Robert Quick

Where the -@!# did my muse go?

Writer, dreamer, knight, shackled by entertainment . . . and people.

Daryl scrubbed at his skin wishing it were lighter. White would be good but no amount of bleach would make it look natural. Lighter skin could him safe passage in and out of Louisiana as long as no one looked too closely, which they would. Paranoia fueled their vigilance. Plus, everyone traveling during a thunderstorm was a suspect. State troopers would assume that blacks and criminals would be using the storm as cover which would bring out their cruelty for having to "outwit" a black man.

Rain hammered the windshield of Daryl's '52 Austin. Despite that, the air was hot as breath on his neck. Balling up his pocket handkerchief, he dabbed sweat away from his brow, conscious that the cloth would become a sodden mess before he stopped sweating.

A pair of headlights appeared in his rear view mirror. Steadily they grew closer until they were only two car lengths behind him. Snarls of lightning unraveled across the sky, revealing the whiteness of the car's roof. Mile after mile passed and still the car followed.


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