American Muscle

I turn the key.

Eight pistons follow my command and rattle the asphalt.

A Mustang’s roar echoes off this Texaco canopy.

One Mustang equals 300 ponies. I’ll never understand how that works, but I feel them pulling at the reigns, demanding another sip of gasoline.

A muzzle, that’s what I need for these gas guzzlers; a muzzle before I’m flat broke.

My headlights pierce the night, and snowflakes greedily dance before me. Each is vying for center stage, awaiting applause for its beauty. But headlights grow impatient. Soon, these dancers will fall from grace, wiped from my windshield, and forever forgotten.

My tires hug the highway; my speedometer hits ninety. Ahead of me, darkness waits. This is not the kind of darkness that runs from me like a distant horizon. It is the kind that tries to convince me that the horizon does not exist. And it lies there because it cannot tell the truth, obscuring reality and covering all.

Soon, the lonely sets in.

I’ve got the radio dial spinning like a roulette wheel, hoping I’ll get lucky.

Most stations are pop. And so the house always wins.

The ball lands on red 99.5, and King Georges’ Amarillo fills my American muscle.

This is why I gamble.

To win.

Author’s note: This short story was inspired by my recent 13-hour road trip from Georgia to Virginia. No, I don’t have a Mustang. But it did snow :)

This writing is a bit of an experiment. I try to use visual language and rhetorical devices to paint a clear image with words. I’d love to hear what you think!

Source: Fineartamerica.com