Idle Hands

			Idle hands work for the devil


	The wind blows and it’s hard to distinguish it’s sound from the noise of the surf crashing down bellow. Slate gray sky as always.

They sit in their cars, parked in a semicircle facing out towards the abyss. Every now and then someone gets out of their car and walks away to where other eyes cannot see.


			Cars disappear. New cars arrive. One car remains as sets of vehicles arrive and dissolve.

	It’s a station wagon. The driver is still sitting there unable to move, green sweatshirt hood pulled over her head. In front of the car a horse rebels against being lead down a path. The driver imagines that the horse will break loose and stomp the windshield.

					But the horse and its driver move on followed by a complacent white mare and her rider. They disappear.


		Inside the car shivering, the driver knows she’s alone. She knows everyone is out there, feels the familiar presence of characters she has known. Out there in the nothingness, they are all one.


		Her eyes drift to three stones on the dash board.

				In her minds eye she can see herself getting out of the car and running off the precipice. She remembers that she was supposed to end that way long ago. In this place, the dead are closer than the living. Loneliness replaced by anonymity.


Little yellow flowers litter the grass. There’s a gnarly tree trying to make the jump into the sea, held at the ankles by the earth.


				New cars arrive. A man followed by a toddler walk into the mist. A man in a red plaid shirt stands behind his car and starts to get undressed. The winds blow the gray away.



	Now the hooded driver leaves her vehicle and joins the gnarly tree. Peers down at the foamy expanse below. A sail boat blows across the surface of the water in the far distance. She then walks back down the path to her car.

She gets back in the car and turns the key in the ignition.