Crossing the Bridge When You Come to It

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I gripped the steering wheel as I neared the bridge. The wheels of the car aligned with the bridge’s cables and slowly began to climb. We approached the first tower, teetered, and then carefully drove down the cables. My stomach rolled, as though I were on a roller-coaster.

I blinked my eyes open and breathed a sigh of relief. The image in my head was just a dream. I jumped from bed and got ready; we’d be leaving soon.

“Ready!” Dad said.

I nodded and slid in behind the steering wheel, gripping it tightly.

My father reached over and patted my hand. “You’ll do fine.”

I started the car. “Are we taking the bridge today?” my voice cracked.

Dad smiled. “No, honey, you’ll cross that bridge when you come to it.”

I groaned and backed the car out of the drive. Thankfully, dad’s driving instruction was better than his jokes.

 

I used to have strange dreams about crossing bridges and whenever I did, it was always driving on the top of the bridge on the cables and not on the road.

Flash fiction prompt provided by http://www.writerlycorner.com/writerly-prompts/writerly-wednesday-5252016.

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