Excerpt from Carpe Diem, Illinois

by Kristin A. Oakley

Winner of the CWA 2014 Book of the Year Award for Non-traditionally Published Fiction

At the corner of Tiger Whip Road and Highway 20, Patrick Holden slumped over the handlebars of his idling Harley. The motorcycle’s black leather seat and saddlebags were creased with age, the twenty-year-old fenders dusty but barely scarred. Patrick hadn’t aged as well as his bike. Years of fighting school administrators, education tsars, and a weird mix of politicians had creased more than his outward appearance; it had creased his soul.

The motorcycle’s headlight illuminated the decaying façade of an abandoned shed. Swirling farm dust mixed with dry hay made Patrick cough, leaving a gritty taste in his mouth. He ran his gloved fingers over the neat stitches holding the cycle’s seat together and regretted the late night meeting.

He had been persuasive, articulate, and even-tempered but the meeting had been a disaster. Illinois State Senator Christopher Shaw, in all his patronizing benevolence, had refused to see the obvious dangers of his legislation. Instead, threatened by reason, the senator stormed out of his office. When the door slammed, Patrick realized he was no longer sitting. His skinny, six-foot frame leaned over the senator’s wooden desk, his hands splayed on the maple, leaving damp prints.

What had he done? Perhaps his father was right. Perhaps he had gone about this the wrong way, screwed things up, and jeopardized the future of Carpe Diem.

The idling purr of the motorcycle’s engine soothed some of Patrick’s despair until a semi-trailer roared past. He shielded his eyes from a tornado of dirt and gravel and watched the truck cut a path of light on the dark highway.

Cutting a path through the darkness, what an idea. Turning the motorcycle back onto the two-lane highway, he fish-tailed, then accelerated to eighty miles an hour.

*   *   *

Alexandra Shaw steered her silver BMW down Highway 20 toward home. She had spent an inspiring day in Chicago at a novel writing workshop, followed by dinner with other passionate writers. She had been told several times that her story would make an excellent book. Thrilled, she hummed along to the sultry voice of Norah Jones on the radio. She couldn’t remember ever being this happy.

She slowed through a small Midwestern town, passing three churches and a corresponding number of neighborhood taverns, then sped by endless farmland crawling with late-night tractors lighting up rows of dried corn stalks. At a sharp bend in the highway, she spotted the sign, “Carpe Diem, 5 miles.” That sign always intrigued her. Now she took it as a good omen and even considered stopping for a cup of coffee until she heard the Funkytown ringtone of her cell phone. It was probably Natalia, eager to hear about her workshop.

Alexandra grabbed her purse from the passenger seat and felt inside but couldn’t locate the phone. Her eyes on the road, she dumped the bag’s contents. She riffled through gold pens, a mini notepad, and her leather wallet. She had it. She looked at her right hand. A packet of tissues.

She snatched another glance at the road. A single light came over the nearest hill. A car with a busted headlight? A motorcycle? Yes, now where was the damned phone? She reached between the leather seats. Nothing. She felt on the floor and found a hardened French fry. The phone stopped asking her to take it to Funkytown. Why hadn’t she listened to her husband and gotten the car’s Bluetooth option?

The BMW’s interior brightened. Alexandra jerked her head up. The motorcycle was driving in her lane. Straight at her. She punched the horn but the motorcycle didn’t swerve. She yanked the steering wheel to the right, her foot smashing the brake pedal, the car’s tires screaming. It wasn’t enough. The motorcycle slammed into her.

The wrenching scream of tortured metal filled her ears. She buried her head in her arms. Shattered glass spit at her, pinpricking her bare hands. She tasted blood. The steering wheel’s airbag crushed her against the driver’s seat. The driver’s door smashed inward, the side airbag deploying too late. 

The car began to roll. Compressed, gasping for breath, strapped into the tumbling car, Alexandra flipped over and over as if on a crazed amusement park ride. My book will never be published. Natalia, I’m sorry. Right before passing out, she saw something bounce off the airbag — the delinquent cell phone.