Dashing through the night

By Kerstin Lindros.

I mutter some four-letter choice words, slam the car door and speed off. Growl at my passenger, although he hasn’t done anything. I make sure he’s alright under his blanket and strapped in safely.

Full of envy I think of all those sharing Christmas Eve cheer with family and friends, while I’m hurtling down the country road after cancelling our customary round. With the back of my hand I wipe away the sweat that’s pearled up on my crimped forehead. Breathe.

The police car sitting behind me makes me nervous. I’m really not in the mood. But now the lights flash and I pull off the road, my protective hand on the passenger.

‘Good evening, Madam. Do you know why I’ve stopped you?’ the officer asks politely as his eyes shift to the passenger seat. ‘You were going a bit fast. Almost 120. Your licence, please.’

‘It’s an emergency, Officer. All was going well, and then—BANG. So I bundled him up and here we are—’

‘HIM?’ His eyes wander back to the blanket. ‘Blow into this device for me until I tell you to stop.’

‘I’ve only had one little sherry in the kitchen,’ I say meekly.

He raises his eyebrows. ‘You’re right. But I need to see—’

I peel back blanket, tea towels and alu foil to reveal my huge pale half-cooked turkey.

He gasps, and my story bubbles forth. ‘Delicious aromas in the kitchen. Carols, candles, incense. Sherry, and then the oven blew and then the chemical smell—on this most important night.’

‘This IS an emergency, Madam. Well, it’s Christmas. Follow us!’

So I follow the flashing lights and soon push the bird into my sister’s pre-heated oven. The turkey begins to sweat again, and I get some family time after all.

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kerstin Lindros writes short fiction, memoir and poetry. She holds a BA in Professional and Creative Writing from Deakin University. Her work has appeared in Meanjin, Verandah, Azuria, Gangway, page seventeen, Sächsische Zeitung and local anthologies. Kerstin writes in English and German to remain fluent in both languages as they evolve.

3 Responses

  1. Jennifer Coutts

    You had me wondering Kerstin. Was it your son, husband or a wounded animal?
    Never suspected a half-cooked turkey! 😀

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