by Chuck A Stetson
Small white rocks fell from the sky. Me and Harry-Gary were caught between panic and boner-producing exaltation: we had discovered the stick of dynamite in the explosives shed, placed it halfway up the mound of crushed gravel and lit the fuse.
We figured the fuse had a 60 second delay before the mound of small white stones exited Videtta Sand & Gravel in a hail of all out craziness. We figured wrong. Nothing happened for what seemed an eternity: enough time for me and Harry-Gary to weave our way through the woods, back to the front porch of my house where we planted our childish asses on two Adirondack benches, lamenting the dud we planted.
The boom threw us from the benches. Windows cracked. Voices screamed; some cursed. Small white rocks fell from the sky like hail during a July thunderstorm. Soon sirens sounded in the distance. My mother came to the front door in a panic. In that first eye to eye moment, I knew that she knew what we did. She asked: I lied. Harry-Gary ran home.
Crazy is in my DNA. There have been many explosions that have rocked me. Some I take the blame for, others I look to the heavens and wonder the “why” of it all. Boom!
© chuck a stetson 2015