‘Wow Dad, have you seen anything like that? Huh, Huh? Can we stop? Can we, can we?’

The gleam in Tim’s eye showed through the rear view mirror. Glancing across, John drove off the Interstate and into the yard.

No sooner had the car ground to a halt, Tim was off his seat, door half way open, the seatbelt still finding its way back.

Running back, Tim got his spray paints from the boot and back in a second, was gleefully spraying all over the cars.

‘Time, Tim’! Tim strolled back to the car and as they drove off, John could see Tim staring off the rear windshield at the cars, long after they had disappeared into oblivion.

However, he could not but help think of the number of kids that had died in that accident, all outracing each other. Royal mess it was. Cars cut into half and as a memorial, all of them were dug half way into the ground, a grim reminder of that fateful morning.

Few years later on an anniversary, someone had spray painted the cars in memory and also as they were losing colour. Over a period of time, it had taken the form of Art. Expressive and Depressive.

11 cars were involved that day. 10 destroyed beyond recognition. Cadillac Gang muttered John, as his Cadillac disappeared into the horizon.

Had another thought to the picture and posted on the following link: Cold Sweat. Unfortunately both on low side this week, will find a positive note the next.

Part of Friday Fictioneers.
More stories on the Friday Fiction, Jul 3 edition, click link.
Thanks Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for making us write..
Word Count: I lost the plot on this one. Not 100, but could not help it.

Photo (c): Jean L. Hays

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