Refusal to Move (Flash Fiction)

She was driving ninety-five miles an hour again. She knows I hate it when she goes that fast. I’ve tried to tell her to slow down, but she never listens. I knew she was trouble from the moment I saw her, walking into the dealership in her ruby stilettos and short skirt. She practically had the dealer eating out of the palm of her hand. It was disgusting. An hour later, he placed the keys into her hand. My keys. I’ve hated her ever since.

This time, when she stuck the keys into the ignition, I refused to start. She called in service technician after service technician, and I started up perfectly for them. But the moment she slipped on her ruby heels and slid into my seat, nothing worked. She’d cajole me, she’d threaten me, she’d scream obscenities. But for once, I had the upper hand.

If she doesn’t learn to listen soon, I’ll wrap us around a tree.

At the age of six, Eliza was certain of two things. The first was that she had stories to tell. The second was that she had no talent for illustrating them herself. Talent or no, she still wrote and illustrated her first book, one that should be located and locked away if only to prevent her parents from embarrassing her terribly by showing it off alongside baby pictures. Now she spends her days writing stories that she isn't embarrassed to show off after a little bit of polishing.


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