'Traffic Lights' Short Story - HSC English Extension

Red - Stop. Green - Go. Red - Stop. Green - Go. Max’s newfound fondness for colours was at first cute, then unyielding, just like the lines of traffic that lined up for miles at each intersection. “Third red light,” complained Dad cocking his head, pensively tapping at the steering wheel, “will we ever get out of here?” The congestion was ever more common these days, the never-ending lines of hungry vehicles craving to escape the confined city in exchange for a tranquil countryside. Yet the white Dodge caravan was headed for a different place, St Matthews Church in National City, San Diego. “Why are we going to church Dad?” asked Max inquisitively, his bright eyes hiding the frustration of being squashed by this brother and sister, either side of him. “Well, me and your mother thought it … good to see the old place, it’ll be fun,” Dad replied, clasping his wife’s knee. “Just like travelling on a big toot toot train to Treblinka would be fun,” murmured Violet. Mummy sighed. “If we ever get there, say Dad, it’d be swell,” added Adam, trying to remain positive. The lines of traffic never ceased, each and every vehicle was in a struggle for freedom from the confining houses of their suburbia. The fumes from the crowd of vehicles rose up out of the city, creating an indelible smog that lingered above everything . Higher above, dark clouds formed a shady mass, blocking the golden rays of sunlight from ever reaching the ground, covering the city in a sinister darkness. Like a line of lost sheep, the vehicles ahead slowly progressed, the Dodge making roughly a mile every quarter of an hour. The insignificance of their existence and the ambiguous hope of ever escaping, plagued the minds of the collective travellers. Waiting, waiting, waiting, for the line to move along, car by car by car. “Nothing to be done,” breathed Dad, breaking the accumulated tension in the caravan.  Mummy sighed. This boulevard yielded dwindling dreams.

As the day grew darker, time again seemed to slow, even stop at some points. So when the clock ticked over to a 09:00, Dad decided to get a quick weather update, flicking the switch to pick up the local 94/9 FM station. Nothing but static blared from the speakers at first, until promising squeaks of noise filtered through the deep-toned screeching. “… the next few days should be of a pleasant 76 degrees, but for now, put on your raincoat to avoid the expected rain forecast for the next few hours,” spoke the weatherwoman on radio, as Dad dialled the volume down. “That about seals it, what a morose day it is, rain ahead while this line of cars makes progress nearly unbearable.” “Oh I like rain, I like the little blue drops,” Jack yelled, happy as ever. “How much rain was it going to be, Dad,” asked Adam. “About 5 inches in the next few days, son, too much for this time of year,” Dad replied conservatively. “That’s lots,” Max exclaimed, dashing an inquisitive look at Violet. “Not enough to wash Himmler’s hands,” murmured Violet. Mummy sighed. Dad then assumed Violet’s constricted and unchanged seating position, gazing out the left window, thinking, waiting.

As time progressed, Dad continued to drive ahead, through the inner city avenues that were home to the richest, greediest and wealthiest of people, and now the quieter outer suburbs that offered quieter suburban living. Adjacent to the road ahead was a small neighbourhood park, where dogs ran free with their owners and happy children played, oblivious to their solemn parents. At the base of some of the trees were flower plantations, rejuvenated after the recent rains. Max was now enthralled by colours, especially those created by wild and beautiful flowers. “Dad, Dad, can we go back to see those flowers, they were so pretty?” asked Max. “There’s no turning back … to the way it was,” murmured Violet. Mummy sighed. “Erm, sorry son, it’ll have to be another time,” responded Dad. “Aww,” Max muffled, his eyes returning to his crossed little hands in his lap. “You’ll be right Max, church has got flowers too, ya’ll have a great time in the gardens,” Adam affirmed, resting his hand on his brother’s knee. “If you want lots of flowers, go take a trip down Hiroshima some time,” Violet murmured. Mummy sighed. Dad pressed on, unphased by Violet’s comments. After Max had forgotten the flowers they’d just past, he whiningly blurted out, “Are we there yet?” Dad then replied with his automated response, “Not yet … but surely soon enough.” The caravan continued to stop, go, stop, go, never allowing the passengers to feel comfortable.

After another period of time in the silence in the caravan, Dad cranked up the volume of the transistor again, eager for a day brightener. Yet his day descended to unprecedented depths. “… and in breaking news, it has been confirmed that a Korean Air Lines civilian plane has been shot down by a Soviet interceptor. Search and rescue operations reported that no survivors have been found, with the number of casualties estimated to exceed 260. Among the missing is American democrat, Larry McDonald. Our hearts go out to him and his family, and to all others impacted from this event,” expounded the radio correspondent. Choking at his words and bowing his head, Dad managed to stutter, “my God,” before he brought out his handkerchief to daub his tears. The silence after Dad turned off the radio pierced through every heart and mind in the caravan. Even Max realised in his juvenile mind, that his words would bring no comfort to anyone at the present time. Adam reached out his hand in front of him to caress his mother’s shoulder, feeling the tremors emanating from within her. From far above, the white Dodge managed to gain minimal ground again, before reaching another halt. Waiting ensued.

987 words