Creative Writing: How I Ll Always Be By Tim Mcgraw

One night while driving home from work I had taken a new path home. It was not an act of adventure seeking but a necessity, as the main road that I so often took was closed for construction. It was a cool summer night and the fireflies were out making a dull thack sound as they hit my small white truck’s windshield, leaving behind a light yellow glow before vanishing as Tim McGraw’s “How I’ll Always Be” came through the static on the radio that had to be older than the truck itself. All had gone well until I made a wrong turn, and my GPS lay eerily silent in the passenger seat, which was cluttered with a Toyota sweatshirt and Brownstown football baseball cap, on its screen. The small blue car, meant to represent my 2011 Ford truck, showed that I was still on course.

I slowed to nearly a crawl as I saw a patch of loose gravel in my headlights;

surrounded on both sides by trees with the only sounds coming from my radio and the gravel shifting under the weight of my truck. Five minutes later, I nearly swerved into a tree on my right as the shrill voice of my GPS announced that it had lost the satellite signal. My heart suddenly pounded like a sledge hammer, I pulled over to check my phone only to find that it was not getting any service either. Worried that I might be out there driving all night, I continued down the long road.

Finally, I reached a steep hill covered in gravel that seemed to go straight up; unsure of whether my four-by-four Ford Ranger could get up the hill, I said a silent prayer as I pushed on the accelerator, the small truck struggling up the hill.

As the sound of my tires fighting to get a grip on the gravel and the rough terrain light lit up on the dashboard my heart skipped a beat. However after a short struggle the truck managed to pull itself up the hill as if by magic. Further down the gravel road I noticed a pristine white Ford F-150 sitting of to the side of the road, its lights still on. I slowed down as I neared the truck to ensure that the driver was not injured, but suddenly I heard a sharp snap on my left and the driver of the truck, a tall middle aged man appeared on my right jumped into the driver’s seat and tore off down the road before I had gotten within five hundred feet of the truck. Watching his angry red taillights disappear I wondered what he had been doing, suspicion clouded my mind. Two left turns and ten minutes later relief flooded through me as I pulled into the drive of my small, white

farmhouse.