteen-wheeler! A blessed truck driver! I’m saved.
An eerie deathly- silent yet haunting hum. Then nothing!
Blackness surrounds me. No little gray man. Gone.
Reality or imagination?
Somewhere Rod Serling is laughing.