Midnight MiscreantsA Chapter by Corwin McAllister
7 minutes, timed; prompt = "Remember the night." Write Around Portland 2009 anthology submission.
Remember that night, when you said “Kick! Punch! Run!” Jeremy? That cold, blustery November night, when the rain blew into your eyes no matter which direction you faced, your clothes clung to you forlornly like the Flying Dutchman’s sails, and pools of fine bubbles effervesced out of your Chucks with each footstep? I wish I’d have been there when it happened, just as I bet you’d love to have watched me and my BMX slip off the deck of the yacht Chris and I stole and I was almost drug to the bottom of the lake by the weight of the malt liquor in my stomach. What possesses a person to act like such a fool during the most unforgiving part of the day? I don’t know, any more than you do. Do psychologists or philosophers? Or, how about those delinquent kids we just saw gleefully scurrying off to the Lone Fir Cemetery, carrying racks of beer stolen from their neighbors’ open garages? I suspect the owls know, but they must guard that secret as carefully as Lucifer does the secret to everlasting youth and unbounded joy, safely ensconced within a vault guarded by a third of the legions of hell. Did you ever wonder, too, how a pair of headlights sweeping over a hill through the blackness of a starless night, falling on your retinas like phosphorous grenades, not only renders you sightless in a Bizarro universe analog of blindness but also causes you to lose your footing?
© 2010 Corwin McAllister
Collected Free Writes