Chapter 17
Disintegration
Diana Friedman
Southbound 270 from Germantown is still heavy, and toward the lane divide, the crash is to the far left. Yet Jake continues driving alarmingly fast, somehow oblivious when a truck sideswipes them, causing the car to swerve onto the shoulder, tip onto two wheels, and then pitch onto its side, smashing the door inward and trapping Jonah in the backseat. Jeannie climbs out her window, waving frantically for help as smoke pours from the hood. This must be Washington, D.C., because no one will pull over to help and she cannot get cell coverage, her voice hollow as she descends into hysteria until, pushed by the shrillness of her own voice, she is thrust into the morning.
Jeannie shuts off the clock radio, the remnants of the traffic report still mingling with the dream. It’s been like this nonstop the last few weeks, the intensity of her dreams increasing exponentially, sleep scarcer than ever. On top of that, the second short story has taken on a life of its own, waking her up at all hours with full-steam dialogue. Of course, she’s not helping matters by staying up past midnight to answer its call, nor does the fact that a few days ago, a third one hatched, this trio the beginning of something good, something cohesive—a collection of stories or, dare she even think it, the middle chapters of a novel.
In the early morning silence, torrents of embryonic phrases filter through her semi-consciousness as she reaches for her notebook. It’s only five minutes, but five minutes it is, because aside from locking herself in the bathroom and the fifteen-minute Metro commute, there is no other time to steal, except at night, but that sleep deficit is growing dangerous. Last Wednesday, at Shoppers Food Warehouse, she’d almost hit a woman in the parking lot. It was dark, raining hard, and she had been driving Jake’s car, bigger and slower than hers, so it wasn’t totally due to exhaustion. Then again, she’d been driving his car because, two days earlier, she’d gotten halfway to CVS not realizing she’d left the emergency brake on, until she pressed hard to slow the car and it didn’t respond. She’d pulled over, her hands trembling around the wheel. The Honda now awaits a new brake drum to the tune of three hundred dollars. Jake would be considerably irked if he knew why.
READ THE WHOLE EXCERPT HERE...
Jeannie shuts off the clock radio, the remnants of the traffic report still mingling with the dream. It’s been like this nonstop the last few weeks, the intensity of her dreams increasing exponentially, sleep scarcer than ever. On top of that, the second short story has taken on a life of its own, waking her up at all hours with full-steam dialogue. Of course, she’s not helping matters by staying up past midnight to answer its call, nor does the fact that a few days ago, a third one hatched, this trio the beginning of something good, something cohesive—a collection of stories or, dare she even think it, the middle chapters of a novel.
In the early morning silence, torrents of embryonic phrases filter through her semi-consciousness as she reaches for her notebook. It’s only five minutes, but five minutes it is, because aside from locking herself in the bathroom and the fifteen-minute Metro commute, there is no other time to steal, except at night, but that sleep deficit is growing dangerous. Last Wednesday, at Shoppers Food Warehouse, she’d almost hit a woman in the parking lot. It was dark, raining hard, and she had been driving Jake’s car, bigger and slower than hers, so it wasn’t totally due to exhaustion. Then again, she’d been driving his car because, two days earlier, she’d gotten halfway to CVS not realizing she’d left the emergency brake on, until she pressed hard to slow the car and it didn’t respond. She’d pulled over, her hands trembling around the wheel. The Honda now awaits a new brake drum to the tune of three hundred dollars. Jake would be considerably irked if he knew why.
READ THE WHOLE EXCERPT HERE...