The dust trail following her pick-up enveloped everything behind her, like driving through one world and into another. Mel knew she should slow down, but the anger drove her foot onto the peddle. Had the floor under the gas been weaker, she’d have shoved her foot through it like Fred Flintstone.
Twelve miles to pavement was a good thing, for maybe she’d burn it out by then. Otherwise, God help anyone innocently driving on the little two-lane highway. It wasn’t one thing that had brought this uncontrollable rage, but months of shoving down someone else’s crap. It’s just that this last load had triggered an avalanche that was now careening down the dirt road.
Being a writer and writing the setting that I know and love, fiction is often mistaken for non-fiction. But I thank you none-the-less for your love!
Have been there myself… ages ago… a poignant reflection, Sally. Love to you and Robert ❤️❤️
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