Many things had caught my eyes on the daily half-hour commute to school. The most interesting of which being the decor on the backs of other cars. (quite bland, I know, but what else is there to see on a north Alabamian back-road besides farmland and confederate flags?) Some were jokes, most political and others actually humorous, and others advertisements for their mom-and-pop shops. A few were stickers of journeys. Remnants of old exotic voyages the modern carriages had ferried their drivers off to. But one small gray sticker stuck to my mind like the adhesive on its back.
It rested upon an old car. Old beyond my exact recognition. It seemed that it tried its best to be a quaint light blue, but one too many years of wind and rain had weathered its vibrancy down like a diluted soda. Its left rear view mirror loosely clung to it with minimal assistance from a few feet of slapped-on wire tape. Scattered streaks of hardened mud stained its bottom, a remnant of happier times on the sad vehicle. It was adventurous in another life, I supposed. It had a special type of woodsy air to it. It had once driven to dozens of nature trails and explored more overgrown back roads than the number of long-dried muddy splotches that now dotted its exterior. I bet the smell of melted marshmallows and campfire would forever colonize the seats.
Stickers of insects brought life to the backseat window. It was clearly the work of a young artist. Some had silly faces and others hollow marks where googly eyes once ogled. Ants, spiders, butterflies, an entire two-dimensional terrarium lay plastered like a mural on the dull car's window. I only wished I could've seen it in its prime. Decay had begun to take hold of it, blending the childish work of art into the rest of the humble vehicle's exterior. There were more hollow spots than remaining stickers, hollow holes once brightened by color. It looked ghostly the longer I stared. As if it cried for a caretaker that would never return.
My eyes then wandered back to the beaten thing, locking onto the beaten thing that sat at its steer. A crying woman. Rocking forth and back like a child getting soothed to sleep. She lifted a thin cigarette to her lips after a quaking exhale, a new river of runny eyeliner escaping her eyes. I noticed a small treasure in her hand as she wiped the pain off her face– A freshly fallen googly eye. She cherished it like the diamond it was.
As the light flickered a foggy green and the cars pulled away, I saw one last sticker on the very back window. It stuck out like a sore thumb. The only fresh thing on or in the entire vehicle. A single sentence of plain gray text.
"In loving memory of CJ Smith, 11/15/2012–11/16/2022."
YOU ARE READING
In Loving Memory of CJ Smith- (and more flash fictions)
Short StoryA short micro-fiction multi-story anthology. The best delicacies come bite-sized. A young girl struggles to cope with the loss of her father. A haunting bumper-sticker buries itself in an onlooker's memory. A painter obsesses with perfection. A sta...
