by Christina Marie Glessner

The little white hatchback was having a fine day. Today was cooler than the last two. The little white hatchback was able to bask in the southern California sun without its interior becoming the oven it had been on Thursday and Friday. It was able to sleep in late and still make some runs before lunch. Now, however, while resting in a quiet plaza, nothing on its mind but the oil cooling in its pipes and breeze washing through the leaves of palms overhead, dancing to the inexplicable toon of running water, something unexpected happened. The little white hatchback felt something in its gut move. It wasn’t a dramatic movement. More like a small click. A swish. But this small action brought everything else into motion. Rotors turned. Axel rolled. And the little white hatchback found itself driving, for the first time, without the familiar weight that usually filled its seats. It tried to ignore this emptiness, to focus instead on the pull of tires on pavement, but soon the movement was stopped by another car, also empty, the little white hatchback’s face pressed into the other car’s face, and there was nothing left but silence and waiting.

Christina Marie Glessner received her BA in Creative Writing from Susquehanna University and her MFA from the University of New Mexico. Her poetry and prose have appeared in the Summerset Review, Prick of the Spindle, and a Crack the Spine Anthology. She grew up in the heights and valleys of northeastern Pennsylvania and currently lives and writes on a small desert ranch in southern California.