by MATTHEW JON
A creative writing peice for fun. .
PLAY IN THE DIRT
Our back-roads hold their washboard surface, where deep ruts that rock a vehicles suspension to the core are common and another vehicle is a rarity at best, this is the plateau of back-road freedom. A gridlock of dirt and stone, stretched in every direction. The day traffic is heavy-footed regulars, un-afraid, for good reason of cops or speed traps. The cloud makers shower yards and farms with their thick aftermath. They share your asphalt, patiently wait at lights and intersections, adhere to red octogons at 4-ways, and steady their speed according to the vehicle in front of them, then they make the long awaited turn to dirt.... They take freedom with crushed pedals that send them home with a thick, furious wave of dirt-fog chasing their bumper like chiuahas. These soccer moms, retirees, and hardworking family makers experiment with this organsmic, backroad drug daily. We feel sorry for you city dwellers, ignorant of your suburban confines and who take pride in convience. Stay there, we don' t want you here.
At night the day time regulars are tucked in their beds. On the grid, when the sun drops, the curtain rises, and their young dirt-addicted offspring take the scene. The moon is the only audience. Sobriety is kicked to the floor mat as music volume is thumbed clockwise, sending vibrations that throw the dashboard Hula into her full dance.
Headlamps grant invisibility from any traveler or occasional law-dog smelling the dirt for bones. The dust and the dark protect us from their bite and we are in control of that veil that hides us. Any change of speed grants us dust or distance to cover the tracks. Slow speeds do not attract attention like they might on asphalt, the dirt does not allow high speed after heavy traffic or rainfall. It grows pits which one learns to navigate through like a minefield.
Within the fog of our windows, our world is our own. We are absolutly lovestruck with the chaos and commradory this deserted playground grants us.