Going to Spain
Caroline Rannard | @caroline.rann
Cover image: Rachel Holt | @by.rachel.holt
The noise my tyres made on the road gnawed at my ear. Cracks in the blacktop made silhouettes of mountain ranges.
No stopping or turning, a sign read.
Deep Creek, said another.
Cars like hermit crabs shed their tyres on the shoulders. The sun burned the leaves of the eucalypts that leaned over the guardrails. I thought how, if I were a creek, I’d hate to be stuck with a name like that. To force a creek to endure eternity like that was a startling admission of apathy. My hand went to the dial of the radio.
Emergency phones the colour of the sky punctuated the motorway and the forecast on the FM band talked about highs in the low twenties. A man leaned against a car parked beside a phone. He looked me in the eye when I passed him, and I turned the radio off.
Below the tree line, the sunset radiated colour. Cracks in the road’s surface traced the heart monitor of a man about to die. If I were an explorer, I couldn’t name something Deep Creek. What a startling admission of apathy.