Krisi Keley (Broken, Desert, Voices)
“Well, this can’t be good,” Thomas muttered to see steam seep from under the hood of his car.
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the water temperature light flashed once, just as the car stalled.
Breathing an expletive out with his heavy sigh, Thomas pushed open his door and stalked to the front of the vehicle.
“No work ethic anymore. That’s the problem,” he groused, feeling around for the hood’s release latch. This stupid rental was only a year old, after all. It still had the new leather smell, for Pete’s sake. How badly must it have been put together that it couldn’t even get him the 200 miles from Palmdale to Las Vegas?
Once the pristine, paint-perfect hood was open, he reached in, attempting to grasp the radiator cap. Thomas wasn’t much of a car guy. In fact, one of the great things about success was that he could pay people to worry about annoyances like this for him. Too bad he hadn’t thought to hire a personal mechanic to take along on the trip.
Just brushing the cap made his mistake painfully apparent, and he yanked his hand back with a hiss and then froze, almost certain he’d heard another sound besides his own “ssst” of pain. Someone speaking softly – a whisper – a voice.
“A relationship isn’t just providing someone with material things or keeping the passion ‘hot,’ Thomas. You were never there. Even when your body was in the room, I was alone.”
Thomas swung around, his eyes scanning the empty Mohave around him. It was dry and barren, beautiful but desolate – just the way a desert ought to be. So then why was he hearing the voice of his ex-wife, in his ear not his head, so real she might have been standing next to him?
He shook his head, returned to the side of the car and opened the left rear door. Maybe there was a rag back here he could use to twist off the radiator cap.
“Fantasy is a genre, Gina. But, trust me, you keep writing vaporous delusions like this and no one will ever take you seriously as a writer. God’s a dead myth. Write about something people can believe in and relate to.”
Thomas whacked his head on the edge of the door, backing out of the car frantically to look around again.
“What the…?” he uttered in a high and frightened tremolo. He knew that voice too. His own – speaking to a creative writing student he’d had years ago. The girl had had amazing talent, but the pouf she wrote… He’d done her a huge favor, talking her out of writing that spiritual hocus-pocus. She’d had quite a bit of success with the two subsequent novels she’d gotten published. He’d been sad to hear she’d committed suicide a couple of years ago. But, writers were notoriously unstable – only the strongest survived. He’d always prided himself on his own strength to make it in this oftentimes cutthroat and nasty field of work, as well as on his ability to give readers what they wanted.
He made his way back to the front of the car, giving the still steaming radiator the evil eye. He was just going to have to wait for it to cool off, apparently. Or maybe, with a little luck, some other idiot would be taking this trip across the desert and would stop.
“She’s not just gone and I can’t just ‘get over it’ and try again,” his ex-wife Lisa sobbed. His dead ex-wife, Lisa.
Okay, so maybe he’d been a bit of an unsympathetic a-hole, suggesting such a thing a year after Lisa had miscarried their first child. But having children had been part of his “life plan” and Lisa had acted as if she’d never try again. And maybe it had been cruel to say she was holding onto a ghost when there was no God and no heaven for their dead daughter to go to. But, honestly, what kind of God would create a life and then destroy it before it took its first breath?
Thomas sank down next to the wheel of the car, shaken by the voices, by the feelings they stirred in him and by another fear he couldn’t quite put a name to.
“You loved once, Thomas. Find that love within you again,” another voice spoke, and Thomas jumped up, alarmed to see a man walking toward him.
Where did he come from? Thomas thought disconcertedly. There was no other car around. No other anything around out here.
He closed his eyes in some dizziness and suddenly there was a vision: a car veering toward him on the highway, a terrible impact, a flash of brilliant red and yellow light… and then this desert.
“Your life was broken on the inside, though flashy and luxurious on the outside, like this car. Desolate and lonely, however beautiful, like this desert. But there is life even in a desert. Sometimes you just have to search deeper to find it,” the man said.
Thomas opened his eyes again, and as the man reached out his hand toward him, he saw brilliant green grass suddenly spring from the cracked dirt and sand around him. Flowers in every color of the rainbow and other lush verdure rose up, turning the desert into a magical garden.
“You… you can forgive me?” Thomas asked in a whisper, the voices that had reminded him of where he’d not sought life still ringing in his ears and in his heart.
“Love always forgives. You just have to be willing to truly accept it and let it help you heal the wounds,” answered the man, taking Thomas’ hand.
“I am,” Thomas breathed, and the sun sparkled on the new life around him as those he’d lost gathered behind the One who’d found him, all offering the forgiveness and love that would help him heal the wound.
