Saturday's Storyteller: "At the park by the beach, golden hour wasn't just a tint; it was laid on in sheets."

by Belinda Roddie

At the park by the beach, golden hour wasn't just a tint; it was laid on in sheets. We drank whiskey in that celestial glow, the blankets of solar equilibrium covering our shoulders, yet they never carried too much weight.

I felt as if I could breathe fire in the aura of dusk: Torrents of dragon's breath, a moment in which I wasn't just human anymore; I was a creature that only the best authors could portray in an accurate and effective way.

I felt as if I had ascended to something beyond my human shell, but in the end, it was all superficial drivel. Beach towels in rainbow neon flare on the sand. Castles built only to be destroyed by salt and foam. The park wasn't any better - artificial grass was green enough to make me head hurt. The slides that the children glided out were filled with static electricity, jolting every bystander with a current that never seemed to bring any enlightenment.

When I managed to walk back to my car without hurting myself, you were waiting, propped against the red trunk, awaiting some sort of carnal fulfillment. I asked you to move, and I revved up the engine with your eyes boring into the back of my head like a power drill.

Once night fell, all I could see was the black asphalt ahead of me. I was quilted in mortality. That did not make me free, nor did it make me more human. It was cold, dark, and rational. 

This week's prompt was provided by Daniel Bulone.