A Collection of Short Stories

PRNDL

We were driving up the road in a town so isolated there was only one gas station, so I didn't wear my seatbelt. My grandmother sat before the steering wheel with her jeweled fingers clasped firmly to the leather, her red hair slung in a braid over her bronzed shoulders. In truth, her hair was dark brown peppered with gray, but she always dyed it like this. The road we drove on was an exceptionally long drive way; at the bottom of the spiraling road was my great grandfather's house along with four others, each one belonging to one of my aunts. He owned several acres of land in this area. At the top of the road was my mother's house, our destination. The engine of the little, white SUV hummed and sputtered as we drove along, though the vehicle's maker has been lost from my memory. We sung "the oldies" in uneven voices, which to my grandmother meant The Lion Sleeps Tonight, The Twist, and Wild Thing. We were on the chorus of one of these songs when we heard an engine and my grandmother patiently pulled off of the road since it was narrow.

"I bet that's your mother." She remarked.

Finally, the vehicle turned the corner in a shower of red dust and quarter-sized rocks. We saw a truck sardined with three young men barreling towards us and they showed no signs of slowing down. The inexperienced driver at the helm had no control over the massive wheels, and, although he had plenty of space to pass us by, the truck was heading straight for us. My grandmother leaned over the divider, her warm arm shielding me as the truck inevitably slammed into the parked SUV.

If you've ever gone down a hill on a bicycle and crashed at the bottom, then you probably have an idea of what the impact felt like. Metal screeched against metal as two cars melded together. The SUV jerked back, but my grandmother's arm remained firmly planted in front of me. I watched, horrified, as the impact sent her head back and forth, planting her forehead against the steering wheel with a crack. Finally, her arm let me go and inertia sent me head-first in the niche below the dash.

Although I was uninjured, I began to cry and scream. My countenance was shaken. "Mer!"

Mer, my grandmother's nickname developed over five years of stubbornly refusing to call her "grandmother." She spent decades being strict with my mother about using proper grammar, and I had rebelliously usurped her. Mer groaned, lifting and dropping her head with disorient. I climbed off of the foot mat, the rough material rubbing painfully against my knees as I placed my hands on Mer's bare thigh. The scrawny, wide-eyed men from the truck began to climb outside; like us, they were also dressed for warm weather. The driver wore a bandanna, and he had greasy, blond hair and rheumy blue eyes. He opened the door and spoke to me in a country twang.

I don't remember what he said to me. I was livid, and I accused him of killing my grandmother. Tensions were high as I shook her, yelling at him through snot and mucus. My grandmother responded in moans and broken words. It took her several minutes to sit upright. Her hands were no longer warm, but cold as she held me. Her tanned forehead was already changing colors and turning into a bruise.

"It will be okay," She said to me, stroking my black hair.

Once I was calm, she exited the vehicle and began to argue with the boys with my small frame perched on her hip. Tendrils of smoke hissed from the SUV, climbing towards the blue sky above us. It felt like they argued for hours. Eventually, a police officer showed up in a crisp uniform with dark sunglasses that hid his eyes. There was talk of insurance, damages, speeding, injury, and so the words went until my mother came and took us both home sore, tired, and shook.