543 Day Writing Journey

Asheville. Day 39.

The drop was at least a hundred feet with few twiggy trees to block our potential fall, and the damp leaves and pea gravel were shifting under my tires. With my navy-blue Converse, I firmly pressed down both the clutch and brake and held them there until my wits allowed me to slowly let the clutch go. Wedged in a small area in a stranger’s yard, I had to attempt, well accomplish, a three-point turn or risk sliding down the hill into the no-cell-phone-zone of beautiful nothingness. We’d gone too far.

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