The trees had the look of teeth, a ragged jaw surrounding the edge of the world. The road flickered past beneath the wheels of the car, the black ribbon of asphalt a long and undulating tongue down which the pill of their car slid, saliva-slick in the rain.
They had been driving for hours. Perhaps days.
What tongue went on so long, endless ripples and sinuous curves? If this was the tongue, then what would the throat be, hen they finally reached it? If they ever reached it.
The white lines blinked and pulsed, winking like eyes in the night.
DP FICTION #5: “Not a Bird” by H.E. Roulo
5 hours ago