Short Stories

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The moon shone brightly as he drove on into the night. He was supposed to have been home at ten O’clock, but tonight he was going the other way. It would be a long time before they noticed he was gone. Ten more minutes and he would be there. He had crossed this particular bridge many times. And he knew exactly where the weak spot in the fence was, where the car could crash through and plunge him into the river. He had planned carefully for this moment, and knew what he was going to do. He had had enough - it was time. A smile crept across his face as he raced toward the bridge. Bruce Cockburn blared on the stereo as the miles disappeared behind him. “Mighty trucks of midnight moving on....moving on.”

He would miss parts of his life. It certainly wasn’t all bad, had been pretty good at times. It was hard for him to sort out and separate the tapestry his life had become. He wasn’t sure what had happened - but he knew what he had to do. There was no other way. His family would be well cared for. The funeral would certainly be meaningful - wished he could be there. People would probably say a lot of nice things – perhaps his wife would even reinterpret their life together in a positive way, a bit easier with life insurance money on the way. With this thought he sighed, surprised by his own sarcasm. He had learned just how much of an asshole he could be. As Wendell Berry had taught him, he had seen the damage and realized that much of it ‘was his own.’ But it was over now, the time had come.

There it was ahead, glinting in the headlights - the bridge. His pulse quickened as he raced toward it, toward the break in the fence. This was it. He braced himself as he rammed through and then plunged toward the water. The car landed front first, with a crash that rattled his bones. He was now beyond the point of return - he had made his choice. He could taste blood in his mouth, running down his throat.

The car floated for a while, then began to sink, deeper and deeper into the cold water, toward the abyss, the dark bottom of the river. As he gathered his wits, he wrestled to unbuckle the seatbelt, and then sat silently as the car filled with water. It was cold, and he felt it all, the darkness, the quiet, the loneliness. When the car had filled with water, he was able to open the door, and he swam toward the surface, his lungs burning for oxygen. He broke the surface with a gasp, and began to move downstream floating on his back. Looking up at the stars, he remembered the days of his youth when he used to swim and fish rivers like this. That was a long time ago, a different world, miles and miles away. The moon cast shadows along the shore, creating figures and shapes. It was as if he were being watched by a silent audience, a gathering he couldn’t quite see. There was so much noise, crickets, frogs, whatever - a choir hovering above the silence. And he kept floating.

In the distance he saw a fire and swam toward it, washing up onto the beach. He lay there for a while catching his breath. He was cold, having lost most of his clothes in the struggle to reach the surface. Standing up he began to walk toward the fire, toward the warmth. He sat down alone – whoever had made it was now gone. And he wondered what he was going to do, now that the time had come.

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