The artwork above is a composite of stock to illustrate the story below. Thanks to [link] [link] , [link]


This is based on a nightmare I had. A lot more happened in the dream, but this is the kernal of it.

-----------------------2008 [link]---

The Truck

Finally the rain stopped and the mud only lasted a day as summer heat gripped the land again. We all had mud on our clothes, thick at the bottom where our socks were, and still holding its own clear up to our necks. It dried, and broke off, but the itchy red-brown of it was there to stay.

That day we found a truck sitting behind an abandoned warehouse on a weedy industrial lot. Dried up green fly bodies were stuck on all over it. It was dusty from months and months of complete disuse, and Dad wondered if he could get it running. It would beat walking, if he could, and it didn’t look as if it would be missed anytime soon. He had some scheme to charge the battery, and he and Michael got busy on that.

Mom and I wanted baths, and drinks, but of course the water was off to the spigot on the boarded-up-building. A few rusty drops came out. That was all. We walked down and sat on the grassiest part of the weedy slope, in the shade of a random piece of concrete, watching cars and trucks go by on the interstate.

I could tell that Mom was mad about this. She would rather hitch than steal, but there wasn’t any point to arguing with Dad.

Time went by and we heard behind us the occasional clang or cuss. Mom just narrowed her eyes and refused to turn her head. But in late afternoon, just as my feet were starting to feel rested, the engine started, and my brother was shouting in triumph.

The contents of the back of the truck were still a mystery because they hadn’t defeated its lock. Dad didn’t want to leave so many prints, so he hadn’t tried too hard. The cab had room for two people and two big stick shifts taking up most of the cab. It smelled musty and faintly evil.

I wanted to ask, why two sticks? and I wanted to ask how they had charged the battery out here in the middle of nowhere, but maybe the battery hadn’t been bad, and anyway, it was started.

I was a girl. Nobody really listened to my questions or fears.


Dad was carrying a rusty old ladder and he leaned it against the side of the truck. He shouted over the engine’s rumble, “Go on, you two, up, so we can get going!”

He had to be kidding. He wasn’t.

Michael scrambled up like an enthusiastic monkey and sat at the center back without a care. “I’m a sultan, and this is my flying carpet!” he declared.

I didn’t want to go up. I wanted to squeeze into the cab with the adults. The bucket seats wouldn’t be comfortable shared, but I couldn’t believe they’d make me ride on top when I was so scared of heights. I argued and fussed, but I lost, and they made me climb that ladder.

Other than some weld lines and some very low-profile hardware, there was nothing to hold on to, and the ladder was already gone. Fly bodies crunched under my knees. I screamed that there was nothing to hold on to! The low sun made me keep my gaze down or behind me.

Already the cab doors were closing. Now they couldn’t hear me over the rumble of the truck. I grabbed the edge of the front of the truck roof. A little light fixture offered just a tiny bit of purchase, but it felt flimsy.

Every little bump set Michael to whooping in excitement. We left the abandoned lot and took to the access road. Then we slowed and stopped for a traffic light. I continued to yell, and my father yelled back that I needed to shut my mouth. Then, piqued, he greeted the green light with harsh acceleration. Michael screamed with me that time.

Now we were on the onramp. I begged Michael to come up to the front, and hold on with me. He was laughing. He didn’t believe he would fall. I knew he would.

Dad was merging, and just by chance, a whole bolus of through traffic had arrived to that place and time with us. Dad adjusted his speed, first slower, then suddenly faster as he shot into the space between cars in the left lane. There was a bump in the road. I screamed. With a look of complete surprise, without a sound Michael slipped off the truck and into the gathering dark behind, and the headlights were coming on, and I didn’t hear anything but the wind battering my ears.

The truck windows were rolled up, despite the heat, so they wouldn’t have to hear us scream. They didn’t know he was gone. Dad drove on unknowing. Mom probably fell asleep. I somehow held on, too shocked to scream anymore. I knew I'd fly forward if he slowed down too suddenly.

I saw the blue lights behind us and felt the light fixtures cutting into the heel of my hands as my father pulled over. He didn't yet know how bad it was really going to be.

Even after the police had pulled us over, and my mother was screaming at the universe, wishing she had never been born, and they opened the back of the truck and showed the news cameras the mummies of two dozen undocumented workers, all I could think about was that I had known all along we could fall, and that history teacher of mine had been right last year when he remarked that he thought that no one should name a child Cassandra.

It’s a terribly unlucky name.

-----------------------2008 [link]---