One Hell of a Trip (Final Revision)

The girl stops and breathes deeply. Even from yards away the sight of the old beaten Dodge is like coming home. The familiarity sends an ache to her quick. She is aware of an empty space she hadn’t known was there, a missing patch somewhere below the left side of her heart. She starts slowly forward, step by slow step, until suddenly she is right beside the door, breathing heavily as if she had been running to it all this time. Maybe she has. But she can’t tell what’s real or fake, made up or dream, because now the familiar is falling over her in waves, rushing her senses, drowning her under the onslaught, her hand cradling the familiar grip of the door handle, glancing at that dent in the side, the scar cementing the back door shut where the deer hit on the way back from that long trip, in the middle of that long talk, and suddenly she is settling into the seat and there is the hole like a missing eye where the air shutter should have been, pushed out and broken, “Goddamnit keep your feet off the dash,” still echoing, always echoing, echoing in time with the radio, the volume knob broken off, who cares because the music was always better loud, and the dome light gives off its solemn glow, the illumination of midnight confessions and secrets told in the almost dark, don’t worry it never leaves the car, and the girl fingers the purple beads hanging from the mirror, oh how they swung when the car turned fast, the two of them, girls on one hell of an adventure the moment the engine turned over, just keep the windows down and the beads swinging and everything would set itself right, just never stop. But it did stop, with a spinning crunch of metal, a flash of light the taste of blood. Now the girl pulls the beads back, watches them sway once more, then pulls away. Shuts the door. Makes it stop. A thousand more memories are pressed against the glass but she walks away, the secret whispers of the past left behind with the friend that never got to leave.    

By Alissa Tsaparikos

One Hell Of A Trip

This is another short short that I am rather attached to. I do kind of hope that with some editing I could get this one up to snuff and submit it somewhere.

The girl stops and breathes deeply. Even from yards away the sight of the old beaten down Dodge Neon is like coming home after years of being away. She feels the familiarity sending an ache deep down to her core, suddenly aware how the unfamiliar surroundings just couldn’t fill the space she hadn’t even known was there, or maybe didn’t want to know. She starts slowly forward again, step by slow step, until suddenly she is right beside the door, breathing heavily as if she had been running to it all along. Maybe she has been, she doesn’t really know anymore, can’t tell what’s real or fake, made up or dream, because now the familiar is falling over her in waves, rushing her senses, drowning her under the onslaught, her hand cradling the familiar grip of the door handle, glancing at that dent in the side, the scar cementing the back door shut where the deer hit on the way back from that long trip, in the middle of that long talk, and suddenly she is settling into the seat and there is the hole like a missing eye where the air shutter should have been, pushed out and broken, “Goddamnit keep your feet off the dash,” still echoing, always echoing, echoing in time with the radio, the volume knob broken off, who cares because the music was always better loud, and the dome light gives off its solemn glow, the illumination of midnight confessions and secrets told in the almost dark, don’t worry it never leaves the car, and the girl fingers the purple beads hanging from the mirror, a sign of spirit that couldn’t be lost, oh how they swung when the car turned fast, the two of them, two girls on one hell of an adventure the moment the engine turned over, just keep the windows down and the beads swinging and everything would set itself right, just never stop. But now the girl pulls them back, watches them sway once more, then pulls away. Shuts the door. Makes it stop. A thousand more memories are pressed against the glass but the girl turns her back and walks away, the secret whispers of the past left behind with the friend that never got to leave.   

By Alissa Tsaparikos 

An Astroidal Collision

This short short is the product of a writing prompt that came out as more of a character development monologue

            If a flying piece of debris happened to be heading toward this room right now, that could be pretty cool, well, hot, but you know what I mean. It could melt me down to a puddle, bone, muscle, sinew and fat one big eradicated blob.

The way you stare at me, I wish you had never come back. There is nothing but judgment in your eyes, a distance that speaks volumes in the silence. At least this is what I’m reading in the way you refuse to look at me. I only ever wanted to be good enough. But when every other person is pulling you in a different direction, limbs will eventually give up to physics and tear right out of their sockets. How do you think this would equate to someone’s brain?

So if I could have an asteroid fall from the sky and burn me right off this earth, maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad thing. Someone else could make these decisions that I so obviously fail at. No wonder this thing we have here is dying. I might have saved us from utter destruction, but the incline to heaven stopped long ago, and we have been coasting level ever since, now the only place to go is down.

When you were gone it was so much easier to not think about us. To ignore the signs I didn’t want to see and still carry on with a decent amount of confidence. But who am I kidding.

I tried to be funny about this, but the joke fell flat from my lips. The silence was sickening. I want to be funny now. Tell a story of some witty humor that will gain the approval I most wish for, and hopefully the passing nod from you. But this is not monopoly. Do not pass go, and don’t even think about collecting two hundred dollars.

I should face the facts that even the things that I mean to be funny will never turn out right. So why would this time be any different? Melancholy. The word is too big for this piece, an obstruction of mass proportions messing up the rhythm in my rant. But it describes me well enough, and no matter how I try to escape it, it will hit me hard and explode, like this asteroid heading toward me right now.

I had only a few minutes to contemplate life, and I chose to bitch. Typical. Maybe if I could muster up some excitement, this situation wouldn’t seem so bad or mayb – 

By Alissa Tsaparikos