by J.H. Batson

Veering onto the highway, late for work, I imagine the cars behind me careening through traffic and colliding in a shimmering glory of twisted metal. Drivers would plunge into a spiritual oblivion as their blood drenches the street, forever staining the cement and filling the broken crevices with their forgotten life. With the crooked gas pedal of my car pressed to the floor, my engine roars and from its bowels comes a speed that slices through the fighting wind. Faster, I think. Miss the exit, forget work – you don't need it. Your blood will no longer mingle and decay with the dust of tiresome labor, nor will your spirit be broken by the cemented authority of your superiors.


J.H. Batson is a high school student seeking confirmation of his literary merit.