An Octave or Too

It sat on the side of the road like a sad thing without wings and without a chance. I give the poor thing a lift; all the time it just grins and bites its nails. I say grin, but it may just be pain; whatever, it’s enough to distract me from the road. ‘Smile at the road muthafukka,’ it jeers. I think ‘yeah, whatever’ then I start to feel the adrenaline rush to my arms and legs…my grip upon the wheel tightens. The ‘poor, little thing’ begins to giggle; as though its voice, if you can call it that, has dropped an octave or two.


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