The steam rose up with an angry hiss, like an over inflated snake, venting it’s frustration. The car’s engine coughed to a halt. Then began the slow tick, tick, tick sound of the engine’s metal cooling. Nothing says final like that last expulsion of air from a motor’s exhaust.
We rolled into the side of the road using the last of our momentum. All that hard work pushing us forward over so many miles, gone in a moment. All those thousands of years of geology, patiently forming the crude oil needed to propel us on our way. Wasted now that the vehicle lies broken and useless by the side of the dual carriageway.
Dad slammed the door shut, with much more force than needed, as if he was showing the car his displeasure. It was almost as if he believed an inanimate object (and this vehicle was definitely as inanimate as a dodo) could be swayed by such a show of bile and raw frustration. He gingerly lifted the bonnet to study the innermost workings of it’s previously strong beating heart. It was as if he had some clue as to what he would find there, maybe even some inherited male knowledge that would enable him to fix it.
“Dad, you’re an accountant. Not a mechanic!” I exclaimed from the relative safety of the rear seat. He gave me a look and I fell silent.
After a sharp intake of breath through his front teeth, in the time honoured fashion made popular by people of the automobile repair industry, he seemed to come to a decision. You could almost believe the extra oxygen gained by his latest action, had powered his brain to form the necessary connections, to eke out the strands of logic and formulate his Master Plan.
“OK,” he said, loudly clapping his hands. “There’s nothing else for it.” By way of emphasising the finality of this decision he closed the bonnet once more and admitted defeat on that front. “It’s only a couple of miles, everyone grab a bag, we can walk, can’t we?”
And so, the holiday from hell began.
I think I should explain about the origins of this story. I am taking an adult class at our local college in a last ditch attempt to gain a GCSE in English. A necessary skill, according to our tutor, is creative writing. And so, half an hour before our first lesson finished, we were shown the picture at the top of this page and were set the task of using it as inspiration for a short story.
With, I have to admit a small amount of swagger and no less aplomb I ‘had at’ the challenge with the same amount of enthusiasm normally shown by a buckler of swash upon boarding a vessel of the King’s Navy.
The result is the text you can see above. I am pleased with it, but I feel it is not for me to judge. Your comments and any errors you can point out will be most gratefully received as always.
Yours
Bernie
A Life On The Shelf 