Amanda steps on the clutch and drops her hand to the gear lever, shifting up to fifth as the freeway straightens out. Surrounding her is an ocean of nodding yellow wheat with an asphalt ribbon running through it. Heading towards her on the other side of the road is an older style S class Mercedes. She recognises the shape. As it rolls closer she’s compelled, as always, to look. She studies the driver in quick glances. A hint of familiarity in the curve of his nose and the heavy shoulders quickens her pulse, but the glasses are wrong. Her gaze flicks back to the road ahead. It wasn’t him. It never is.
Author: Wend Moore
I'm a librarian with a background in fine arts and a lover of stories and clever words, and in the last few years I have begun to dabble in creating some of my own. I'm fascinated by the way different combinations of words can make us feel and I'm enjoying experimenting with that, and developing a style of my own.
A frown creased the pallid cashier’s forehead. He arched an eyebrow at the man standing in front of him. The man glared back, his eyes glowing like hot embers, a wisp of blue smoke trailing upwards from the top of his head.
It was at my grandfather’s wake, staring at the plate of sticky brown cake, when I realised nothing was as it seemed.
Detective Peter Turner paged through the contents of the manilla folder and pulled out a charge sheet. He studied it for a moment before raising his eyes to the angry, wild haired young woman on the other side of the table.
Eric slumped in the wingback chair. He traced a taloned forefinger across the bony ridges of his brow, and glared balefully at the heavy black envelope on the occasional table opposite him.