Date: Tue, 24 Oct 2000 16:54:20 -0400 From: a firm anchor in nonsense Subject: [WRITERS] SUB: CONTEST: The Curve And the contest entries come... Entries and crits to mbarker@Mit.edu (tomorrow we'll do VOTING!) tink The Curve As the yellow lines streaked by the small tan Ford Tempo, Michael glanced up towards the sky. He let his gaze linger there for a moment watching the clouds attempting to consume the moon. Even over the purr of the engine, he could make out the distant rumble of thunder. He assumed that this would be his last look at the great yellow orb tonight. Within minutes nature confirmed his assumption as clear spots of water began randomly peppering his windshield. Though it wasn't really raining hard enough, he switched on the windshield wipers, more from the need to break the incessant boredom of the long drive than anything else. He stifled a yawn and looked over to his wifes sleeping form. She was as beautiful to him today as she was when they first met. Time had done nothing if not magnified her beauty. Oh, there were a few crows feet around the edges of her electric blue eyes, but these only served to lend an air of royalty to her features, a sense of eternal beauty. Then his tired gaze wandered to the rear view mirror, to the image of his 2 year old daughter, also fast asleep in the baby seat that she was securely strapped into. Kendra was the greatest gift that Mary had ever given him. His life had been completed with Kendra's birth. All had been right in the world since that day. "Damn," Michael swore softly as his gaze finally settled back on the windshield. While he had been preoccupied with his family the wipers had mixed the increasingly heavy rain with the dust and bug remains that had already caked the window. He strained to see through the translucent film, but the world flying by at 55 miles per hour was little more than a blur. His road weary mind snapped to attention as he saw the outline of someone standing beside the road in the rain. He jerked his head to peer into the rear view mirror, but he saw no one in the darkness that followed them. He dismissed the shadowy figure as nothing more than a creation of eyes that had been open for way too many miles. With a flick of his wrist Michael activated the windshield washer fluid. The two streams of blue fluid almost instantly freed the muck on his window, the wipers slapping it away. Now that he could clearly see the black ribbon stretched out before the car, he relaxed a bit. He eased down on the accelerator, putting the vehicle at a smooth sixty miles-per-hour. Michael was eager to get to the hotel. He could have stopped three hours ago, but he opted instead for making the extra miles. His exhausted body told him that this was a mistake, but he knew he would be happier for it when they got to the resort three hours earlier. He had been working hard for the last year with the firm so he could treat his family to this vacation, and he wanted to get the most out of it. As the small car sped by a yellow sign with a big S on it, the rain began to subside. Driving after dark was not one of Michaels strong points, and he absolutely despised wet roads. He stifled yet another powerful yawn. Up ahead the twin beams of his headlights showed the upcoming curve. Gently, he patted the brakes bringing the car down to a speed that his subconcious mjnd, thought was right to maneuver the wet curve. He passively noticed the reflective yellow and black arrows that highlighted the curve as he slowly turned the wheel to the right. With a sudden pang of panic in his stomach, he realized that he was going too fast to hold the road. His heartbeat roaring in his ears, he slammed his foot onto the breaks. With a moist scream, the spinning wheels lost traction. He felt the sudden jolt that sent his face smashing into the window. For an eternal second, his world consisted of nothing but the agonizing pain that seemed to have latched onto his head. Even through the fear and the pain he was dimly aware that the car had tore through the shiny aluminum guard rail. The halo of hurt that seemed to have settled onto his skull had receded just enough for him to feel the little car bounce roughly down the embankment and finally slam into an ancient elm tree. Michael layed there for awhile, his body hurting too much to move, but in a moment, it seemed to stop. Gradually, his vision cleared. He was laying in the mud, five men standing over him. He looked at them, their sad regretful eyes immediately grabbing his addled attention. Something awful had happened. He could see it clearly in their faces. Gently, the men helped him to his feet. He looked at their faces again. Who were these men? And why were they looking at him like this? Where was he? Then, when his mind could no longer block out the truth, he remembered the wreck. "Mary," he whispered as he turned to run towards the jagged guard rail at edge of the road. Two of the younger men grabbed his arms as the oldest one stepped in front of him. He struggled to get loose, but the men were strong, and his body had been through too much tonight to resist those young muscles. "You've lost her Mr. Sumner. I'm sorry," the old man said, the same regret echoing in his voice that Michael had seen in his eyes. "We're all sorry," one of the men holding him reiterated sadly. "No! Oh dear God no," Michael sobbed, going limp in the younger mens grip. The men raised him back to his feet and the strong arms that had held him back now held him up. "Kendra...what about my baby? Is she..." "I'm sorry Mr. Sumner," he replied, his eyes dropping to the ground. "No. This isn't happening," he said softly, his fragile mind adamently refusing to accept the stranger's words. "I...I know how hard this is for you Mr. Sumner. We've all lost someone here." Michael slowly raised his tear blurred eyes to meet the old mans. It took him a moment to actually realize what he had said. "What? What..do you mean," he said, his body racked with a series of undeniable sobs of anguish. "The wreck, it isn't your fault. It's this place," the old man said opening his arms to indicate the area around them. "I don't understand," Michael replied, his eyes wandering back to the torn railing. "Every other twenty seventh Sunday someone crashes here, on this spot. Eight years ago it was me. I lost both of my sons. Donnie there lost his wife, John his fiance'. Gerald lost his best friend two years ago. And probably the most tragic of us all is Frank over there. The little guy next to him is his son Brad. Brad lost his mama and his twin sister to this damned curve." Michael looked to the little boy peeking around one of the mans legs. The child could have been no older than eight. He looked around the circle of men, pulling his arms free from the two younger ones. "You knew. You all knew, and you didn't stop me," Michael said, his voice rising with sudden rage. "We tried Mr. Sumner, we really did," said the one called Frank. Michaels mind flashed back to the figure standing beside the road. Had the silhouette been waving his arms? He wasn't sure. "You could have tried harder! It wouldn't have killed you to block the road or something Dammit! My family....," Michaels words trailed off as he fell to his knees, the tears once again mixing with the rain on his cheeks. "He doesn't understand," Michael heard Jerald softly say. Michael jumped to his feet, hot words of fury poised on the tip of his tongue. But, he stopped as he heard a womans cry from over the embankment. "Mary," he whispered. Suddenly the two young men were holding him again, their deathlike grips renewed. "What are you doing! Let me go, she's not dead," he screamed jerking vainly to free his arms. "You don't want to go down there Mr. Sumner," Donnie said as he stepped forward, "I made that mistake ten years ago." "But she's not dead!" Frank walked closer to Michael and laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "No Mr. Sumner, she's not. you are."