“Well, this can’t be good,” Thomas muttered to see steam seep from under the hood of his car.
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the water temperature light flashed once, just as the car stalled.
Breathing an expletive out with his heavy sigh, Thomas pushed open his door and stalked to the front of the vehicle.
“No work ethic anymore. That’s the problem,” he groused, feeling around for the hood’s release latch. This stupid rental was only a year old, after all. It still had the new leather smell, for Pete’s sake. How badly must it have been put together that it couldn’t even get him the 200 miles from Palmdale to Las Vegas?
Once the pristine, paint-perfect hood was open, he reached in, attempting to grasp the radiator cap. Thomas wasn’t much of a car guy. In fact, one of the great things about success was that he could pay people to worry about annoyances like this for him. Too bad he hadn’t thought to hire a personal mechanic to take along on the trip.
Just brushing the cap made his mistake painfully apparent, and he yanked his hand back with a hiss and then froze, almost certain he’d heard another sound besides his own “ssst” of pain. Someone speaking softly – a whisper – a voice.
“A relationship isn’t just providing someone with material things or keeping the passion ‘hot,’ Thomas. You were never there. Even when your body was in the room, I was alone.”
Thomas swung around, his eyes scanning the empty Mohave around him. It was dry and barren, beautiful but desolate – just the way a desert ought to be. So then why was he hearing the voice of his ex-wife, in his ear not his head, so real she might have been standing next to him?
He shook his head, returned to the side of the car and opened the left rear door. Maybe there was a rag back here he could use to twist off the radiator cap.
“Fantasy is a genre, Gina. But, trust me, you keep writing vaporous delusions like this and no one will ever take you seriously as a writer. God’s a dead myth. Write about something people can believe in and relate to.”
Thomas whacked his head on the edge of the door, backing out of the car frantically to look around again.
“What the…?” he uttered in a high and frightened tremolo. He knew that voice too. His own – speaking to a creative writing student he’d had years ago. The girl had had amazing talent, but the pouf she wrote… He’d done her a huge favor, talking her out of writing that spiritual hocus-pocus. She’d had quite a bit of success with the two subsequent novels she’d gotten published. He’d been sad to hear she’d committed suicide a couple of years ago. But, writers were notoriously unstable – only the strongest survived. He’d always prided himself on his own strength to make it in this oftentimes cutthroat and nasty field of work, as well as on his ability to give readers what they wanted.
He made his way back to the front of the car, giving the still steaming radiator the evil eye. He was just going to have to wait for it to cool off, apparently. Or maybe, with a little luck, some other idiot would be taking this trip across the desert and would stop.
“She’s not just gone and I can’t just ‘get over it’ and try again,” his ex-wife Lisa sobbed. His dead ex-wife, Lisa.
Okay, so maybe he’d been a bit of an unsympathetic a-hole, suggesting such a thing a year after Lisa had miscarried their first child. But having children had been part of his “life plan” and Lisa had acted as if she’d never try again. And maybe it had been cruel to say she was holding onto a ghost when there was no God and no heaven for their dead daughter to go to. But, honestly, what kind of God would create a life and then destroy it before it took its first breath?
Thomas sank down next to the wheel of the car, shaken by the voices, by the feelings they stirred in him and by another fear he couldn’t quite put a name to.
“You loved once, Thomas. Find that love within you again,” another voice spoke, and Thomas jumped up, alarmed to see a man walking toward him.
Where did he come from? Thomas thought disconcertedly. There was no other car around. No other anything around out here.
He closed his eyes in some dizziness and suddenly there was a vision: a car veering toward him on the highway, a terrible impact, a flash of brilliant red and yellow light… and then this desert.
“Your life was broken on the inside, though flashy and luxurious on the outside, like this car. Desolate and lonely, however beautiful, like this desert. But there is life even in a desert. Sometimes you just have to search deeper to find it,” the man said.
Thomas opened his eyes again, and as the man reached out his hand toward him, he saw brilliant green grass suddenly spring from the cracked dirt and sand around him. Flowers in every color of the rainbow and other lush verdure rose up, turning the desert into a magical garden.
“You… you can forgive me?” Thomas asked in a whisper, the voices that had reminded him of where he’d not sought life still ringing in his ears and in his heart.
“Love always forgives. You just have to be willing to truly accept it and let it help you heal the wounds,” answered the man, taking Thomas’ hand.
“I am,” Thomas breathed, and the sun sparkled on the new life around him as those he’d lost gathered behind the One who’d found him, all offering the forgiveness and love that would help him heal the wound.
Writers love to hear from readers. Leave a comment, won't you? Thanks!