Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • The road is a siren. Joseph, you have that right. The highway, with its siren hair is calling us onto empty space. The vehicle itself is a siren, a siren of steel. We turn the key, we light the fire, we drive down the empty highway, manoeuvering the fire under our bellies.

    We think we are in charge. Ha. Little humans.

    We wish we could fly, and we wish we had that jet plane for our fire through the sky.

    So we settle and accept that we are just quiet maniacs, tooling down that tar and asphalt and blacktop siren highway.

    Then you get deeper into the desert, and the highway is gravel, barely road, you're going off-road, and then off that off-road onto the road with no name.

    And there is the endgame of our siren: the lure has taken the vehicular dream. The coyotes have paid homage to the steel carcass, the vultures have paid their respects in due time, the air has had a good meal. Here, there is no outlet to the sea. The land is on its own. Leave no trace, the rangers say.

    Who drove here, who departed?

    The car corpse was full of bullet holes, and patina.

    Lured deep into the desert, to sink to sand in Death Valley.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.