Road Hazard by Justin Langford

As this rinky-dink car stopped and started through the bustling streets of various townships on the way to downtown Chicago, I could taste the chalky residue of enamel flaking loose from my back molars, crunching like ice cubes in a blender, syncopating with the squeaky brakes of the asshole in front of us (yes, US, the girlfriend and I, pushing the daylight between the treetops behind us). The rattling of the control arm in our car’s front axle was bleating out Morse code to the unobservant travelers beside us: “Watch out, asshole!” “Geh outta here wid dat!” “Hey y-y-y-you nitwit!” I screamed; my wet tongue slashed at aspirations and beheaded every driver as our hot rod cut through the streets like a plastic knife through a brick.

Suddenly, I noticed a fancy upsurge of dandelion dust in the distance. As cars passed by it, little tufts of fluff twirled and danced like dreamtime cotton caught in a wild whirlwind. As I approached, I saw a misplaced bump in the road. It blended in with the asphalt: that dank tar color we paint our commute with. Fresh blood was weeping from this hump and hot chunks of simmering meat glistened in the sun. From the lump, a wing flopped carelessly at the passing cars: their undersides getting a feather-dusting for not running it over. As both driver-side wheels thumped over the road’s contusion, I wondered if its beak was wedged between the tread. “Ew,” my girlfriend moaned, detached from the clump’s fate. Then the back windshield erupted with an explosion of bright confetti, pirouetting around the slinking sunset.

© Justin Langford

Justin Langford is an English tutor at a community college and resides in Elgin, Illinois.

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