The Dead Meadow.

Wayne threw a right. The van slewed across the black road.  He slammed the brakes, the sound of slack gravel.  He pulled on the end stuck to his lips, gave the horn one long lusty honk with the flat of his hand, looked in the rearview, said, All out that’s getting out!

We were out front of a large and ramshackle pub.

I lifted the bag from between my feet, thanked him, to which he replied with a beery belch. I climbed out of the transit to the gravel. I could have kissed it. The moon was hanging in the trees. Beyond, the dead meadow. Nothing. My breath ghosted the air.


(photo: Haltwhistle. nick reeves)

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