Yellow Mama E zine

WHITEOUT

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by Ed Teja

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      Lazy, fat snowflakes floated down, dancing in the fading light and then forming lacey patterns on the hood of the car and the narrow dirt road. The snow began the delicate task of building intricate spiderwebs in the tall, dry grass and dressing the tall bloom spikes of the sotols (those little-known relatives of yuccas) in fragile mantillas that suited the way they reached to the sky in supplication from the desert floor.

      Some time ago, although she couldn’t be certain how long it had been, well away from town, she had taken her foot off the gas and let the car roll to a stop. One place being as good as another, this one surrounded her with the surreal world of high desert. Here, she sat in her battered and disconsolate Honda, parked on a deserted single-lane road flanked by a fence of haphazardly strung barbwire.

      She opened the ashtray and found a joint. Lighting it, she sat back to inhale deeply and watch the drizzle turn the dust on her windshield into intricate blossoms.

      She listened to the soothing staccato beat of it falling on the roof and felt its cold touch as it splattered her arm through the open window.

      A cold front was coming in, moving fast, squeezing heavy, dark clouds against the mountains behind her, producing this drizzle of rain. But the temperature was falling fast, turning the rain into icy slush and then, finally, into snow that fell in big, fat flakes.

      It was a beautiful scene, a setting for some extravagant party—the one she had dressed for. Her thin, sleek, black silk cocktail dress had made her feel sexy.

      Not that it mattered now.

      Nor did it suit the cold.

      Trembling, she drew a long drag, and her fingers felt the heat from the ember. The damn thing had already burned down to her fingers, and it hadn’t even given her a slight buzz. If she'd thought to bring a roach clip . . . but she flicked it out onto the dirt road. Then she rolled up the window and turned on the Honda’s heater.

      Outside, the heavy wind-driven snow fell, steadily beginning its task of reshaping the world, blotting out everything. It was already covering the landscape with a soft coating of white that obscured the sharp points on the barbwire fence, hiding them, and giving the rocks and brush smooth, bland contours that blurred their lines. The snow gave the world a sad and lonely look.

      Like her life.

      She had let it happen. She’d seen his deceit and lies accumulating like the snow, confusing the contours of her life. He’d blanketed her world, covering, muting, even blunting her sharp edges.

       Tonight, he’d pushed her too far.

       She extended her index finger, reaching out to tap on the window, enjoying the hard click of her long, silver-flecked fingernail against the glass. Putting her lips close to the glass, she watched her warm breath condense on it, blossom out into strange patterns, then shrink back to nothing.

       With her windshield cloaked in snow, she let out a long breath of discontent. Turning her head to face the window, she looked out at the dark world into the swirling cold. This moment was working out perfectly. But she had to act.

       She opened the door and got out. The snow felt sharp, yet wet on her bare feet. Walking behind her car, she pictured herself as seen from a distance. For a moment, she thought she might even see herself clearly for once. For once, the future was clear.

       She opened the trunk and stared at the strange, blank look on his face. This whiteout would suit him, suit that look. When spring came, the sun would melt the snow, and someone would find him.

       But she’d be gone. Far away.

 

 

Ed Teja is a full-time writer and part-time martial arts instructor. A member of The Short Mystery Fiction Society, his recent publications include stories in Black Cat Weekly, Punk Noir, Yellow Mama, Black Petals, Wyldeblood, Anotherealm, Mystery Tribune, and several Crimeucopia anthologies. He is a finalist for this year's Shamus Award for short PI fiction.

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Luke Lester is an artist and writer from Victoria, Canada. He has recently been published in Paragraph Planet. Some of his writing and art can also be found on his blog: The Other Place.