The Car Had a Mind of Its Own

The following was written by Writers in the Grove member, Lorelle VanFossen, inspired by Prompt: The Haven, to write an anthropomorphic description of something.

The car had a mind of its own. Warm morning starts were appreciated, purring with the welcome strokes of affection. Cold mornings were greeted with angry whines, coughs, shutters, and sighs, none too eager to leave the comfort of the cave.

On the flat, it raced and roared, a lion exploding from a crouch among the grasses with a burst of speed, seizing the nape of the road with blood thirsty glory.

Hills made it gasp and wheeze, an old man dragging himself, cane in one hand, banister in the other, up each dreaded step, questioning each one, evaluating the true reward at the top.

Downhill, I swear the car held its arms over its head and shouted “Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” like a child tearing down a wintry hill barely holding onto the cardboard under its body. Downshifting to control the free fall brought little result save billowing clouds of blue smoke out the back in protest of being called home for dinner when there was fun still to be had.

The job of the little car was to get me there and back safely. It took its responsibilities seriously, never letting me forget how hard it worked for me. Thus, it deserved its name: Martyr.

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