I’d always been in awe of the Beast. It was massive to my young eyes, somehow frightening to stand beside, and loud, especially in the wee hours of the morning when silence was certainly deafening. But my dad was a massive man, not only in size but certainly in presence as well, so it seemed fitting he would love this monster of a truck that always sat at the bottom of our lonely dirt road, well out of the way of the puny school bus that had to maneuver around it five days a week.
The Beast, as I called his 18 wheeler, was just that to me: a combination of methodical, sickening grunts; the smell of gas and burning rubber that threatened to overtake you with the slightest whiff of its cheap, masculine fragrance; and of unrepentive size and stature, silently instructing you to get out of the way while at the same time daring you not to.
Slow to start, it rapidly built up speed and power as it dominated the highway, looking like the fire of hell as it came up behind you- a mixture of red and orange flame webbing out from the top of the cab to the end of the rig, flickering with every whip of the curve; and that awful chrome grill in the midst of it all, like sharp serrated teeth ready to lock down and pull in for the kill.
Nevertheless, I loved that big rig. Hearing it pull up at the top of the hill at 2 a.m. I knew my dad had arrived home safely. I would look out of my window and see his ever dominant shadow making its way home, as tall and thick and brooding as the trees that surrounded him on either side. And though I was thankful he was leaving the Beast at the end of the road so it didn’t wake the whole neighborhood I was also relieved knowing it was there, thankful for the faint hum of the engine that reassured me that this gentle giant had managed to bring our gentle giant home again.
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I like your use of dichotomies! They make the story complex yet realistic.
Thank you, I appreciate you taking the time to read it!