Carma

Road curling up the mountain. In the rearview a city smears towards a gunmetal ocean. Escaping its saliva slip is rebirth.

Ahead a dust truck grinds up the incline. Slapping flapping ropes fail to keep a torn tarp from exposing garbage bag cleavages, coyly winking. She lay on a tiled floor back there. The tidal slappings audible, not to her.

A stretch opens up. Open road. Serpent ropes reach out, a single newspaper sheet escapes, rises up; twisting, turning, laying itself flat, across his windshield. Centre fold, it’s her, smiling sweetly at him. The heavy saloon hurls itself into space.

From Guest Contributor, Matthew Evans