DELIVER - 20-Minute Prose Exercise

Here’s my 20-minute prose exercise for today. Writing along with me? The prompt today is Deliver. Write whatever comes to mind from that promopt for 20 minutes. If you’d like to share yours, you can email me here. I’m working on getting a place to share them publicly (or anonymously) on here if that’s something you’d like. If not, I’m happy to provide private feedback via email.

DELIVER

The mind wanders after a few hours alone on the road.

I’ve been hauling cargo for the better part of thirty years, and I can say I’ve always taken my job seriously no matter how fast food hamburgers I’ve eaten, or how many cold rest stop showers I’ve endured. I’ve dealt with bums, hookers, rude drivers advertising their privilege in their zippy sports cars and all sorts of unseemly folks. Hell, I’ve even run into an ex-wife or two on the road.

But that night’s cargo. There’s never been anything more important for me.

I was heading down the interstate, the white, hyperdrive streaks of snow hypnotizing me, when I saw her just sitting on the edge of the road. I pulled over and helped her in the cab. She was scared out of her wits. I don’t blame her; I would be, too.

She’s in pain, wailing like a she-devil. I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t know who to call. She doesn’t speak English.

I raced through the night, twenty tons of freight and machine roaring against the sleet covered pavement. I felt the metal beast slide a couple of times on the ice, and I had to stradle a couple of lanes just to maintain control.

She was screaming something awful.

Up ahead, I could see lights from a town. We were almost there.

A sudden flickering of red appeared on the road. Tail lights. Dozens of them. How had I not seen them sooner?

I pumped the brakes, doing all I could to slow down. My passenger crying.

The tail lights grew larger, nearer, faster until…

The truck heaved and shrieked to a stop, a diesel-powered leviathon gasping for air.

A sign read Fayetteville 5 Miles.

I held her in my arms and raced through the traffic jam. Despite the cold, I could feel my body dampen with sweat.

“Hang in there,” I told her, even though I knew she couldn’t understand me. “We’re almost there.”

The wind howled and ate away at my bare skin, my hands and cheeks caressed by frostbite’s kiss.

I marched up the inclining exit ramp, my mind knowing only roads from a lifetime of mental mapping.

Another mile. Another.

I couldn’t feel my toes or my fingers anymore. I wasn’t sure I even had a nose.

When I made it to the door, I pounded as hard as I could, my strength waning.

I looked at the young passenger I held in my arms. She wasn’t moving.

“God damn it,” I cried out. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

I pounded on the door again. Again. Again.

She still wasn’t moving, nearly stiff as a board.

At last, the door opened. They took us inside. As soon as she was out of my arms, I blacked out.

Now, I’m sitting here in my wheelchair. Ended up losing a few parts. But my little passenger delivered some packages of her own. A litter of six beautiful little kittens, all healthy, including mother.

I may not be able to deliver anymore, but that’s okay. My kids have been wanting me to retire anyway, and now I have a reason to. My little feline passenger, Parcel, and I are going to take it easy and let some one else do the heavy lifting from now on.