Scrawlers

As we launched our tent towards the sky, we noticed brown clouds starting to drift toward us from the west, encroaching upon the navy blue evening. The first drops began minutes later, just as we got the happy boar spinning over the fire. I attempted to cover myself with loins, but it was futline, and I was soaked. Lightning struck everyone simultaneously. We laughed and fell down in tears, hopefully to rise again to the smoking monster waiting at our tent for a roll of toilet paper. We reached in a paranoid state toward the electrical wire. Fire. Life.

I pulled out in traffic, same as any day, and noticed far too late the '96 Corsica barreling through the lane I'd just crept into. It was unavoidable, and we knew it.

Memory is a funny thing. Prolific moments are seared. The death in her face is a photo in my head.

And then, just as the glass should have shattered, and the frames should have warped, her vehicle passed through mine like water through a sieve, like a breath.

Her hair was the only thing I felt. It cut my lip as it whipped around my face.

After five fastballs, hard in, Joe knew the next one would be soft, over the outer half of the plate. He visualized a change-up tumbling from the pitchers fingers, rotating horizontally like a tiny planet dipping away from his bat. Stay back. Let it get deep. Steal it from the catcher's glove and send it blazing down the left field line. The pitcher winds up, delivers. Joe sees two seams flying end over end toward his belt buckle, too late to make a difference. A low hiss, a muted pop, a guttural cry. It's over in seconds.

Shit.