Ozymandias: A Christmas Story
By M. P. Ceran
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Ozymandias - M. P. Ceran
kings’
Stardust
The dirt green Chevy slowed to a crawl, one headlight shining high and slightly off-center directly onto the big, red stop sign at the intersection of Highway 109 and Route 61 just south of Amarillo. The stars shone with unusual clarity in the cool dry air, and it was difficult to tell just where the sky stopped and the desert began out on the midnight blue horizon. It was a calm night, and the silence was near deafening, interrupted occasionally by a gust of wind pulling at the ever-present dust and detritus alongside the road.
The car seemed to be running more on inspiration than gasoline, wheezing like an old burro as it came to rest on threadbare tires. Two slight figures huddled inside, barely visible through the dust-caked windows, softly whispering to one another in thick Spanish accents. Their conversation was infrequent but intense and filled with measured anxiety.
As the car came to a stop, the woman suddenly let out a hushed but poignant cry then took in a quick deep breath, eyes wide with pain and full of expectation.
What is it, Maria?
asked the young male driver, looking nervously and lovingly at his wife of just less than one year. He tried acting calm, but she could clearly see in the muted light reflected from the stop sign that his eyes mirrored the same fear and expectation as hers.
It’s nothing, José,
she said in a reassuring tone. Just some gas pains, I think.
As soon as the words left Maria’s lips, another sharper contraction stabbed at her swollen belly, and she bolted upright while leaning heavily on the back of her seat, forehead beading with sweat.
Upon seeing his wife’s obvious distress, José hastily looked around the intersection, searching for indications of any sort that might lead to a refuge. He needed to find a place that would provide the possibility of help if his wife’s situation progressed to its inevitable conclusion this night. His outward gaze met nothing but black asphalt and stars as far as he could see in every direction.
To his right, the faint glimmer of a strange light softly shone from further up the road. It was an odd sort of glow that seemed to sparkle as it fell to the ground, repeating in an endless pattern. With no other choices in sight, he gunned the Chevy, valves knocking and tires whining in protest at the sudden urgency placed upon them. The car listed heavily as he made a sharp right turn, heading toward the mysterious sparkling light in the distance.
Damn it, Harry!
came the shrill voice from the immaculately dressed passenger in the front seat of the sleek black Mercedes. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn it!
She had added that last one for emphasis, keeping both fists clenched.
A momentary silence passed; then a cool and unemotional response came from the driver. I believe that’s a record, dear.
The woman snapped her head in his direction and looked at the equally well-dressed man sitting behind the steering wheel. She raised one eyebrow, wondering what on earth her husband could possibly be referring to. Harry glanced to his right, caught her gaze briefly, and without missing a beat, said with emphasis, I mean, that’s a ‘damn’ record.
Both eyebrows now raised, Gladys Wilson looked at Harry Wilson with the shock and awe given to an unexpected guest at a bridge party.
I mean the number of ‘damns’ you just said. I believe your previous record was four in a row, and I just counted, hmmm, five? Or was it six?
Harry raised one eyebrow as the last word left his lips.
Her expression quickly went from shock to indignation. The only thing keeping Gladys from screaming out at the top of her lungs in utter frustration was the fact they were just pulling into the parking lot of a roadside café, flattened right rear tire flapping ominously on the rim.
Earlier she had noticed the unique noise a tire suddenly losing air makes coming from behind her seat. She and Harry had simultaneously seized on the idea that the right rear tire was going flat and known they had better quickly find a place from which they could call a repairman. Normally, a spare would have been in the trunk, but Gladys had insisted they remove it in order to pack more Christmas presents for their trip. Harry opted not to mention this poorly planned idea after seeing his wife’s obvious distress when she realized they would now be arriving much later than planned