Monday, November 24, 2014

Roadside Cross

The rare motorists that stop for the pale hitchhiker with the red, sticky hair only see a crooked roadside cross in their mirrors. The cracked white paint and faded name haven’t felt new flowers in years.
  Those brave enough to exit their vehicles and investigate where the sad looking young lady disappeared to are met with an icy breeze colder and deeper than the chill of the desert night.
Doors are locked, tires spit dirt, heater on high, wide eyes frantically search the rearview mirror.
  They will never travel that stretch of road again.

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