On That Cold Night

By Nick Lord Lancaster

She dived out of the way, so set on preserving her own life that she didn’t notice until afterwards, lying bruised and relieved on the dusty tarmac, trying to focus her disbelieving eyes in the hope of seeing the registration, that it was her late husband’s car. The car he’d cleaned inside and out every Saturday morning, removing any trace of whoever had been in it on Friday night. The car she’d last seen on that cold night, two weeks before Christmas, when she’d watched the water for over an hour to make absolutely sure it wasn’t going to resurface.


“I’m not entirely sure why I write, but I’ve tried not writing and it doesn’t work.” – the writer

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