fic: ghosts under the bridge
ghosts under the bridge
spooks- juliet, ruth, connie, ros, tessa pg-13
probable delays anti-clockwise due to an accident at junction 4
spooky_doings secret santa for jaybee65
It’s colder than she thought, the winter breeze whistling through the broken back window and rendering the heater altogether fairly pointless.
Which is just bloody typical.
Her coffee has too many sugars in, the bottle of water in the glove box smells funny and there’s a mouldy pringle underneath the clutch, crunching weakly every time she changes gear.
Not that she’s going to be changing gear any time soon.
The radio crackles and seems to shiver as she flicks from station to station, and there’s probable delays anti-clockwise due to an accident at junction 4.
Her head hits the steering wheel - now you tell me.
The queue - because that’s what it is, orderly and patient and ever so English - stretches for miles. And, because she wouldn’t be her if she wasn’t, she’s at the back.
She thinks about getting out and walking, because then, if she’s lucky, she might actually get to her parents by Christmas.
But when she considers the rain, densely and thickly dropping onto the cars, she thinks again.
She’d dearly like to find out what the bleeding hell is happening by the time it gets to 7:30, fiddling mindlessly with the tuner until the knob falls off.
The radio hasn’t worked for 30 years, and she can’t find a logical reason why it should be working now, but she’ll try nonetheless.
Getting out the car she mutters to herself about her lack of coat and how by now she really should try and be more prepared and that she should know better.
Then she shivers and folds herself back into the car, forgetting entirely her motive for leaving it in the first place.
Out of habit, she picks at her nails and doesn’t turn the engine off because, when she’s honest with herself, she’s selfish and’ll be long gone by the time it really starts to matter.
When she was a kid, she’d loved snow. Their garden would be littered with snowmen and angels, surrounding and enveloping her in bright white patterns and carrot noses while she tried to walk over the pond without the ice breaking.
She can’t remember how old she was when the ice broke, but there were no more angels.
She hates Christmas.
The power steering packed in years ago and the car belches as it grinds to an unsteady halt in the second lane when she wanted to be in the third.
But looking at the traffics and the snow and the snow-covered traffic, it’s all fairly academic now.
From the crammed car next to her a woman stares enviously at the sheer emptiness of the car. A blessing for which she is forever thankful.
Nevertheless, she still hates Christmas.
spooks- juliet, ruth, connie, ros, tessa pg-13
probable delays anti-clockwise due to an accident at junction 4
spooky_doings secret santa for jaybee65
It’s colder than she thought, the winter breeze whistling through the broken back window and rendering the heater altogether fairly pointless.
Which is just bloody typical.
Her coffee has too many sugars in, the bottle of water in the glove box smells funny and there’s a mouldy pringle underneath the clutch, crunching weakly every time she changes gear.
Not that she’s going to be changing gear any time soon.
The radio crackles and seems to shiver as she flicks from station to station, and there’s probable delays anti-clockwise due to an accident at junction 4.
Her head hits the steering wheel - now you tell me.
The queue - because that’s what it is, orderly and patient and ever so English - stretches for miles. And, because she wouldn’t be her if she wasn’t, she’s at the back.
She thinks about getting out and walking, because then, if she’s lucky, she might actually get to her parents by Christmas.
But when she considers the rain, densely and thickly dropping onto the cars, she thinks again.
She’d dearly like to find out what the bleeding hell is happening by the time it gets to 7:30, fiddling mindlessly with the tuner until the knob falls off.
The radio hasn’t worked for 30 years, and she can’t find a logical reason why it should be working now, but she’ll try nonetheless.
Getting out the car she mutters to herself about her lack of coat and how by now she really should try and be more prepared and that she should know better.
Then she shivers and folds herself back into the car, forgetting entirely her motive for leaving it in the first place.
Out of habit, she picks at her nails and doesn’t turn the engine off because, when she’s honest with herself, she’s selfish and’ll be long gone by the time it really starts to matter.
When she was a kid, she’d loved snow. Their garden would be littered with snowmen and angels, surrounding and enveloping her in bright white patterns and carrot noses while she tried to walk over the pond without the ice breaking.
She can’t remember how old she was when the ice broke, but there were no more angels.
She hates Christmas.
The power steering packed in years ago and the car belches as it grinds to an unsteady halt in the second lane when she wanted to be in the third.
But looking at the traffics and the snow and the snow-covered traffic, it’s all fairly academic now.
From the crammed car next to her a woman stares enviously at the sheer emptiness of the car. A blessing for which she is forever thankful.
Nevertheless, she still hates Christmas.