Daybreak by Zara Thustra, still water

 

The grey moon hangs low in the night sky, casting a pall across the valley where a sleepy suburban town lies. Down here, in OneTown, terraced houses press shoulder to shoulder along narrow streets, while birch trees shed their gilded leaves on the cold autumn wind.

Every house comes with a tessellated driveway and a privet hedge. Every house comes with a conservatory and a flowerbed. Every house comes with a back garden and a swing.

Husband, Wife, and Daughter live in one such house. In the gloom of the hall, where the grandfather clock ticks away, snapshots of their life hang on their wall of joy. This picture is at the public pool: Husband is belly-flopping to Wife and Daughter’s great delight. Here, they’re making faces at the monkeys in the zoo enclosure. Their favourite is that one over there: they’re huddled together by the newly built snowman in front of the chalet (a freezing day, but worth it, because then they had warm cocoa by the fire).

Upstairs, the family nestles in the arms of Morpheus. The parents’ bedroom lies in a veil of silence. A mosquito’s buzz blares out of the dark and tears the veil asunder. The noise hangs briefly over Husband’s head, unwavering, before trailing away to nothing – only to make another fly-past, sounding like the scraping of a fork across a metal sheet. Husband stirs under the covers. The buzzing tails off once again. Husband switches on his bedside lamp. The light encloses the bed in a warm shell, where it feels safe and comfortable, keeping the rest of the room in semi-darkness.

Weedy, with heavy bags under his eyes and greying hair, Husband belies the fresh-faced man in the family pictures. Only five years have passed, yet now he looks fifteen years older. He studies the green digits on his alarm clock and begins to fidget. Four a.m. already. He must be up for work in exactly two hours, a routine he adheres to, as does everyone else in OneTown, like the followers of a religious order.

His ears pick up a vibration in the air. Right away, Husband spots the fuzzy outline of a mosquito launch off the lampshade and then cling to the wall on his bedside. He can’t allow that nuisance to ruin his seven-hour sleep. Anything to hand to squash it? Let’s see…Yes, the black book.

Husband slips out of bed and pads up to Wife’s dressing table on the other side of the bed.

The black book, a vade mecum of standard civil behaviour, is issued by the Department of Civility of OneTown. Every family owns one, without exception. On the front cover, the following words are embossed in glittering gold:

 

DUTIES OF THE FAMILY: THE HUSBAND, THE WIFE, AND THEIR CHILD

 

Husband has second thoughts about using the black book as a swat. What would Wife think if she saw him? What about the others in town if they learned of it? As long as no one catches him, there’s no harm done.

And so, he lifts the book from its spot next to the scented candle and the lighter, then tiptoes back over to his side of the bed and slinks towards the mosquito. At the wall’s edge, he peeks at Wife – still sleeping – and slams the book down on the mosquito, which drops dead to the floor. Husband scoops it up and clasps it in his fist. Then he places the book back just so, right next to the scented candle.

Talk about stress.

Catching his reflection in the mirror, Husband’s face blanches: Lucius, naked, grins back at him. Two sides of the same coin. Unlike Husband, however, Lucius hasn’t lost an ounce of his silver lustre.

“How many more years did you believe you could ignore me?” Lucius demands. “This time, there’s no getting r—”

“No, no, no. Not again,” Husband says. Eyes closed, he grips the edge of the table. “Get away.”

He chances another look at the mirror: his own reflection. What a relief.

Quick, back to bed. This done, he hides the dead mosquito under his pillow. Good, everything is back to normal. He turns the light off and soon falls asleep.

 

* * *

 

The dripping of water, as in a cave, echoes in Husband’s ears. He pulls himself up and out of sleep, arriving not in his bedroom, but in infinite black space.

Husband feels his way in the dark, his eyes adjusting slowly. In the distance, he picks out the weak light of a lamppost. Under it, something angular juts out from the ground. As he approaches, alert for the slightest sound, the object resolves.

A headstone.

Husband peers at the inscription.

 

LUCIUS

COWARD

 

A naked figure detaches itself from the darkness. Husband’s face twists in horror as Lucius steps into the yellow light.

“Go away,” Husband says and keeps well out of Lucius’s reach. “Let me be.”

Lucius withers Husband with a stare. He creeps towards Husband, forcing him into retreat.

