Mural Art in Biking Town Photography by François Bereaud
“I'm a big fan of public art, especially murals. I was struck by this one but had to take while driving, which is perhaps appropriate given the motion inherent in the image.”
Francois Bereaud is a husband, dad, full time math professor, mentor in the San Diego Congolese refugee community, and mediocre hockey player. His stories and essays have been published online and in print and have earned Pushcart and Best of the Net nominations. He serves as an editor at Roi Fainéant Press and Porcupine Literary. The Counter Pharma-Terrorist& The Rebound Queen is his published chapbook. In 2024, Cowboy Jamboree Press will publish his first full manuscript, San Diego Stories, which is the realization of a dream. X: @FBereaud francoisbereaud.com
The Highway Fiction by Rachel Laverdiere
CW: Mention of violence & Abuse
I stuff the Nancy Drews and Holly Hobby diary I got for my seventh birthday into my Smurfette backpack. Squeeze in my binky, zip the backpack shut and prop it against the stained mattress—stripped so it can dry—so I can lace my arms through the straps. I am heading to the highway I’m not supposed to cross, and this time I’m not coming back. I’ll never have to sleep with my sister, Cookie, again.
She peed the bed again, but Father spanked me because I cried. Cookie didn’t get into trouble. She never does. Father just pretended to steal her nose and told Mother to give his stinky-winky girl a bath. I stood outside the bathroom door in pee-soaked pjs until Cookie was clean. Finally, it was my turn, but the bathwater was cold, and all the bubbles had popped.
I tiptoe towards the front door. Pause at the kitchen doorway to watch Mother kneading bread dough. Blue and purple blooms trail down her arm. I wish Father could love us like he loves Cookie. After Father left for the fields this morning, she looked at me with sad eyes and said, Sometimes, it’s best to stay unnoticed.
I want Mother to turn and take me into her arms—tell me not to run away—but she punches down the dough and coos at Baby Brother who is smiling and eating Fruit Loops in his highchair. I want to press my nose into his fuzzy hair.
Cookie screeches, “Mine!” and steals his breakfast. He begins to cry.
Mother senses me behind her and asks me to get Baby Brother another bowl of cereal. I wish she would notice my backpack, but she is busy greasing loaf pans.
Outside, I blink away tears. Clamp my teeth together as I step into the waist-high wheat behind our house. My heart grows heavier with each step I take toward the sliver of road ahead. The sun melts my mousy hair, and too-dry air scratches my throat.
Last time I ran away, I headed towards the chokecherry trees. When I got there, I set out my notebooks and pencil crayons and opened Super Fudge. Soon after, I was dying of thirst and my stomach growled louder than the words in my head, but the chokecherries were too bitter to eat.
This time, I thought ahead. I stop and slip off the backpack, pull out the blue thermos I refill with water every night before bed, just in case. I take an apple tucked into the side pocket Mother never checks and bite into the biggest bruise. As I spit it out, I promise God or whoever is listening to my thoughts that I will be brave enough to step out of the ditch and stick out my thumb when I get to the highway. Cross my fingers that He’ll make sure a new family stops to take me far from the one that doesn’t love me. I toss the apple core into the field for the ants, struggle to lace my arms through the backpack, and set off. Imagine my new family—a mom and dad and a little brother. They will see I am kind and smart and helpful and let me stay with until I’m all grown up.
When I get to the edge of the field, my heart bumps against my throat like a cow butting against the rails when Father loads it for the slaughterhouse. I step into the ditch and take a deep breath. Watch the heatwaves dance along the asphalt and peer towards the hill that takes us to swimming lessons in Green Lake. My heart stops and drops into my belly—a burgundy Ford like Father’s is racing towards me! I dive into the tall weeds and flatten myself. Pray that if it is Father, he doesn’t see Smurfette in the dandelions. If he were to spot me… My heart clogs my throat and my mind goes black. Maybe I am dying.
After the truck passes, I scramble to my feet, turn and run and run and run all the way home.
I pause at the kitchen doorway. I want Mother to see that I am sweaty and streaked with dirt. Want her to notice that I am wearing my backpack even though it is the weekend. Want her to swoop me into her arms and wipe away my tears. But she doesn’t. She pushes loaf after loaf of bread into the oven. I wait and wait while she gathers Cookie’s curls into pigtails, while Cookie and her pretty hair and frilly dress run around the kitchen. My baby brother bounces in his jolly jumper. When Mother turns to the dishes, I give up and put my books and binky away, swearing that next time I’ll be brave enough to leave for good.
Rachel Laverdiere writes, pots and teaches in her little house on the Canadian prairies. Her work has been selected for Wigleaf's Top 50 and nominated for Pushcart, Best of the Net and Best Microfiction X: @r_laverdiere www.rachellaverdiere.com