by Katie McCullough
She was rushing to get cigarettes in a panic because she’d forgotten to buy them when she did the weekly shop and needed them so he wouldn’t moan as soon as he got in the door. He was racing to get the ice-cream that his daughter had requested because she was still suffering from a sore throat and he didn’t want her up half the night crying again, last night tested his limits. In slow motion all eyes fixed on the point of impact where the car hit and shards of glass splintered on the pavement causing passersby to cower at the sound and watch the body float through the air. She hadn’t even reached the store when it hit her, she did not want to go back and the urge was so strong she walked faster and faster and clutched her purse close to her chest. He couldn’t decide on strawberry or chocolate and staring into the middle distance he weighed them both in his hands as he caught sight of her over the road walking past. They’d been to school years before, even dated for a while, and he rushed out calling her name but she didn’t hear him and she most definitely wouldn’t recognize him with blood spilling from his mouth as he lay mingling with the ice cream.
Katie McCullough is a screenwriter and playwright whose tools of choice are her hands and anything to write with (as well as her mouth to talk to people). She's a graduate of Bournemouth Media School and The Royal Court, London, and has had several readings at the ICA and Theatre Royal, Stratford East. Her website is here.