The grey lit up behind fluttering lids. Slowly they open. The morning is blue and fresh, but there is no joy. She looks over at him, form weighed with life and reason he stares down the stainless road, the lines on his face are still there. But despite everything, his hand finds hers.
They do not speak.
They had been driving all night, and would continue to drive.
They still wait for someone to tell them where they are going.
Behind them is a trail of grime and sweat and fruitless dreams.
Ahead is only the green of the land, the coal of the highway, and the hope in their hearts.
I'd like to see short flashbacks of what they're leaving behind. It has the potential for an "e-story" for a recount of the past and then their dive into the uncertain future.
ReplyDeleteOr you could make it a poem.
Very poetic, like a prose poem.
ReplyDelete(also reminds me of "The Way" by Fastball.)