LondonUnited Kingdom EC1A 4DD
May 7, 2013
Memoir / non-fiction
There was no why. Why: the question children ask. Because she'd been late. Because she'd had just enough time to get to town and be back before noon. Because it had been stopped there, the red car, right in the middle lane and by the time - in the strange slow dream-time before any inevitable thing happens - she had seen it, thirty yards, maybe less, and fast closing, it had been too late and she had braced herself and it was over. A hiss of steam, birdsong coming from the hedge. But why. Why ask why. The policeman too had been nice in his unseduceable way and he had also asked it. Why had Karen, on an otherwise open road, in daylight, sober, managed to drive so hard, so fast into the rear of the other car, the pregnant woman's red Golf? Just because, she wanted to say. Like a child also. Don't ask me. Because shit like this happens. Because I was in a hurry. Because I wasn't looking. The policeman had made a note in his book and smiled his tired half-smile and left.
Hi, I'm Andy. I absolutely love writing when I can write and utterly loathe it when I can't. I'm in the latter phase just at the moment.
Surprisingly good and effective. I would never normally get anything done that late in the day and have struggled to write a thing for weeks but something got loosened up this evening. See you again!