They circle each other.

“Let you be?” Lucius says. “Look at you. You are dying. We are dying. And you are letting it happen without a fight.” His hand shoots out, finger trained at the headstone. “I refuse to let that come to pass. It is time for you to wake up.”

Husband bumps against the lamppost behind him and comes to a standstill. “What’s there to change?” he says. “Things are what they are. That’s the way it is for everyone. Anyway, it could be worse.”

“What could be worse?” Lucius bursts into laughter. “What could possibly be worse than your so-called life?”

The lamppost light flickers off. And back on, now glowing red.

No sign of Lucius.

The loud clump of feet alerts Husband to the presence of danger. And sure enough, five white automata appear out of the shadows. They surround him. A bell tolls somewhere in the darkness.

BONG. BONG. BONG.

The automata press in on Husband through the gauze of red light: fixed smiles on their masks, arms and legs chopping the air like mechanical axes. Over the loud tolling, they parrot stock phrases at Husband, who remains trapped inside the Tenth Circle of Hell.

“The bank has granted us a loan. Are we getting the chalet?”

“Your key performance indicators are down. Give me better results.”

BONG. BONG. BONG.

“You have one more month to complete your tax return.”

“Pleeeeease say yes to Mummy. You’d be the best daddy in the world.”

“Buy our products with 0% interest-free credit.”

BONG. BONG. BONG.

Reeling from the all-out assault, Husband covers his ears to shut out the cacophony, but he makes no effort to fight back and drops to his knees. When the automata finally cluster around him, the bell falls silent, and they melt away.

“What could be worse than being always accountable to someone?” Lucius says from the lamppost. He stands Husband on his feet. “Our future is now. It’s time to burn our bridges.”

“That sounds too hard.”

“My friend, it’s easier than you think.” A smile brightens Lucius’s face. “Then the most wonderful thing will happen. We’ll be accountable only to our self. Come on, what do you say?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.” Husband looks down, avoiding Lucius’s eyes.

Lucius pushes him away. He rejoins the shadows. Then his voice permeates Husband’s thoughts. ‘“I can’t”? We’ll see about that.”

The red light blinks off.

 

* * *

x

A mosquito’s buzz breaks the silence.

Husband wakes up in the pitch-black bedroom. The grating noise thrums overhead, taunting Husband, and fades away.

“Oh, what am I going to do?” Husband berates himself. “Is there more than one mosquito? Please, no.”

He hits the light switch and lifts his pillow. The dead mosquito isn’t there. He rakes over his corner of the mattress to no avail. From the corner of his eye, he glimpses the framed picture on Wife’s bedside table: two newlyweds locked in a tight embrace. Lucius’s words haunt him.

Our future is now. It’s time to burn our bridges.

The mosquito sweeps across Husband’s field of vision, then zigzags into the shadows.

Why not sleep in the sofa? Yes. No. Otherwise, how would he explain that in the morning? He should switch on the ceiling light, then. He can’t risk waking Wife and getting caught red-handed. Argh, there’s no way around it: somehow that damn mozzie must be found.

Husband bolts out of bed and fetches the black book from the dressing table. Then he combs his bedside wall for the mosquito, though the further he sweeps along it, the fainter the light from the bedside lamp.

To his right, Wife wakes up. She clears her throat. “Honey?”

No answer.

“Darling? Are you alright?”

Jesus Christ. Can’t he be left alone for one fucking minute, without having to explain himself? In semi-darkness, reaching the bedroom corner, Husband moves leftwards on to the sidewall. His eyes straining, they roam the wall. Up and down, up and down, up—

“I’m talking to you,” Wife says from the bed behind Husband. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I’m so sorry, darling.” Husband tears himself away from the wall. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He crouches down at his bedside. “Could you please try to go back to sleep? I promise you, I’ll follow suit shortly.”

“Tell me first what you’re doing. Surely, it can wait until tomorrow, can’t it?”

Husband hangs his head. He’s never going to find that bloody insect.

The bedroom door eases open. Now what?

Rubbing her eyes, Daughter steps into the room. Wife jumps to her feet, moving to the door, and flicks the ceiling light on.

“It’s okay,” Wife says to Daughter, and hugs her close. “Your daddy can’t sleep either. He is not feeling himself.”

