Matthew Thompson is a technical writer with over 20 years of mining electrical experience. He works for White Rock Quarries as the Electrical Superintendent, where he is responsible for writing electrical troubleshooting and safety guides, and Electrical Standard Operating Procedures. Matthew is also currently a Bachelors of Fine Arts student at Full Sail University.

The Car

Mike cracked open the drapes just enough to see the car parked in front of his house. A million raindrops littered the dark paint of the old Cadillac. He tried to see if there was anyone inside but the layer of dirt twenty years thick on his house windows obscured his view. The old curmudgeon stomped down the 100-year-old staircase to the ground floor of the colonial home his parents once owned and burst through the kitchen door with the gracefulness of a wildebeest. He threw open the refrigerator door and grabbed the makings of a breakfast for six or seven people. He slapped down plates of eggs and bacon, a loaf of bread browned to golden perfection, and a pitcher of orange juice. Mike made his way back to the living room window. The car was still sitting there. The sun had stolen its spot in the sky and he could finally see that the front seat was empty. “They must be walking up to the door,” he said to himself. He stood at the front door, his hand on the knob, waiting for the knock that never happened. He stared at his hand on the door knob. His legs grew tired as the sweat from his hand made the knob slick. He released the aged piece of metal and meandered back to the kitchen, looking over his shoulder a few times to make sure he didn’t see anyone walking by the front window. Mike ate his portion of the breakfast feast he had prepared and threw the remainder in the trash. He cleaned the dishes. “How dare they make me cook for them then never show up.” He threw a plate in the sink so hard it shattered. He picked up a shard and washed it as if he was going to eat off of it again. He repeated this for each piece of the dish then set them back in the pantry. The car was empty, there wasn’t as much as a hair on the seat. Mike walked around the back of it and saw the tag was out of date by at least fifteen years. He tugged on the trunk lid and tried to open each door, nothing opened. Every minute or so he looked for someone ready to stop him, but no one ever came. A noise came from across the street. Mike ran back to the side of the house and in through the back door. He ran to the front window and looked for who it was the caught him accosting the car. There was no one there. Before he settled in for the night he took his watch off and laid it on the night stand, he then emptied his pockets. He did his nightly inventory of his personal belongings, one wallet, one watch, one pocket knife, and one set of car keys to a 1959 Cadillac. A Cadillac that his parents owned, and that was willed to him. A Cadillac that sat next to the curb, just outside his house.