One For The Overpass

By Mary Fewko

A Pastor is trying to find his daughter Caroline, who is living under an overpass and dealing with an addiction to methamphetamine. Meanwhile a police officer is assigned to pose as a troll on the internet...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Fewko
• Release date: Nov 30, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370606313

Mary Fewko

I truly hope you all enjoy your time spent with my work! Thanks for visiting my Smashwords page!"Love. Fall in love and stay in love. Write only what you love, and love what you write. The key word is love. You have to get up in the morning and write something you love, something to live for." -RAY BRADBURYALL RIGHTS RESERVED for any published poetry or short stories by Mary Fewko.

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ONE FOR THE OVERPASS

A Short Story written by Mary Fewko

This short story is a work of fiction.

All content was provided by the author's imagination.

Copyright © November 2016 by Mary Fewko

First SMASHWORDS edition © 2016

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ®

It's oddly snug in the vein of the highway road. Living underneath the overpass, a few girls in rags and hoodies slept or drank or mainlined upon the tiny scaffold by the ladder built around the bridge pillar. Lounging so high in the air allowed them to stay high all week. Uninhibited from judgment, from police harassment, on any given night a dirty syringe would fall some thirty-seven feet to the ground on the cars driving wherever they were driving...

They considered their nest like a concrete tree house. The rush of cars drowned out from the rush of shot meth. The extraordinary structure practices, embraced from Japanese earthquake-proof constructionists, made the setting unexpectedly still.

You know I found a quarter! Trixie said with stoner eyes, hands rubbing her flask of gin like a genie bottle.

You did?

Yeah, it's right here. As if delayed to her revelation, Trixie took out the quarter and handed it to Caroline.

So shiny, Caroline felt like a kid again, Mount Rushmore on the back! South Dakota. I've never been. This image is weird. Caroline scrutinized the details. This face on the side. Washington? The way it’s angled, he looks like some colonial ruler. British monarch or something. And this other character next to him. The way the sculptor is repelled down across the eyeball... looks like the holy lance image.

You're so smart Caroline. Trixie said with an enormous smile.

That's what you think, hon. Caroline disavowed her commitment to a life of drug escape. "I think there's supposed to be an Indian statue being built not far from Mount Rushmore. American Indian. God. Hard to believe last Thanksgiving we saw natives, the bloodlines of American Indians being hosed down in twenty-degree weather. Horrifying. Caroline shivered. A massive truck wailed by under their feet on the road below. Even if I gave up drugs, the euphoric escape, I mean, what kind of life would I be returning to? My problems would still be around and the world's ugliness would still be around. My friends would still judge me. American Indians being attacked on thanksgiving, public shootings shown on the news in quality footage, everybody's lives at danger, I mean, we're better off like this." Caroline suddenly pardoned her drug escape.

Isn't that like, say, some plan the people with power have? Keep us all doped up and coked up and boozed up? That way the prisons can be built around us, and like, say, we don't even see the walls rising?

They'll always find a way to keep us down. Destiny is rigged, Trixie. The rich are immortal. They'll live forever. That's what money buys you.

"The