The mosquito whines past Husband’s head. This time Husband has a clear view: it whizzes across the empty bed to attach itself to his bedside lamp.

“Daddy,” Daughter whispers, “maybe if I give you a magic hug, you will feel better?”

Husband ignores her as the mosquito buzzes off the wall. He stomps across the bed, tossing the black book aside, his eyes locked on the flying beast. It’s now or never—

“Are you out of your mind?” Wife says.

This intrusion knocks Husband off balance; he stumbles off the bed.

The mosquito zigs over his head and zooms out of sight.

Fuck. Calm down, you are going to find it. Then things will be as they should be, and he won’t have the last laugh.

“Daddy?” Daughter takes a step forwards. “Why aren’t you answering Mummy?”

Wife joins her. “Darling, can we act like normal people and go back to sleep now?”

With nowhere to go, Husband backs into the corner of the bedroom. Images flash across his mind: the lamppost in infinite black space; the five masked figures move in on him; he drops to his knees…

The tame lion snaps back to reality.

“No.”

This simple two-letter word roars around the bedroom.

Husband draws level with Wife and Daughter at the open bedroom door, a river of tranquillity flowing through his veins. Finally, he speaks again.

“Leave. Me. Alone.”

Wife and Daughter float away like two ghosts through the doorway, disappearing into the shadows beyond.

To his surprise, Husband cracks up, his sides splitting so violently that he strains to breathe. Indeed, it is easier than he thought. He slips off his glistening gold band like a snake shedding its skin.

A renewed Lucius picks up the candle lighter from the dressing table. He snatches the black book from the untidy bed sheets. Without a second thought, he sets the book on fire and hurls it. The burning book lands on the floor with a heavy thud. Lucius watches the flames shrivel the pages until only ashes remain.

He slams out of the bedroom.

 

* * *

 

High in the hills, under the night sky, Lucius looks down at OneTown, a speck of light in the shadowy valley. His face cracks into a smile.

It is done.

He turns his back on OneTown for good, and, naked, begins to scramble up a slope through a wood of oak trees. Above the canopy, the night sky darkens to indigo. Lucius reaches the hilltop.

Far ahead of him, the sun rises over a road running through the open countryside. As Lucius climbs down the grassy slope on the other side, birdsong rings out in the summer sky. Soon, the sun reaches its zenith.

At the bottom of the slope, Lucius strikes out along the road towards his new life, shading his eyes against the brightness.

 

The Beginning

 Bio:

Zara Thustra is an English teacher who lives in Cornwall, England. He is happily married and has two beautiful daughters, Amber and Natalia. He hopes to fulfill his childhood dream of having one day a collection of his short stories published. His favourite book is Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.

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Shelter in a New World by Emma Ainley, flat Cola

 

Be careful walking across Crystalline Bridge and its ever-growing craters. North Sorilla’s hailstorms were chipping away at it. Each strike of a hailstone scratched the glass and deepened the wounds.

            Heath wanted shelter. No matter one’s stage in life, or how much money someone had, shelter was a human right. Especially during storms like this one, Ellen – people still named their storms, despite their increasingly destructive powers and growing number of victims. It felt insensitive.

            Yet, North Sorilla’s naysayers complained that ‘people nowadays aren’t tough enough.’ Apparently, young people couldn’t withstand the hailstones and their ‘little pinches’ not unlike vaccinations. Thousands of vaccinations from the sky every week, causing colds rather than preventing them.

            If the bridge collapsed, then the last of North Sorilla’s connections to the outside world would be gone. The bridge did not cross water – not until the hailstones melted, anyway. It stretched over a ravine, where the bottom smouldered and smoke clouds masked the deep drop. Good luck traversing the ravine without the bridge. And good luck trying to build any additional structure during or between the near-weekly storms.

            Climate change. A hot topic twenty years ago. A topic that North Sorilla dismissed as ‘another buzzword.’ Well, until the hailstones had grown the size of bath bombs. Until the hailstones slammed into the ground and fizzed as they melted, simmering with whatever chemicals made up groundwater these days.

