Haunted Happy Hour
Each night the same. A few scotches in the dusty library, the furniture shrouded in white sheets. Ethereal music coming from upstairs. Then, when she felt the malt coursing in her veins, she would leave the house and go down the brick sidewalk toward the old boathouse, place of secrets and one very unfortunate accident. Shadows were all around her, some ahead as if leading the way, or behind, following her, a nightly migration of ghosts in the moonlight. How the accident happened leads back to the embrace, stronger than she anticipated, his hard lips against her own, the pressure she felt in her thighs. And though she was dizzy with the attention and the risk of it all, he being such an old and close family friend, she felt something give way. Her legs, all shaky and rubberlike, deserted her. With hardly a gasp she fell into the berth, hit her head on the stern of the sailboat and disappeared, unaware that above her the old friend was stepping back, fromthe water, from her, and ultimately from responsibility.
by Christopher Woods - Christopher Woods is a writer, teacher and photographer who lives in Houston and Chappell Hill, Texas. His photographs can be seen in his gallery - http://christopherwoods.zenfolio.com/