A Contribution

At long last I will post the first contribution. It probably shouldn't be called 'a contribution, considering that I threatened to pour endless amounts of black sambucca(?) down Will's throat, if he wouldn't let me post his story.
The end of another week, which means even less time.
Here it is.

The Worst News Drove Him Round the Beyond

By Will Dowling

Mirror, signal, manoeuvre and the car moved off easily in first gear. Rodney shifted in the passenger seat, adjusted his instructor’s mirror and said:

“Good.”

I drove on.

Rodney said, “Ok, now just follow the road ahead and take a left at the end.”

I followed the road ahead and took a left at the end. We drove past a chip shop, a newsagents, a post office, three fat women pushing prams in a procession of obese poverty, a gang of idiots standing on the pavement in baggy clothes and hooded tops smoking and gesticulating and proving nothing to themselves and the world. The sky spread grey carpet behind black tower blocks. Rodney said something about the weather.

“Yes, miserable,” I murmured.

We approached a roundabout.

“Turn right at the roundabout taking the third exit; the third exit.” said Rodney.
I turned right at the roundabout taking the third exit; the third exit. I didn’t really want to drive. It angered me.

“Yes, my wife’s six months pregnant now,” said Rodney, continuing a conversation that had never started.
“Really? That’s great,” I said, not interested, but pretending to be.

I drove past a nun, a homeless girl and two policemen. The rain started. I flicked on the windscreen wipers on slow to middling. I approached traffic lights and braked the car. We drove slowly up behind a builder’s white van. Written in big black letters over the big back doors of the van were the words: Allan Poe and Sons, Builders and Plumbers. Life felt dead.

The lights turned orange, green and I continued. I slipped the car into second, into third. The builder’s white van turned left and disappeared down another sad street. Ahead of me lay straight, characterless road.

“Now use your fourth gear; it’s an economical gear,” said Rodney.
I used my fourth gear; it’s an economical gear. I drove past a thin man holding a small tree, past a group of depressed school children, past an old lady in a wheelchair being pushed by a hairy youth, past a weathered busker playing a beaten guitar, past two men in suits walking in synchronicity and talking to each other without looking at each other. My head ached.

Then Rodney’s phone rang.

“Hello?” answered Rodney.

Silence hung in the car, in the sealed in air.

“No,” said Rodney in a small voice.

Quiet returned. I drove on. The car trundled in the slick falling rain.

“No,” repeated Rodney in his tiny voice.

I coughed and stared at the road ahead, the white lines just rolling on, rolling on.

“Pull over. Pull the car over,” said Rodney.

I pulled over. I pulled the car over. Rodney got out of the car. He stood on the edge of the pavement in front of the bonnet. His expression looked strange. He gazed up at the sky and smiled. A huge red lorry thundered along and he stepped out in front of it and exploded all over the road.