Kurt W. Peterson

A Time to Write

It was a dark and stormy night. It actually was. Ernest was flying down the four-lane, right in the middle, weaving from one yellow stripe to the next as he picked up speed. The sky had just begun spitting rain, as the booming and striking clouds in the distance approached him one rain drop at a time. Suddenly, he was sopping wet and sliding sideways down the mountain highway. In a flash, he thought about his decision to leave his helmet in the garage at home – not a forgetful decision, but a helpless one. What could his future hold for him anyway? If he crashed and smashed his head, maybe his hopelessness would take care of itself.