Those Who Live in Grass Houses

Car

Car

“No, don’t come out, you d…”

The world is reduced to a sound, a loud, horrendous, gut-tearing bang, a frozen moment like the neck of an hourglass when the infinite passes through as a grain of sand and nothing exists beyond this assault on the eardrums and awareness.

Then the world through the windscreen turns slowly upside down as movement flashes back into existence. He is reminded of One Acre Fair when the field was filled with amusement rides and their tinny music and the screams of fear and delight from the revellers and his boyhood self wandering though the crowds, hand in pocket and playing with the few coins he’d saved for this time when the carnival came to town and set up their crazy rides once more.

There was never enough money for all the things he wanted, but he ruled out the really insane ones without a thought. He saw little joy in scaring himself to death by being hurled through space and turned upside down and twisted into sick-making convolutions of supersonic movement. No, he preferred to have at least some control, a wheel to turn or a direction to lean into a predictable alteration of course. The dodgem cars were always top of the list and then the Whip, that was a must do.

Don’t forget about the sideshows too, the rifle gallery and the coconut shy and other things where you stood a chance of winning something. So many things to do and try and just these few coins to buy his way to adventure.

He becomes aware of a sound increasing in magnitude, a tearing, shrieking sound that penetrates the ear with its high-pitched scream like a million fingernails scraping across a chalkboard, setting his mind on edge with the desperate wish for it to stop. The world is still upside down and he wonders why he is not falling, then remembers the belt holding him fast to the seat. His hands are still holding the wheel and now the roof is beginning to press down on his head, not fiercely but firmly, just requiring that he bend forward a little. Sparks are flying by the side window, a river of bright light.

And now he is trapped in one of those X-ray machines at the dentist where the head is held in a vice-like grip while the machine travels round his face, humming to itself. It’s too tight, it’s going to crush him like a stinkbug, he feels the panic rising as he tries to escape the pressure but he cannot move. The machine does not care as it traverses its unhurried path before his eyes, ignoring his fluttering eyes and need to twist against the immovable hold that forces him to be still.

Outside, the shrieking noise ceases suddenly, and he can see that they, the car with himself inside, have left the road and burst through a hedge. As if in a dream, the ground trundles by, inches from what is now the top of the windscreen and he wonders where the front of the car has gone, unless it is ploughing its furrow through the earth as they travel, so slowly above it. And yet it is not slow, for he can see that twigs and flowers and seedheads are being stripped off the vegetation as they pass, like some monstrous lawnmower blade slicing its way though their ranks, and the clippings all leaping and somersaulting lazily through the air past his face. The screen must have gone, he realises, and now notices that thousands of little pieces of glass are jumping and playing with the clippings in their flight.

And then he is marching out to the front lawn, carrying the old mower in one hand, determined to get that lawn mowed, as though this time it would stay mowed forever. As usual, he has left it too long and the grass fights the mower, choking it at times, so that the chore becomes hard labour, which is why he always puts it off so long. But now, when the worst of it has been done, he is beginning to find enjoyment in the patterns he is making. Should he mow in a spiral, gradually drawing in from the edges to the centre? Or should he do it in lines laid side by side like soldiers on parade, or even try to make more complex designs on the little square of lawn?

Through the screen an upside down tree is approaching, the car drawn to it with unerring aim. It is a big tree and it will stop this wild career, he knows that. There is a massive quality to its trunk that denies the possibility of it ever being defeated.

He wishes that he could identify its type but he knows so few varieties, only the usual and easy ones like oak and copper beech and rowan and silver birch. Colour does help, obviously, but tree people seem to think it’s the shape that matters and show you pictures that are supposed to make it clear which is what but only look identical to him.

And now the tree is getting close and still they are travelling way too fast as the vegetation sails gently by his face to show that this leisurely pace is an illusion, a function merely of the mind speeding up with the adrenaline it is soaked in. He can see every detail of the bark as they draw ever nearer, the rough and deeply pitted crannies, the lichen and moss scattered in grey and green competition of life.

He realises they are too close and at this speed they are g…


Word count: 952
For The North Remembers, Travel Marvel Prompt 13
Prompt: Set your entire story in a car.