I last shared a piece of creative writing...let's see...five months ago. So here's another one.
I originally wrote this piece in 2007 for a creative writing class (Mrs. Stuckey, LeTourneau University). The prompt was "seasonal pieces." One I wrote as creative nonfiction, one as a poem, and this one: a short piece of fiction based on the season of Autumn.
I originally wrote this piece in 2007 for a creative writing class (Mrs. Stuckey, LeTourneau University). The prompt was "seasonal pieces." One I wrote as creative nonfiction, one as a poem, and this one: a short piece of fiction based on the season of Autumn.
Drifting Out
The road had been alive, once. Once
there had been cars buzzing by, customers stopping in, stories being swapped. Once
the paint had been fresh and the pumps shiny-new. Uniformed employees had
waited to spring into action at the friendly honk of a horn. But the new freeway had cut off most of their business. Now the paint peels and the lettering cracks. Tired drivers in loaded-up vans pass the
station by in favor of somewhere more “civilized.”
The ancient oak behind the store is
just starting to turn, dropping hues of fire and gold onto the warped awning
over the porch. The owner rocks in his chair and is occasionally joined
by his neighbors, but their stories have been told and there’s not laughter
like there used to be. Toby stays under the porch and only thumps his sleepy
tail when someone pulls in, not bounding over to beg for treats like years past. He sleeps on the leaves from past autumns, nosing in a fresh pile as they color and fall once more.
“Whatcha gonna do when no one else
stops by?” they ask again and again. “You gonna upgrade to self-pay pumps? You gonna install one of them fancy car washes out back? You
gonna sell magazines, beer, cigarettes?”
But the owner just shakes his head.
“Naw,” he says. “No need to. If people need what I got, they’ll come and get
it. No need to update. No need at all."
So his friends shake their heads and rock
some more, contemplating work and wives and achin' joints. As the sun fades
they mosey on, sniffing their way home to suppers and slippers and sleep.
The owner whistles for Toby and opens a can of dinner for each of them. Toby eats with the slow drawl of someone with nowhere else to be, and the owner
does the same. Over coffee the owner stares out the window at the empty road, the last rays of sunlight mirroring his face in the glass. A coppery leaf floats past.
“We’ve had our time, ain’t we,
Toby? We’ve had our spring and our summer. Boy, did we have ‘em. So ain’t
nothing wrong with driftin’ out with the fall.”
