Free Fiction – “Roadside Memorials”
With my first Rogue Angel novel, THE LOST TOMB, due in just a few days, I haven’t had time to put together a column for this month. Instead, I’m going to share one of the few short fiction pieces I’ve done during my career. (It takes my longer to write a short story than it does a novel, so I don’t do all that many of them.)
“Roadside Memorials” was written for the Roc anthology, LOST ON THE DARKSIDE, which came out back in 2005. The editor absconded with the money due to the contributors and to this day I don’t believe any of us have been paid, but that shouldn’t prevent others from enjoying the work.
As this is a longer tale, I’m going to put the majority of it after the cut. Read on, if you like…
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“Roadside Memorials” by Joe Nassise
A DRUNK DRIVER KILLED MY FRIENDS!
So read the sign now standing at the corner of Thunderbird and Main. It stood in almost the exact spot where Martin had pulled the bodies of two teenagers from the smashed wreckage of their yellow Nissan Xterra just two days before, shouting its message out to any and all who passed by. Around it was a haphazard collection of candles, flowers and photographs, laid out in commemoration of the lives that had ended so abruptly there.
“Freakin’ morbid, that,” his partner Giles said, but Martin barely noticed. He couldn’t take his eyes off the memorial, stunned by the size of it. It had to be six feet square and the accident wasn’t even 48 hours old yet. Where the hell had all this stuff come from? It was disturbing, uncanny even, how swiftly such memorials could appear. Back home in Philadelphia, he’d never heard of the practice, had never laid eyes on even one such marker, but here in the southwest they were practically guaranteed to show up whenever there was a fatal accident. They sprang up overnight like ravenous weeds. He wasn’t certain where the tradition had come from or what those who created them hoped to achieve, he just knew that being around them made him uncomfortable. It didn’t matter where the accident had taken place – back roads, city streets or the long stretches of road bisecting the desert – time and time again he would see them there, like soldiers standing solitary vigil in the darkness.
“…don’t see what good it does.”
“What?” he asked, as the marker swept behind them in the distance and he belatedly realized his partner was still speaking.
Giles waved a hand toward the rear of the ambulance. “Those stupid memorials. Those folks are dead, right? What good do those things do them?” He snorted in disgust. “Besides, I’d rather have folks visiting me in the cemetery than in the middle of nowhere. Who wants to be reminded they’d died in the middle of a freakin’ car wreck?”
Martin nodded, turning away from the window as the memorial slipped away behind them in the distance, but he wasn’t really listening. It had been a long night; three car accidents, a knife fight, and two heart attacks, the most activity they’d had in one night in weeks. And we aren’t even halfway through our shift. All he wanted to do was get back to the hospital and crash out for awhile before the next call came in.
At 36, Martin Jones was already tired of his so-called life. He spent his days sleeping, his nights cleaning up the messes left behind by other people’s mistakes. Gone was the idealism that had gotten him into the EMT business in the first place, washed away by too many stupid accidents, too many senseless beatings, and more than his fair share of horrible car wrecks. It didn’t help that his days were other people’s nights.
Tonight was worse than usual, however. He’d felt an odd sense of unease all evening and the weirdness surrounding that roadside shrine didn’t help. It was almost as if he could sense something, something looming just beyond the horizon; at any moment he knew it was going to come charging in to swallow everything whole.
It wasn’t a comfortable feeling.
As Giles droned on, Martin leaned back in his seat and wearily closed his eyes. Tonight’s shift couldn’t end fast enough as far as he was concerned.



Sympathy goes beyond empathy and focuses on the emotional bond the reader has with the character. Awful things have happened and the reader genuinely feels sorry for the character. You can establish sympathy by putting the character in jeopardy, by having them face some grand hardship, by making them the underdog, or by giving them some sense of vulnerability. Take Rocky, for instance. We cheer for him and want him to win the big fight against Apollo Creed because we see him as the underdog, the guy who can’t possibly win. I use the issue of facing some grand hardship to introduce my character Knight Commander Cade Williams in 
