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by Charlotte Hamrick
Tiny hairs on the back of daddy’s neck stand at attention, minuscule porcupine quills aimed at me. Over his shoulder the never ending road unfurls, a monolith looming in the distance the way anxiety looms in my gut. West Texas offers dirt and tumbleweeds to eyes used to verdant landscapes of ancient vegetation. Texas is a different kind of ancient – relentless and in your face. Cloying dust sticks to my eyeballs and other soft places at each pit stop. Each pit stop pisses daddy off in exponential frustration while I wait in the back seat for those quills to pop.
Charlotte Hamrick writes, reads, and photographs extraordinary everyday things in New Orleans. Her writing is included or upcoming in a number of literary magazines including Louisiana Literature, BULL, Punk Noir, Emerge Literary Journal and is anthologized in Best Small Fictions 2022 and 2023.
