This article is taken from Stand 240, 21(4) December 2023 - February 2024.

Libertad Ansola Wet Soil
There was the endless road ahead of them. The couple were quiet, the sound of the engine buzzing underneath their feet. The windows were cracked open and the air slipped through, hissing. Evening was coming on. They weren’t planning on stopping for at least another hundred kilometers when they’d need gas, and then perhaps they’d want to grab something to eat and sleep somewhere quiet. The trees that framed the road were naked, just a few still had some last red leaves barely holding on to their branches. The road went on straight for a while until the car reached the next bend but the green pointy hills were always visible in the distance. She made soft humming noises and distracted herself looking out the window. A soft carpet of dried leaves covered the sides of the road. As they drove by, some flew away from the car and some were crushed under them in the mud.

‘I love this smell,’ said the girl. ‘Don’t you think nobody really cares enough about autumn?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the man.

‘I’ve always thought so,’ said the girl. ‘From now on, we have to pay more attention to the colour of the trees, and the way the leaves fall off,’ she said resolutely.

He focused on the road ahead, holding the wheel, conscious of the way his hand felt against the leather – steady and secure. For as long as you’d want there to be road, there’d be ...
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