Evans Creek Bridge
Lester L. Weil
T he landscape was dry dead grass and empty trees. The motorcycle rider leaned into the curve on the deserted country road. The chill wind blew dry autumn leaves across the road in front of him. He hoped the rains would come soon, breaking the droughtÕs death grip.
As he made the sweeping curve leading to the Evans Creek bridge by GoodnerÕs horse pasture, a rabbit cut across the road in front of the cycle. Shep, the GoodnerÕs cow dog, was in hot pursuit. The effort to miss Shep failed and the front tire caught Shep in the hind quarters, breaking his back and throwing him to the side of the road. The rider went down. Sliding down the road, he reached up his hand and pushed the cycle off in the opposite direction, but when the cycle hit the guard rail it flipped into the air, coming down on the rider. Cycle and rider came to rest against the GoodnerÕs mailbox.
The cycle lay across his chest, his shoulder wedged against the mailbox post. He didnÕt hurt yet, but knew he would soon. He felt the blood flowing down his face and neck and smelled the hot oil as it ran out of the broken engine. The engine ticked as it started to cool. He knew this was a bad one. He tried to lift up. He felt the excruciating pain, eased back down and gave himself up to the dark.
Blood and oil mixed and pooled under the mailbox.

First published: October 1997 comments: knobs@iceflow.com