Friday, June 4, 2010

The Beach In Winter


Friends, Writers, Countrymen—Hello!

For my first authentic post to this fine, fine blog, I submit my recent USWG-critiqued short story, “The Beach In Winter.”

This piece conflates my Dad's recent health problems with details from the uncomfortable adulthood of an old friend of mine. I see it as kind of horror story.

Much love to my U Street brethren for all of the helpful comments and suggestions; I think I stole something from each of you.

—Scott Bolgiano

Without further ado, “The Beach In Winter”:

It hadn’t snowed at the beach in fifteen years but now it was, with ridiculous fury, as Les white-knuckled the Rabbit down Route 87. All VWs were beasts in the snow and the Rabbit was no exception, but this storm was extraordinary. The flakes flew fast and hard in a sideways blur and the wind howled. Anything above 35 mph was suicide—if he slid off the barely-plowed road here Les wouldn’t be found for days, imprisoned by the gathering drifts, frozen.

On either side of the highway tall pines moaned and bowed sadly, weighed down by the heavy accumulation. The sky was a dark, angry bruise and lightning flashed in the distance. Jesus, thought Les, lightning in a snowstorm. He saw no one else traveling in either direction; no one else was stupid enough to be out in this kind of weather. Les’s heart pounded in time with the little black car’s overworked wipers. His breath came fast and shallow. He had to concentrate hard on slowing it and knocking back the wave of claustrophobic panic just beginning to rise in his throat. He set his jaw and fixed the steering wheel in a death grip.


(Please go here for the rest of the story. Thanks!)