Creative Writing

Prompt: Write down a bumper sticker you like. Desrcribe the car this bumper sticker is stuck on--make, model, year, color, condition. Open the door. Describe the smells and textures. Name three objects you find there. Name a fourth object you're surprised to find. Look up. Here comes the owner. Who, walking how, wearing what, carrying what, with what facial expression? The owner says something. What?

“My other vehicle is an X-wing.”

The only reason I stopped that I am an avid Star Wars fan. I frequently read bumper stickers, and have seen some pretty amusing specimens—one of my favorites being, “Your village called. They want their idiot back.” But I never stop and pay much attention to the car that drags the bumper sticker around.

Not that this car was really worth paying attention to. It was a common enough car—a Toyota Corolla, though I couldn’t have told you the year. Dingy blue paint clung to the sides and flaked off alternately, covering and exposing the raw metal. Grime caked the four mismatched hubcaps and “Wash Me” was scrawled multiple times through the dust coating the windows.

“I hope you take better care of you X-wing than you do you car,” I murmured to the unseen owner.

I cupped my hands above my eyes to shield the sun’s glare and peered through the finger-width lines of clear glass. It was, as I had guessed, a college student’s car. Three textbooks had been flung onto the backseat, falling over each other into piles of empty soda cans and water bottles, their landing cushioned by fast food bags and candy wrappers. Crumpled college-ruled notebook paper filled the floorboards, some stabbed through with ballpoint pens and number two pencils.

Then I caught sight of something that made me gasp. Unthinking, I reached for the door handle and pulled. It opened, and I was hit with the aroma of stale hamburgers, cold french fries, and day-old Chinese food. The vinyl seat creaked and showed signs of cracking as I rested my hand on it and leaned across the seat. I picked up the picture from off a bed of cd cases.

It had been taken nearly a year ago, at a birthday party—though you couldn’t really tell from looking at it. That party had lasted six hours and we had laughed until our sides ached. That could be attributed to all the sugar and caffeine being consumed, but it was largely the fault of my older brother, who is a comedian in denial.

I know so much about the picture because it was my birthday. My face laughed up at me from the matte-finished photo paper. There was confetti in my hair and more raining down from the hand hovering over my head. I had lost my balance and was steadying myself on the arm of my boyfriend, who smiled down at me with sparkling blue eyes.

I half-smiled, caught between the pleasant memories the picture called up and perplexity at where I had found it.

“It’s my brother’s car. I’m just borrowing it.”

I dropped the picture guiltily and backed out of the car. I misjudged how far in I was and hit my head on the doorframe.

“Ouch!” I rubbed my head and turned to see who had spoken.

He was about twenty steps away and walked with the casual confidence of a man who knows who he is and what’s happening around him. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his stone-washed jeans, and his jacket was unzipped, revealing a faded black t-shirt.

He stood about six-four, and his stride greedily devoured the distance between us. Black, tousled hair that was a few days past due to be cut brushed his collar and fell in his eyes—those same blue eyes that were in the picture. He grinned at me.

I sighed with relief and laughed aloud. “Seth!” I met him halfway and was folded into a warm embrace. My cheek pressed against the thick grey wool of his coat, and I could feel the tension that had filled me when I saw my picture in a strange car begin to bleed away.