Like this:

A short story she wrote for a summer writing contest. The word limit was 1500, so naturally hers was a thousand over. This is the terrible, murdered hapless version with 1496 words. Titled Augustine.

 

          She sat idly on her bed, waiting. The night cloaked her with secretiveness, and being hidden from the world is what she wished for. It shouldn’t take part in her midnight ride.

          Her father was away on a business trip and her mother had tagged along. She was alone. On a Saturday evening. The world had gifted itself to her on a silver platter. Freedom was the main course sprinkled with the exotic spice of possibility.

          She flicked the business card in her hands, her fingers tracing over the glossy surface. Though darkness engulfed her, she didn’t need light to read it. There was no need to; the advertisement was already etched in her mind:

 

Want to relive your life? Then take a ride in The Liquid,

a new vehicle for a new century. Please call 1-800-974-3563.

 

          The sound of gravel crunching popped in her ears. It was here. Her parents would never know she was gone, nor would they miss the twenty dollars she would be paying the driver.

          She creaked the front door open, and a blast of summer air enveloped her. She quickly shut the wood and locked it. Cautiously she walked towards the car, her heart beginning to jog a bit quicker.

She slid into the backseat and slammed the door. A man with a cap pulled over his eyes hunched in the front seat. He turned to face her, and she saw that he was not yet a man. She estimated he was only around her age, seventeen, and concluded that this was perhaps his summer job; just another way to pick up some change. She slipped the twenty into his hand, and in return he asked what year.

          How many years did she want to relive?

          All of them.

          Once she had replied, he flicked an interesting looking switch, tapped the gas, and they cruised down the street into nothingness.

 

          When she opened her eyes, they were on a long stretch of highway. She asked where they were headed, and he replied the year that she’d requested, it just took some time to arrive at the destination. Images blurred and bent outside the car, and she frowned. How was she supposed to reminisce when she couldn’t grasp what she was seeing? She demanded the question, and with a smooth voice he answered that she would see everything she wished once they hit the year she’d proposed. Her birth year.

          Moments later the car slid to a stop. The driver, flashed her a smile, and pressed a button on the dashboard. The car gave a jolt, then started tumbling back in reverse. They gained speed, and The Liquid once again flipped forward. The highway bleared into a hazy gray line and pictures swirled outside the window.

          “Memory number one,” the driver said.

 

          Dewy grass tickled her feet. She was seven, and her father was giving her a lesson on nature.

          “Now see this tree?” a man asked, pointing at a large tree. “You know that one?”

          “A water oak!” she replied dutifully. She caught a smile on her father’s face, and pride swelled up inside her. 

          “Good.” he paused, then squatted down next to her and patted the turf. “What about the grass?”

          She giggled. “Daddy, don’t be silly. Grass doesn’t have a name!”

          A twinkle formed in his eyes. “Ah, but it does. This grass,” he said, patting the grass once again, “is called St. Augustine. You know what’s special about Augustine?”

          She shook her head.

          “Everyone stands on Augustine. Doesn’t matter if you’re rich, poor, or in the middle, we’re all standing on the same turf. It’s the same everywhere,” he sat down.

          Perplexed, she asked, “But Daddy, what about concrete?”

          Her father spat. “What is concrete? Gray stone that breathes no life. Augustine is alive-”

          “Grass is alive?”

          “‘Course it is! And,” he said while pushing her nose, which made her giggle, “I’ll bet there’s another little girl, just like you, who’s standing on ol’ Augustine, thinking the same thing.”

 

          That morning she had bonded with her father tremendously. He taught her to love nature and the right concoction for fertilizing St. Augustine, retaining its emerald color year after year. The rich stood on it while the homeless slept on it. It didn’t matter who one was, but Augustine was there.

          Remembering how close she had felt to her father that day, a sharp twang of regret nipped her. Here she was, his sweet angel, and she had broken nearly every decree issued by him.

