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Brian J Cushin

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Member Since: May, 2008

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A Spark in the Night
By Brian J Cushin
Thursday, May 01, 2008

Rated "PG13" by the Author.

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A teenager finds the love of his life.

 

            I was with my friends by a small river that runs through a small suburban town. It was summer time and we had found a source to provide alcohol for the evening. We were contented that we had the ability to enjoy ourselves, but I still felt like something was missing or out of place. Like a missing cog in a clock that affected all the intricate workings of my persona.

 

            The sky had darkened quickly, or so it seemed from the dreary sands of the riverbank. The river was a shallow-flowing creek blanketed by a bridge used by trains to cross the river. The banks were surrounded by large trees that divided the river from the parking lot of an apartment complex in the back of the town. The colorful lights of the sunset were shadowed from us by the trees along the river. We tried our best to keep our voices low, but after a while we didn’t have much control over that.

            As we stood there chatting and laughing about nothing, I was startled every time I saw a small illumination of passing headlights, thinking it was a police spotlight. The rest of the posse was either too relaxed or too affected to be afraid of the police.

            They stood together in a tightly knit circle, sliding and shuffling to be a part of the conversation. I decided to take a break from this game and sit on a nearby log with a drink and relax a while.

            An hour passed and the six of us were running low on our “fun fuel.” As they anxiously plotted to find more drinks, I pushed the idea to the council to squire the town, which they gave into. We were all stumbling a bit on the way to the central road of the town where all the other people were. Most of these people recognized our condition but didn’t mind it much.

            The town was small with few stores which were outrageous expensive. For us adolescents, there was nothing fun to occupy yourself with except to drown yourself in alcohol, which was a popular alternative for the majority of the young adults here.

            The general meeting place of the town is a small coffee shop, located on the main road of the town. The coffee shop was small with a few tables and fairly modernized. It held all kinds of people. Some were getting a cup of tea after a hard day’s work while others were sitting around a table chatting about their weeks.

            Today town was surprisingly active. From listening to other people’s conversations, I figured out that there was some sort of show at the school. So we then decided to see if we could have fun there too.

            As we moved towards the school, the light increased, allowing me to see the ugliness in the faces of my friends. I have been friends with them all my life, however I always felt a presence of selfishness and lust amongst them, something that I felt was not soon to change.

            As we closed in on the school, it was evident that there was some sort of event taking place at the school. In the parking lot, the light from the streetlights stayed on the borders of the cements while the inner gravel of the lot was dead black, like an abyss shadowing everyone inside. Here we found a pack of rowdy public school kids. For whatever reason, my friends decided they were going to fight them. Two of my more sane friends and I left, avoiding unneeded problems. As we walked down the block to the coffee shop to recharge our batteries, we saw three girls who seemed lost and not sure what to do with their night. They began yelling at someone. We assumed it was at us, even though it could have been anyone on the sidewalk. We were feeling out of our minds and bored enough to approach them. My arrogant friend began by asking, “Who are you guys?”

            “Well I’m Amanda, and this is Caroline and Jennifer,” one of the girls responded quickly without realizing the scorn in my friend’s voice.

            “Sweet, well you can guys can chill with us while we figure out something to do” offered the same friend under the illusion that others wish to be along side him.

            We then resumed our walk to the coffee shop, listening to Amanda’s incessant conversation on the way. To be polite, I continued talking to her, but I began to become interested in them when the other two contributed to the conversation. It then struck me that I felt interested in them because they were interested in me.

            When we arrived at the coffee shop, it was closed so the four of us sat on a few rocks outside the shop chatting while the other guys franticly pondered for something to do. As we continued to talk, joke, and laugh, I was became astounded by the small girl’s beauty, Jennifer, I believe her name was. She had cute, pouting grin and a freckled face the blushed whenever I conversed with her directly. She wore a modest shirt with tight jeans that made her seem sophisticated, yet enjoyable. However, the most spectacular quality of her appearance that I noticed was her hair. It was straight and flowing hair that held a unique color which some people called strawberry blonde, but this did not sound fitting to me. Her hair stayed purely straight and beautiful wherever and however she moved about. When she laughed, her hair bobbed joyously, reflecting the bright light of the streetlight, making her hair appear to shimmer in the night. She did not fit the model of the traditional “hot girl” according to my friends. However, it seems to me that to be “hot” is no longer a compliment, but an insult. Unlike the girls who my peers fancy, she had an admirable aura of individualism. I became absolutely infatuated by her beauty as the night went on. She caught me staring a few times, but I felt that doing so helped me to display my feelings to her.

            By now, all the light from the streetlights to the moonlight, to the light on her cell phone glistened off of her magnificent form. She was gleaming throughout the rest of the night from my perspective. As the night aged old, the girls gave me their phone numbers before they left in Jennifer’s mother’s car. I looked at the black tinted windows, unable to see anyone, but stared as the vehicle drove off, knowing my sweet Jennifer was inside.

            I then turned to my friends who had found a late night party. I decided to leave them because I was sick of their desperate attempts to drink. On my walk home, I could think no one but Jennifer. How warm her amiability had welcomed me with open arms and how bright the future looked for me.

 

 


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