Threshold

I'm taking a writing class called "Prompt" through Write Around Portland, and one of last night's freewrite prompts was "The night felt like....." and we were given 6 minutes to write on it. It was 1960, as I recall. The picture is a reminder that what you see is not necessarily what is.......

          The night felt like freedom, adventure, rebellion, and fear all wrapped up in one. The grip of her white Keds held her precariously in limbo between bedroom and earth as she slipped down the icy slate roof that extended outside her window and overhung the back door. A pack of Marlboros in the right pocket and two bottles of San Miguel in the left made movement awkward as she stepped from roof to gutter, gutter to drainpipe, and then down the rickety fence. Her landing crack of the ice-glazed mud startled the night, and she froze, momentarily scanning the back windows for movement or the glare of a  light. The barking of the dog in the kitchen silenced, the house continued to sleep, and she was off.

            Down the middle of Oak Ridge they sauntered; the glare of the streetlight briefly spotlighting two fuzzy figures leading a trail of whispers, giggles, and cigarette smoke. The night was theirs…. exhilarating and free.