Tracy Chapman – Tracy Chapman

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A big beautiful car. Dark green and full of muscle. Chrome and dark walnut trim. Alloy wheels. Cream handmade leather seats. A car anyone from a senator to a pimp would drive, if only either of them had the class. It, the car that is, was powering along, damn fast, with the top down in the rain. It had music playing but god knows how the driver could have heard. It drove out of town to the hills above and on a bit, to the sea. The engine roared and the car picked up the pace a little. It wasn’t a European car, it certainly wasn’t designed to deal with sharp curves, at speed, in the rain. But that was OK, instead it fired through the railing and out into the air, above a quiet little beach were dog walkers would occasionally meet and copulate.

It hung fat and heavy in the air, engine screaming before it nose piled into the thick wet sand. The wind shield cracked and one of the front tires rolled away down the beach. It wouldn’t be discovered til morning that the driver, a young black woman, pregnant, was dead, although it wouldn’t stretch the imagination to think of her so now, in the moments after the crash. Her child, an unnamed, unborn boy, died with her.

The car did not burn up, as they so often feel impelled to do in such situations. As such, when the wreck was found it will surprise you to learn that it was charred and unidentifiable. There were foot prints in the sand for a while but the rising tide made them nearly invisible. But fuck it, the real questions lay in what the hell the woman was doing in such a vehicle, where the hell did she get her hands on such a fine piece of motor engineering. But then, she wasn’t important, so who gives a fuck anyway.

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