Rest stops on highways are liminal spaces where the veil is thin and nobody can tell me differently
sudden need for a story about a witch who’s a trucker
Yes. Travel altar on the dash. Sigils hung around the cab. Picking up phantom hitchikers on purpose and offering rides in exchange for stories. Warding against gremlins.
some do this please
I tell myself, I spell it out. I’ll not be here for ever, I tell myself. I tell myself this again and again, arms wrapped around my the bruises on my torso, wet, rained on. The sound of thunder from the road beside me, big loud animals rolling past, bright eyed and vicious toothed and too hungry for speed to stop for me. I keep plodding that same, even plod, my shoes soaked through and my socks all a-raggedy.
I didn’t think that one would stop, no - a big ole monster of a truck, the spatter guard on the windscreen caked with bugs and three grimacing faces across the hood, joined at the neck and spitting blood and snake tongues. Angry women. A wreath of fat toads.