I am not sure where this came from, but it’s only a hundred words.
She watched his truck barrel down the road. The convoy – friends for at least a decade – followed him like beads on a string. Odd-shaped, bumpy beads, rejects from the bead factory.
She waved my fingers; the large snow dunes on either side of the road melted slightly and shifted.
His truck sped past the first of the dunes. Lumps of snow and ice fell and lodged between wheels and coated windshields in a fine icy pellets.
His truck slowed to a crawl; behind him the convoy stopped entirely. He stopped only when the truck’s wheels spun uselessly.
She smiled, pleased.