Night's Final Draft


Misting rain, chirping frogs, silvered moon, night jasmine's wafting sweetness. "Still awake," Brad murmurs. "Damn!"

Far down the valley a 2-stroke engine labors uphill toward Brad's soft mosquito netting. "Mopeds suck," he thinks.

The sad buzzing drones closer, louder, then stops. Silence. "No skidding screzenda?" Brad wonders. "No sickening thump? No crash?" An abrupt cessation of sound, then dripping leaves and silent moonlight. Only that.

And later, "No sirens?"

Finally still, Brad sleeps and almost dreams the mystic blue flashings and red flashings now tinting the faded valley. But the sweet, sweet jasmine he does not dream or smell.

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