The Thrush

The ‘64 Dodge Dart careened down highway 83, the once brilliant powder blue paint now faded and pock marked by three bitter winters and hundreds of salty, slushy miles. Inside, the driver Tom Fenton fared little better, the road had taken its toll on the man, as much as his once beloved machine.

Minutes later the driver opened his eyes to find the car had skidded to a halt on a wet, muddy patch of embankment. His bottle of bourbon lay on its side near his feet gurgling its last contents onto the stained floorboard. As an eighteen-wheeler passed, it whipped up a wet spray which covered the Dart in a milky brown ooze and somehow seem to add insult to injury. The trucker, who was rushing to get home to supper with his wife, didn’t even offer a passing glance at the little car or it’s driver. This was of course, no surprise to Tom, as very few people ever took notice of him.

It would be kind to note here, that Tom had not always been so forgettable, that he had been the star quarterback in high school. That he was the life of the party in his twenties, and had even deflowered the homecoming queen. It would be kind to say these things, but it would also be untrue. The sad fact was that Tom’s high school years, young adulthood and whole life, had in fact been as bland and unexciting as it was when this dreary day began.

It occurred to Tom, the homoerotic nature of this, his final act as he wrapped his lips around the barrel of the gun. This only only served to deepen the suffering, and his resolve. The muffled shot barely registered outside the car. A lone thrush watched emotionless from a wire high above. The bird, silhouetted in the darkening grey sky pondered the noise for a moment, squawked and took flight. - BKane