            Well, North Sorilla thought, it’s too late to do anything drastic to reverse the situation. They did rid the country of fossil fuels, cars, and anything toxic or only perceived as such. However, North Sorilla focused on continuing life in its new environment, rather than undoing climate change. Enduring the weather, walking to local shops, and working and playing locally. Of course, work and play choices were limited. Work included putting out a lot of wildfires, evacuating people from floods, all of that.

‘You need something, son?’ a man called from his car window.

Shields stuck out of the car’s roof, stretching from the sides like helicopter blades. These ‘blades’ guarded the windows.

Cars. A rare sight in North Sorilla. Hybrid cars weren’t good enough for them, and they were too scared of electric car batteries to allow them anywhere further than the bridge.

‘A way out of here,’ Heath said, and the man’s lips twisted.

‘Me too. Can’t afford it. Hope you’ve got enough money.’

            ‘No. I’d rather be homeless somewhere with calmer weather.’

            ‘Heh, wouldn’t we all. The world won’t give us that anymore, son. Climate change affects everywhere.’

            True. Through no fault of his own, he, like the rest of the population, was suffering Earth’s hand-picked consequences. Heath was born a decade after climate change was deemed irreversible; he hadn’t experienced life before it.

            ‘C’mon,’ the man said. ‘Hop in. We’ll find somewhere to go. People aren’t crazy everywhere.’

            At least the man’s car was some form of shelter. Heath allowed himself to be driven into the distance.

Bio:

Born in Scotland, Emma Ainley is a student who is studying creative writing and the English language. She usually writes fantasy and speculative fiction.

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I want to break free by Georgie Arnaud, bitter cold brew coffee

 “You need to be more discreet,” Gemma whispers to Lea as they pretend to be listening intently to the CEO’s company updates.

 

“I am fucking discreet,” Lea whispers back a little too loudly, causing one of their dedicated co-workers to spin around and give them both a dirty look.

 

“I don’t think you understand what’s at stake here L.”

 

“Of course, I do, just drop it, we’ll be fine.”

 

“The people we work with are some of the nosiest people I’ve ever come across in my life, especially…” Gemma nudges her head in the direction of Angela, the dirty looker standing astutely in front of them, listening to each of the CEO’s words like they’re sustenance which gives her life.

 

“You think I don’t know that? Look, Jeremy almost saw me earlier but that’s it. Key word being almost! I am being as careful as humanly possible.”

 

Gemma and Lea spend the rest of the monthly company meeting feigning interest in the success of their sales numbers and upcoming work events, each holding onto the bliss of what awaits them on their lunch break.

 

Finally, the meeting comes to an end and they each make their way back to their individual cubicles on either side of the office. Their CEO starts to make his rounds, so Gemma and Lea both instinctively drop their heads to avoid eye contact. Barry is how you would envision any CEO of a large tech company, white, middle aged, bald and bordering on psychopathy. He hides his psycho under a strategic cheesy smile that impressively never falters, and with the use of several trips to his personal espresso machine throughout the day. The smell of his coffee lingers around him like a cloud, alongside a constant air of self-importance.

 

The lack of eye contact unfortunately doesn’t work on Barry. It never does. “Ahhh, Gemma.”

He says, slinking his way over with an impressively convincing enthusiasm that almost makes you feel bad for him. He’s trying. “It’s Gemma, isn’t it?” he asks, as Gemma spins in her chair to face him. “That’s me,” she replies, trying her best to plaster on a smile for his benefit.

 

“How are you? How’s sales treating you? And your daughter is she well?”

 

He has done his homework, Gemma notes.

 

“Great! Yeah, everything’s great, my daughter is…Well, she’s just fine.”

 

“Good, good,” he grins.

 

“I was sorry to hear about your friend, Josh, he was ughh…He was a good employee.”

 

Gemma’s stomach drops at the mention of his name.

“Yes…He was a great employee…Sorry but uhm, weren’t you in charge of those layoffs?”

Her hard expression doesn’t falter as she awaits his reaction to her question. She wanted to see him fumble, she longed to see his façade crack, even momentarily.

 

Disturbingly, his smile doesn’t drop an inch. “Not directly, no,” he responds with ease.

“Anyway, you enjoy the rest of your day Gemma.” He strides away, looking for the next lower-level employee to target.

 

“You should be more careful Gem,” Lea appears at her side a few minutes later, each of them watching Barry charm Brenda from customer service a few cubicles away.

 

“You saw what happened to Josh, I can’t afford to lose you too. We both need this job.”

 

Gemma blinks away tears with a heavy inhale. “I don’t even know what happened to his daughter L, I mean she has no parents now, Josh didn’t think much about that before he jumped of that bridge, did he? Fucking idiot he is…I mean was.”

 

Lea leans over to give Gemma’s shoulder a squeeze. “Great hair though.”

 

Gemma laughs at that. Lea always had a way of making her laugh, even amongst an office full of robotic assholes. Their humour is what bonded them initially, however, it was their mutual disgust for their jobs that cemented their inseparable friendship.

 

Lea glances to the clock at the front of the office hopefully. “Cheer up it’s almost lunch time,” she almost squeals with excitement as she dances back to her desk.

 

“Back to work ladies,” Barry yells across the office, causing the murmur of voices to disappear as they divert their attention to Barry’s authoritative disciplining. “This isn’t a dance floor Lea, this is a professional environment, your co-workers are trying to concentrate,” he says sternly, then turns to wink at Brenda who giggles quietly at his flirtation.

 

 

Gemma turns back to her desk, the fear of Lea’s words having some truth, causing her heartbeat to quicken with anxiety. She says a silent prayer, I need this job, please do not let me lose this job. She thinks of her sister who lost her job just a few months ago and hasn’t left the house since. Her two kids have had to drop out of school and become home-schooled and she is maybe a few weeks away from losing her house entirely. Gemma makes a mental note to visit her after work and deliver some food and basic necessities.

 

A sudden ding brings her out of her trance. An email notification flashes on her desktop screen. “I want in.” Is all it reads. She looks at the sender.

 

Darryl Jeffords, from accounting. Darryl is a father of three in his thirties, who, to his credit, always says good morning to Gemma on the way to his desk and gives her friendly smiles whenever they catch each other staring into space throughout the day. The friendly kind that’s not too leering, which is a rare thing for a man his age.

 

She swivels in her chair to see Darryl’s head peeking just above his desktop a couple of cubicles away. There is a quiet desperation in his eyes, she knows all too well. She sighs, then nods once in his direction. “Yes!” he yells, garnering the attention of half the office. He plays it off by muttering something about great numbers under his breath and the zombies of the office return to their screens without so much of a change in their muted expression.

 

“Meet us at the last elevator on the right at lunch time and delete this email thread after reading this.” Gemma writes back.

 

 

“Who told you?” Lea interrogates Darryl as the three of them stand waiting for the elevator at the end of the hall.

 

“No one. I promise! I just saw you two disappear at lunch every day and come back looking so…serene…and I just, I need…I need that. This place will drive you insane if you let it. You guys get that…right?”

 

Lea and Gemma look to each other in unison, sharing a silent conversation.

 

“Yes. We do,” Gemma responds.

 

The elevator finally arrives and they all pile in, each of them feeling lighter the further they get from the toxic vortex that holds them all captive for most of the day.

 

As they descend, their smiles return and the anxiety restricting Gemma’s chest all morning releases like the ripple of a stone landing in a still pond. The doors open on level 1, a floor that had been closed for refurbishments months ago but hadn’t been given the funding yet to actually complete said refurbishments. It sat idle for a while, collecting dust, until Gemma and Lea happened across it one day on their lunch break. They could no longer stand to sit in the break room in the office that offers no privacy or space to escape anyone or anything. So, they ventured to find somewhere free from the disease.

 

Darryl gasps audibly like a four-year-old seeing a jumping castle for the first time. On one side of the room is a collection of books and board games stacked as high as Darryl himself. On the other, is a record player and stereo stacked with CDs and records and an empty dance floor will a hopscotch drawn in pink chalk. Gemma strolls to the corner of the dim lit room and flicks a switch that ignites the room in different colours sprouting from the disco light sitting on the ground. He stands there, mouth agape in awe for a moment.

 

“You two are fucking awesome,” he says, collapsing into a bean bag chair situated beside the pile of books.

 

“If you tell anyone Darryl, we won’t hesitate to castrate you. We mean it,” Gemma says, shuffling through the records and landing on Queen, her eyes beginning to glimmer again with joy.

 

“Gemma, Josh and I all pitched in,” Lea says proudly, picking up a hidden box behind the record player and pulling out a pile of canvas paper and oil paints.

 

 

“My kids would love this.”

 

“Well, this isn’t for your kids Darryl,” Gemma snaps back.

Darryl ignores her, leaning back in his beanbag, content in his comfort.

 

The rest of their lunch break consists of Gemma boogying to Queen, while Lea observes, laughing as she doodles with her paints. Darryl takes a nap, his gruff snores, audible even over Freddie Mercury’s operatic vocals bouncing off the walls of the almost entirely vacant first floor.

 

 

The next day begins as any other. Gemma and Lea arrive at the office at 8am, ready for another day of the same old shit, one hour of pure freedom, and then again, the same old shit.

 

“I hope Jeff doesn’t ask me to stay late again tonight,” Lea sighs as she plonks her dishevelled handbag on her desk.

 

“You let him get away with it. The little fucker knows you’ll say yes. You just need to tell him no.”

 

“Gem, you know I can’t risk that any more than you can.”

 

Gemma glances at the zombies who’ve begun to fill their cubicles. “Hey, where’s Darryl? He’s usually here before us.”

 

Lea shrugs. “Maybe he’s sick.”

 

 

By lunch time Gemma and Lea are practically leaping from their seats. They make sure no one’s looking as they round the corner towards the elevator.

 

The elevator doors slide open when they reach the first floor, but an eerily empty room awaits them.

 

“Did we press the wrong button?” Gemma asks, a nausea beginning to course through her lower stomach.

 

Lea shakes her head, her face now an ashen grey.

 

“Where the fuck is our shit? Oh my god, they found out. They know Gem. Oh fuck. Oh no. We’re screwed, we’re going to get fired, oh my god, we’re going to be living on the streets.”

 

“Okay, calm down,” Gemma says, running her hands through her hair, staring at the empty grey room in front of them. They didn’t leave so much as a speck of dust behind.

 

“They haven’t fired us yet, right? We’re going to be fine. We’re just going to go up and pretend this never happened.”

 

Lea bends forward heaving as Gemma presses the button to the office floor. When the doors open again, Barry stares back at them, his usual unsettling grin unfaltering.

 

“Hello ladies, care to explain where you’ve been?”

 

“Uhm just uhm, well the lady’s bathroom is out of order, so we went looking for another one,” Gemma spits out, trying to hide the quiver in her voice.

 

“Ahhh I see, well I think it’s been fixed, so there’s no need to go wondering off now, we’ll all miss you too much,” he replies, giving her one of his signature winks.

 

Gemma and Lea stand staring back at him, waiting for him to let them past.

He doesn’t move.

 

“You don’t happen to know where Darryl is today, do you Barry?” Gemma asks, holding his stare.

 

“Darryl’s been relocated. He will now work for us at our branch in the city,” he says, barely moving a muscle.

 

Their anxiety resurfaces tenfold, clawing at their insides as they’re subjected to Barry’s unrelenting, lifeless, eyes. Brenda glances down at his hands tucked behind his back in the reflection of the glass behind him, she can just catch a glimpse of the words ‘Immediate Dismissal’ and Darryl’s name printed in bold red writing underneath.

 

Bio:

Georgie Arnaud originally completed her degree in journalism in Australia, but quickly realised she needed more creative freedom and room to express herself through writing. She now focuses on writing dark, existential pieces about love, pain and politics.

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All Roads by Brian MacLeod Carey, single shot of espresso

Rental car.  Tailgating.  Stick shift.  Narrow and winding roads along cliffs over Lake Como.  Speeds and acceleration far above my pay grade.  I’m fifty-something, but I’m sure my reflexes haven’t aged.  The road signs are in Italian, but I took Spanish in high school.  We’re fine.  Totally fine.  I roll down the windows and lean into the turns.  I push the engine with the anticipation that I might ‘level up’ soon.  I don’t have any previous experience racing cars, but I coerce the steering wheel as if I might just be a natural.  Life is good.  Va bene!  Ciao!

Last month, I took my family on a two-week road trip through northern Italy.  At 15 and 17 years-old, my two daughters had nothing and everything to learn.  My wife, forever 29, found joy in everything… except the driving.  She doesn’t have any previous experience in debate or legal argument but it turns out she’s a natural too!  Life is good.  Va bene!  Ciao!

