by Jack Swenson

I am on Highway 50 just past The Summit, when I am forced off the winding road by an oncoming driver who has chosen to pass other cars that are climbing the grade. When my vehicle comes to a halt, it is hanging over the edge of a steep ravine; the car is teetering, about to lose its precarious moorings. I fling open the driver's side door and make a leap for the side of the mountain as the car topples into the abyss. I wake up on the floor by the side of the bed. I have a bump on my forehead and a cut inside my mouth; I can taste the blood. The following day I look at my reflection in the mirror and admire the rainbow of colors and wonder why they make beds that are so far off the ground.

6S - C1

Jack Swenson teaches creative writing at a Senior Center and spends most his spare time writing. His wife thinks he should be working in the yard. Check out his books at iUniverse and Amazon.

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