"Into The Valley Below"

The highway that wrapped around Mt. Locheaart was like a cold, coiled snake. Robert’s customized sedan rolled on as its driver marveled at the pristine yet somehow chaotic surroundings of Devereaux State Park, its peaks and valleys crisscrossed by wild rivers, a deep green so pure that it was almost blue.

Robert looked back to his side, he was momentarily distracted from the road by the beauty of his young wife Mary, as she sat, long black hair let back to fully embrace the sun, tan and barefoot upon the dash, smoking a girly joint held at a corner of her puffy, perfect, Spanish lips.

His hand on the wheel slipped.

Robert went careening off the side of the Appalachian road into the valley of deadfall below. Before he died, a strange thing happened; the fear, the dire need in his wife's eyes for him at that very moment, looking over, the expression of helplessness all over her face, it all gave him a guilty erection. A tear fell from his eye.

Then he thought of their son at home. Jack was both of them.

And as they fell, wrapped in a tight daredevil's embrace, and as the car broke terminal velocity like a spinning ballerina, Robert entered his wife’s body for the last time in his life.

They become one, infused with scrapmetal and melted rubber and smoking like a spent bullet into the valley below.