It’s not every day we have a chance to reinvent ourselves.
He jumped, as if the words had been spoken aloud, but there was no one. And nothing—nothing except the sharp curl of road, the overturned convertible and smoke belching out from the undercarriage in larger and larger clouds. How had he survived? He checked himself once more: a gash on his knee and a cut on his ear from when he’d flown free from the car. But aside from that, he was fine.
He studied the vast empty valley in all directions and realized no one would be by for hours. And damn, his car. No insurance, three payments behind. And then there was the matter of the forty-minute daily drive to the only job in three counties that would hire him. He was so fired.
And Sheila. What was that always she said? If you ever drink a drop and lay a hand on that wheel, don’t bother ever coming home.
The gas tank made an ominous thunk. He thought of the struggle of holding this wreckage of a life together. He could do so much better.
He turned, and started walking–off the road, and into the wild unknown.
This has been an edition of Sunday Photo Fiction, hosted by Al Forbes. To read more or to submit your own, click the blue froggy button: