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The Phantom Poetic


I can even drive with one hand on the wheel. I have to. I need to
be prepared to subdue my unwilling passenger if necessary.
“What are you doing?” Brenda screams as the sight of my
destination becomes clear even in her hazy state of mind.
I twist the wheel of the station wagon suddenly and the car veers
crazily over the road. I laugh, feeling the madness in my voice and loving it.
The highway is all down hill from here. Every inch of it is lined
with evergreen trees, and at the bottom, our destination.The hairpin curve is
guarded by a weak and soon to be proven ineffective guardrail.
Brenda’s face pales as I push down on the gas pedal.
The added fuel increases our rate of descent until the
speedometer is hovering as far to the right as it can go.
“Stop it! Stop! You’re mad! You’ll kill us both!” She screams again
in her high pitched, typically female soprano. It is a pathetic little voice to
enjoy the rush of speed to.
“Mad am I?” I jeer. “Look at me misses, take a good look and tell
me who’s mad.”
She attacks with a drunken lunge. I parry the blow easily.
Her station wagon smells like mothballs. I hate that. It was
probably dust stirred up by the speed, but I don’t care. I know what I hate.
“Around the corner and across the bend lies the journeys end.” I
cackle as Brenda attempts to focus her glassy eyes on my shadowy figure.
She doesn’t say much, she is speechless actually. But then, what can
be said in her situation? Very little. Not that it matters, soon she’ll be
silenced forever and I will be free...
Brenda, the butterfly collector, the almost perfect environmentalist, will
soon become one with nature.
The curve looms large through the windshield. An old cracked,
windshield I notice as I crank the wheel toward her doom. The glass is just
as ugly as the rest of this wretched wagon. The world will be a better place
without it.
We are airborne, hurtling over the edge, off the mountainside
highway. The sight below us is a beautiful postcard forest scene. It looks a
lot like the forest where I had been captured once upon a time.
You might say that I had become a genie in a bottle. The main
difference between a genie and me is that I only grant my own murderous
wishes.
I drift upward and out of the open car window.
The car, like her scream, seems to hover in the air for a split
second, and then it plummets rapidly downward toward the waiting trees.
I can feel myself being yanked down before the car finally hits the
ground.
The vehicle explodes in a brilliant orange fireball that
contrasts nicely with the early morning mist that hovers over the
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