6.08 / July 2011

Three On the Road

listen to these stories

Pull Over

I remember each exit we passed that sun-scorched afternoon. My hand on your thigh, your nails dug into my arm when I drove close to other cars. I pulled over, each hungry; the tree’s gracious shade; my reflection in your sunglasses, your screams and moans, nails in my back; a cool breeze cooled my scalp.

From Nowhere

Her hands gripped the wheel in morning fog. The road ahead invisible, headlights faded fast in the rear-view. Taillights popped from the mist. Looking down for a CD, for coffee, for directions. The truck, stopped with lights off, broken down, still in the lane. Her neck snapped clean.

Estimated Time

Road-weary from Oregon and waiting, wind blew rain in my face and a Bay chill reddened my nose, frosted my fuzz of hair. Time stolen to spend with a lover, with a friend. You on a commuter rail sending electronic messages. The endless stream of headlights, traffic from the city thick, center-line train rails sat dark. Your train three stops away. I paced and checked my phone, my watch, read the day’s headline fifty times. I turned and a woman turned away, bitten lip, smirk, not yet you.


Hobie Anthony writes prose and poetry in Portland, OR. A native of the South, adopted son of Chicago, and new NorthWesterner, he seeks to understand this America. He can be found or is forthcoming in such journals as The Los Angeles Review, Crate, Jersey Devil Press, R.kv.r.y., Wigleaf, Prime Number, and Soundzine, among others. He is now focused on putting together a new book.