The open road was an open mouth. The dust rose in hissing strands. The sun berated us from every angle and the A/C was spewing out its soul. They called this Hell's Highway.
It was barren, filled only with the amber hues of fatigue and discomfort. We drove onward in silence, as if the merest hint of conversation would cause our cargo to spontaneously combust. I didn't have the energy to admire his golden curls, the arch of his nose, the romance of his mouth. His eyes were forward. They were always facing forward.
A carcass in the road caused him to swerve. The trunk in back lurched and slid, rattling the chains like an angry ghost. I almost didn't care if we found the burial grounds anymore. We could just leave the body in the trunk on this road. Any cops that would follow us this far; follow us out to Hell's Highway, would be overcome by apathy.
The body wasn't even human.
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Karen is an avid foodie/gamer/SFF reader who, despite existing for several years, has still not decided what she wants to be when she grows up.
Actually, Karen is an aspiring writer with a mysteriously irrelevant past. She spends her days laughing at the people still stuck in law school, ruminating over her engineering degree and coughing at the dust covering her collection of art supplies and musical instruments.
A Jill of all trades, yet master of none. Except for perhaps procrastination and awkward humor.