Driving in Italy for many Americans is a death wish.  Not to say it didn’t have its moments, but, in the end, I found it offered up the biggest ‘aha’ moments of the trip regarding my understanding of culture.  More than visiting museums or appreciating the architecture or even eating the food - the experience of driving dawned on me in a different, but equal, way.  The word that kept coming up was empathy.  It was a new twist on an old idiom: ‘to drive a mile in another man’s car’.  An understanding and sharing of feelings with regard to others while driving is what sets them apart.  Yes, it is absolutely chaotic and fast and busy and crowded and scary, but it was in stark contrast to what I learned growing up in the states.  And the empathy was palpable.  It wasn’t that the locals were polite or necessarily friendly while driving, but that they actually shared the experience and limited space of the pavement and cobblestone.  Lanes are narrow, not just in the city.  Most people drive fast, and speed limits are just a suggestion, but the narrowness and speeds necessitated the concept of common area.  The idea of ‘what’s mine is mine’ has no place in most of Europe, but particularly not on Italian roadways.  Once I got this concept processed in my brain, and then transferred to my hands and feet working the rental car, I settled in.  The realization became a flashpoint of calm and understanding.  At least, until we hit the roundabouts.

Italian roundabouts, especially in urban centers, provoke the initial feelings of what it’s like to be in an earthquake: ‘duck and cover!’ or to be at the foot of Mt. Vesuvius while it’s throwing metal, glass, and rubber in every direction.  But, again, after a few weeks of driving I realized there was a place for me in all the flying debris.  This experience was finally validated when, on the final day of our trip, my wife and daughters actually had their eyes open when entering one.  You see, the thing is - and here is the distinction - Italian drivers actually pay attention to where other drivers are.  American roads are not designed for motorist empathy.  The lanes are so wide and distinct that most people can manage to complete a quick, or even lengthy, text before they hear any of those bumps that remind them to pause for a bit to center their vehicle in the lane.  Text, bumps, center, repeat. Say what you will in America, but in Italy lattes are for the cafe, music is for the club, and makeup is something you put on before you get in the car.

Ultimately, driving in Italy is like a series of Tangos.  You have a partner for a brief moment, and then another, and then another.  Sometimes the dance is brief, sometimes the break in between is brief (very brief), but you are working in lock step with that other driver for whatever duration is required.  And, as it turns out, Italy has some pretty good dancers.  If they ask for your hand, don’t be shy.  Prepare yourself for intimacy.  It might feel like they are squeezing your rear bumper with their front bumper.  They might be enjoying themselves, but they hope you are enjoying yourself too.  Everything is amorous and filled with possibility, romance, passion, and then agony of the arrivederci at your lane change.

On one of our last days, I received such an arrivederci from a motorist before parting ways.  Driving down a narrow country road, still thinking I’m driving at speeds way above my pay grade I see another driver quickly getting larger in my rearview mirror.  Pulling up behind me, my rear bumper gets a little squeeze.  Of course, there was no contact, but a presence, like a warm breathless whisper at the side of my neck as if to say: ‘We dance, no?’  I edged my car to drift ever-so-gently to the right and, to my surprise, the car followed my lead, sliding its way, ever-so-gently, to the left.  An oncoming car approaches, which slides my partner back in, behind me to the right.  I sway back left.  The movement is patient and kind, even tender.  Our dance continues and we move together again, me to the right, she to the left.  There is a twirl, and a dip, and a ruffling of skirt.  It is a dialog between two, improvisational movements.  The melancholic hum of a violin.  Or is that a bandoneon?  Perhaps it’s the ebb and flood of sound coming from the 1.4-liter MultiAir turbocharged four-cylinder Fiat crying out: ‘Yes! That’s it!  Work with me!’

As the driver passes me to my left I look over.  Her expression asks the question: ‘Was that good for you?’  I direct my eyes back to the road in front of me, but I roll down the window.  To let my hair flip in the wind.  Life is good.  Va bene!  Ciao!

Bio:

Brian MacLeod Carey graduated with a degree in Creative Writing from the University of Washington. He lives and writes in Seattle.
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