Well, here is my first story. The assignment was a "Poem to story" kind of thing. The idea was that we got "inspiration" from a poem and then wrote a short story relating to it, but everyone just wrote a story and then found a matching poem. Please excuse the bold, it is a different font in the actual word document (to represent a different character).
~ for non Australians a "p-plater" is someone who has just gained their driving license and are particularly prone to accidents/mucking about. They have to display a big "P" on the front and back of the car so everyone can know/be judgmental ~
Way Home.
The wipers slide back and forth, occasionally making a squeak on the windscreen. The rain intermittently smears the glass, showing the road in front as a black and grey blur. The pouring rain had ruined a long awaited beach trip. After two boring days cooped up in a beach house, we decided it was time to leave. My friend is driving me back home. Sitting in the front seat I tune the radio to my favourite station. We listen to another overplayed pop song as I comment on how the poor weather cut short what was supposed to be a week in the sun. I turn to look at the back seat, and check that I remembered to bring my bag. It’s a pretty dull journey but at least I have company.
My parents had insisted that I use public transport to make my way back. They don’t trust my friend as a driver because he only recently passed his driving test. But there was no way I was going by bus. It would take at least twice as long to get home, and that was providing I didn’t miss one of the many connections. My parents are just being overprotective. I know my friend is a great driver. Besides, there are lots of people who travel by car and do not end up in a car crash. Hopefully, by going behind their backs, I will be able to show them that they are being too worrisome.
A red car glides past to overtake us as the motorway lanes merge into one. As it passes I see two children’s bikes precariously perched on the back of the car. I watch it speed ahead until the faint glow of its tail lights is just visible through the rain. About half an hour later the road starts to get a bit bumpy. The crude patchwork road surface is rough on the car’s feeble suspension. Suddenly one of the bikes falls off the red car ahead, and tumbles onto the tarmac. I’m sure there is no chance of avoiding it. My friend brakes as hard as he dares in the wet conditions. We get closer and closer. The car manages to stop just in time. The pink bike looks undamaged. I say to my friend, “Phew that was lucky. Now let’s just hope that no one cra-“
I am running late for my flight to Canberra. Driving along the motorway I find that I am behind a p-plater. As the Minister for Infrastructure and Transport I know just how dangerous young drivers are. In the first year alone they are twice as likely to have an accident. I see him start to brake. Why is he braking? We are on a motorway you idiot! You cannot just stop whenever you please. I don’t bother to slow down as I expect him to speed off again. Imbecile. He is still slowing down. Does he not look in his mirrors? There is now a lengthy queue of traffic behind him. I am getting very close now. I start to brake as well, softly pushing the brake pedal; there is just a few metres separating us now. A couple of kids. They are probably mucking about. They are not in a hurry. I impatiently tap my fingers on the steering wheel. I glance at the clock on the dash. The phone in my pocket vibrates. The call distracts me from the buffoons ahead. I see the brake lights clearly, staring at me with glowing red eyes. Now it is obvious that I am going too fast to avoid the imminent collision. I slam my foot down as hard as I can in a last futile attempt to stop. From my angle I see the metal of his car meet the bonnet of my brand new Land Cruiser.
The force of the crash pushes my body forward before my head catches up with a snap of my neck. I yell a particular four letter word before checking that my friend is uninjured. We step outside to inspect the damage. The whole boot of the car has crumpled in the accident and some twisted metal is pushing against the back wheel in an unhealthy way. The rear of the car now closely resembles a crushed soft drink can. My first thoughts were what my parents would think, rather than concerns about the damage to the car. The perpetrator steps out and apologises. His four wheel drive has only suffered a dent on the bonnet. He tells us that he is in a rush to get to a function, so instead of exchanging insurance details he just hands us his business card and leaves. My friend looks at the card, laughs and says “Guess who just crashed into us? None other than the Minister of Transport!”
A quick glance to my watch is enough to tell me that if I don’t leave straight away the plane will leave without me. I give the boys my business card and get back in my car. Knowing that the collision could have been a lot worse, I cautiously re-enter the lane. In front of me is a red car towing an old caravan.
