The weather was agnostic. There was no commitment to any particular sort of forecast, not even short term, except for the leaves. Those things couldn’t hold water. The trees were showing their colors. Ditches on both sides of the road spilled over with their fallen vestiges, and the skies made their cards known with clouds, as still as ever, dark but not foreboding, standing sentry duty. No rain, bright sky, but no sun to be found. Macon knew winter was close, but the air was still polite and her hands could stand to be without gloves. She drove the roads at dusk.
She left the radio off and focused on the taillights fifty yards ahead. “Focus on the taillights of the car in front of you and you won’t have to worry about staying in the center of the road; you just will.” She remembered the lessons her foster dad tried to teach her. She’d heard horrible stories about foster families over the years, but hers was one of salvation. Her only regret was that she hadn’t been placed with them sooner.
A trio of Lodgepole pine trees presented themselves from the other side of the bend in the road up ahead. Two were upright while the third leaned in as if preparing to tell a secret to the others. She rounded the corner and caught a sip of the Hood Canal before more pines crowded in to block her view. Another opening and she glimpsed one of the Olympic peaks, “The Brothers,” she recalled, before the sign ahead offered “Fresh Steak Gyros.” She slowed and pulled in, parking where the gas pumps had been many years ago.
Tune in for quick reads of the best (or least despicable) selections from the previous day’s word count, by virtue of my daily writing regimen for the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). WARNING: editing has not taken place.