Less than a minute

Life can pass you by in fragments before it's all over.

The paramedics would later say it lasted forty-seven seconds from impact to silence.

To me, it lasted a lifetime.

They say that when you’re about to die your life flashes before your eyes. Whoever coined that phrase was a liar. There was no flash. No bright montage or speeding reel of memories. Instead, I got fragments; carefully chosen glimpses that felt real enough to touch. I didn’t just see them. I lived them again.

The steering wheel vibrates beneath my hands as I cruise slowly down Maplewood Drive, engine humming like a satisfied animal. The scent of polished leather and gasoline fills the cabin of my dream; the 1967 Corvette Sting Ray. Burgundy metallic paint, gleaming like wet wine beneath the afternoon sun. Orange and yellow flame decals stretch along the sides like they’re chasing the wind even when I’m barely pushing twenty-five.

The engine purrs, and the sound alone pulls me somewhere else.

I’m eight years old, sitting cross legged on the carpet of our childhood living room. The air smells like microwave popcorn and lemon furniture polish. A tiny Hot Wheels Corvette sits in my palm, identical to the one I’m driving now. I roll it across the carpet, making engine noises through missing baby teeth while my brothers crash monster trucks into couch legs behind me.

“Your car’s dumb,” Jake says, laughing.

“It’s not dumb,” I protest, clutching the toy tighter. “It’s fast. It’s gonna be my car someday.”

Tim, already the peacemaker even at ten, nudges Jake. “Let him have it, man. It’s cool.”

Back in the present, I smile as I slow near the four-way stop. The Corvette idles patiently, as if remembering that promise alongside me.

The sunlight glints off the hood, and suddenly it melts into fluorescent grocery store lights. I’m sixteen, standing in line with my mom. She smells like lavender soap and peppermint gum. I’m taller than her now, but she still reaches up and squeezes my shoulder.

“You work too hard,” she says.

“I barely do anything,” I answer.

She pulls me into one of her hugs, tight, safe, unbreakable. I feel the scratch of her sweater against my cheek and the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. That hug lingers like a blanket around my chest even as the memory fades.

The Corvette rolls forward. My foot taps the brake gently as I turn onto Oakridge Lane, the final stretch of my test drive. My brothers’ laughter echoes in my head before the next memory drags me under.

We’re in my garage three months ago. The place smells like motor oil, welding sparks, and cheap pizza. The Corvette sits between us in pieces, hood off, engine exposed like open-heart surgery.

Tim wipes grease from his hands with a rag. “You’re nuts for this paint job, you know that?”

Jake snorts from beneath the chassis. “Flames? Really? Midlife crisis much?”

“It’s not a crisis,” I argue. “It’s art.”

We work late into the night, trading stories, arguing over music, laughing until our ribs ache. For the first time since we were kids, we aren’t just brothers by blood, we’re friends again. That memory wraps around me like warm summer air.

The present snaps back into focus.

The Corvette glides past trimmed hedges and chalk-covered sidewalks. Somewhere, a lawn sprinkler ticks rhythmically. My fingers tap the steering wheel in time with the music playing low on the radio.

And then...

Movement.

A blur of blue shirt and tiny sneakers explodes from between two parked SUVs.

A child.

My foot slams the brake. Tires scream, rubber burning against asphalt. Time fractures.

In the split second between heartbeat and impact, another memory surfaces, not pulled from the past, but from a moment earlier today.

Jake leaning against my garage door, arms crossed. “You gonna be careful with that thing, right?”

“It’s just a neighborhood drive,” I’d said.

Tim had tossed me the keys with a grin. “Still...you waited your whole life for this car. Don’t wreck it five minutes after finishing it.”

I’d laughed. “Relax. I’ve got this.”

Now the child’s eyes are wide, frozen in terror. He’s too close. The car won’t stop in time.

Forty-seven seconds stretch into eternity.

I remember promising myself I’d always protect people if I could.

The child trips.

The distance between my bumper and his small body collapses to nothing.

There is only one choice.

My hands jerk the wheel hard to the right.

The Corvette obeys instantly...too perfectly. The back tires lose traction. The world spins sideways in a blur of sky, pavement, and crimson hood. The engine roars like a wounded animal as centrifugal force crushes me against the door.

The tree fills my windshield.

The child disappears from view. Safe. Running. Alive.

The impact is thunder.

Metal folds inward with a shriek that vibrates through bone. Glass bursts into glittering stars that hang impossibly still around me. The seat belt digs into my chest like a steel fist. Airbags explode with the scent of burnt powder and nylon.

Time slows further.

I hear the engine coughing, then sputtering, then fading into silence. The taste of copper fills my mouth. Warmth spreads across my ribs.

I’m back in the grocery store again, but my mom is hugging me tighter this time. I bury my face into her shoulder, inhaling lavender and peppermint, wishing I could stay there forever.

Then I’m in the garage, grease stained and laughing with my brothers. Jake flicks a wrench at me. Tim shakes his head, smiling.

Then I’m eight years old, pushing that tiny Corvette across the carpet, making engine noises and dreaming of a future I finally reached.

The memories don’t flash. They settle around me like pages of a book closing gently, one after another.

The world outside the shattered windshield grows quieter. I hear distant shouting. Footsteps. A child crying, but alive. Definitely alive.

Relief floods me stronger than pain.

And for the first time in my life, everything becomes still.


Word Count: 994
Written for: "The Writer's Cramp" 
Prompt: Write a story or poem about anything you like - but everything that happens takes place in less than one minute.