The hitchhiker

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


Didn't your mother ever teach you never to pick up hitchhikers?

Submitted: August 15, 2018

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Submitted: August 15, 2018

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Along the dusty road he hummed the song his mother used to sing while setting the table: a soft, smooth little tune that made one think of lighter days, of fluffy clouds, of innocent children running wild through a field of daisies. The last few hours had been ghostly, pushing on silently like a doe low in the plains of Africa--he needed a moment of comfort; he hummed louder. 

A car whizzed past. He thought about sticking his thumb in the air, turning to face traffic with a half-grin, and his red and black bandana sliding down his head, but then he remebered the blood. The stench reached his nose in a gust of wind. He paused his steps, left foot in front of his right, and cringed, peeling sections of his drenched shirt from his chest. Some had splattered on the leather of his jacket. He wiped it away with the inside of his wrist. He needed a car, and needed it fast. 


© Copyright 2018 A.D. Ware. All rights reserved.

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