Renée Owen

Flash Point

Twelve or fifteen of us with nowhere to go drive the pitch black road to the outskirts of town. We gather in a deserted field full of old tires and piles of rusted oil drums. Even with the mild weather, there’s a nip in the Florida air. We erect a bonfire, tall flames shooting up red & gold. As the hours pass, too many bottles of Boones Farm make their way around the circle, then the hard stuff. Kool-Aid spiked with grain alcohol, purple and sweet. One by one, or in pairs, we stagger into the bushes to pee or neck. Above the roar of the fire, the sound of an engine starting. Most of us too far gone to know who’s sober enough to drive home. And who’s not.

light-blind
from out of nowhere
path of the semi-truck