The Journey

 It's Day 10 of the  Blogging from A to Z  April 2015 Challenge

Another week of frantic story writing

Already ten tales under my belt

And only sixteen more to go!

'Are we there yet?’ said a sad little voice. 

He was driving fast, too fast. He wanted to get home and curl up on his sofa with a whisky in front of his glowing log fire.

‘Are we there yet?’ 

It was pitch black. His cars headlights aimed a pair of silver blades into the night. Its tyres protested as he swerved this way and that on the winding road that twisted and turned in the darkness ahead.

‘Are we there yet?’ 

His eyes and ears were assaulted by raindrops hammering on the windshield. Sudden gusts of wind hurtled him left then right as he fought with the wheel to stay on the road.

‘Are we there yet' 

He roared through a cathedral of bowing trees. A wood pigeon flew straight towards him. Instinctively he hit the brakes and the car slithered and jerked throwing his head against the window. It shuddered to a halt.

For a moment everything around him became a blur. He opened his eyes wide and thanked God for keeping him on the road.

‘Are we there yet? Are we there yet?’

'SHUT UP!' he yelled. He turned round and found himself gazing at an empty seat.

For there was no one in the car but him.

He started the engine and set off homeward.

He stabbed the radio and the soothing sound of a Beethoven sonata began to relax him.  He passed the Anchor Inn then swung left down the winding lane which led to his cottage, passing the crooked red post-box and crossing the sandstone bridge. Almost home. Nearly there.

‘ARE WE THERE YET?’ screeched a voice. 'ARE WE THERE YET?’

He skidded to a halt and spun his head round although he knew there was nobody there. What the hell was happening?

A thud on the floor startled him. For several minutes he sat motionless.

He massaged his temples then eased himself to his feet and threw a log on the fire.  He picked up the glass he’d dropped, refilled it and slumped back on the sofa. 

For a while he gazed at a photo of the child he lost in an accident. It had been his fault, he was driving far too fast.

His eyes drifted closed as a  tear trickled down his cheek.

‘Are we there yet?’ whispered a voice in his ear. ‘Are we there yet?'

My short story for Monday is called Knock knock