          More vibrant colors followed suit. The car sped on, flashing different experiences from her childhood. No matter how many memories she relived, none were as clear as the one with her father and Augustine.

          They hit her teenage years. Fourteen: her first day in high school. Sixteen: driving with a license. Recent, familiar memories flooded by, and she felt more at home. The ride had brought her back to present time.

          A sign suddenly planted itself on the side of the highway and a turnoff grew before her eyes. It read Exit.

          “Um, Sir? Shouldn’t we be turning…?”

          The sign flew past them. They had missed it.

          “H-Hey Sir? We passed the sign!”

          He snapped his head up. “What sign?”

           “The Exit sign! You passed it up!”

          The driver whipped his head around. He spotted the sign which was shrinking in the distance. “Shit.”

          But he didn’t do anything. He didn’t stop, didn’t slow, just went right along cruising. In response to her cries, he finally snapped, “There’s no going back. Once you miss the turn, that’s it. You’ve got to move forward.”

          Move forward? “Look, pal-”

          “It was your wish,” he mumbled. A stretch of silence trickled between them. After a few minutes, he said, “Remember? When you were little, you wanted to be older. Well, now life’s speeding up for you, whether you like it or not…”  

          What? She’d never-

          And then it dawned on her. Eight years old, carrying a purse around. Begging her mother to shave her legs. Secretly applying make-up. Desiring to grow up, be a teenager. Have freedom, friends, and boys. Her cloud nine.

          Now, it was slipping away before her eyes.

          Without a choice, she sped forward.

          As time passed, she became more friendly with the driver, whose name was Luke. They talked while hours slid by unnoticed, and occasionally she forgot to watch the memory that was playing outside her window.

          Twenty-two, graduating from college. Forty-seven, crying as she watched a young woman board a plane. Sixty-three, drawing a small boy close.

          Seventy-eight. She tore her eyes away from the window and clasped her hands together, toying with a band embracing her left ring finger.

          Her heart dropped. Her hands. They were… old? Wrinkly? Veins were popping up everywhere. No, surely not. She was a teenage girl, remember? She flicked away a bead of perspiration on her forehead and her hand collided with glasses. Thick glasses. Bifocals.

          What? She was not old—she refused to believe it. No white hair styled into a dollop of whip cream on her head. No stiffness. When had this happened?

          Suddenly the car jerked to a halt. She felt her soul belt along, while her body remained stationary. The old driver, whose name she recalled began with an L, but couldn’t put her finger on it, creaked the door open. He stumbled out and opened hers, extending a hand. Not quite knowing what to do, she grabbed his and tumbled out into soft grass.

          St. Augustine grass.

          “W-Where am I?” she croaked. “I’m supposed to be home before my parents return!” she explained.  

          The old man looked at her quizzically. “You haven’t seen your parents in twenty years!”

          “No! I must get back. It’s been a delight, Sir, but now I must really be heading home.”

          The man’s face dropped. “You don’t remember… who I am?”

          Her brow furrowed. “Why should I?”

          The man tried to smile, but it faltered. He raised his hand to show her a gold wedding ring hugging his gnarled finger. “So… this ring,” he paused and showed that her ring matched his, “These rings…mean nothing to you?”

          She frowned. When had she put a ring on? She was just seventeen. The only ring she’d been dreaming about was her graduation one. “Why should they?”

          A tear gently rolled down his cheek.

          He quickly brushed it, muttered something about “Alzheimer’s,” and cleared his throat. “So… You’re ready to go home?”

          “Yes, I am.”

          “Well then,” he whispered, “off you go.” He stepped back, revealing the end of the highway.

          “That’s St. Augustine grass,” she said softly, pointing at the green blades beyond the road. She looked up. A forest met her eyes.

          “Go on,” the driver said, “through the woods.”

          Heeding his words, she slowly maneuvered towards the patch of trees. As she entered, she spotted a small sign perched on an oak’s trunk. It read:

Welcome Home.