I've been meaning to share this here for a while being a fan of these stories. The following is nonfiction, all true, and happened in 2002 after I completed the first draft of my novel BULB. All these years later, I’m still trying to wrap my brain around it.
At about 1:45 a.m. I left a party at my friend Mary and Bob’s house. A summer storm hit hard earlier in the evening and the trees darkening the road plus the storm forced me to concentrate. I’d had a few drinks earlier but not enough to not inhibit me. I was heading south on route 611 and just after Curley Hill Road, I noticed an accordioned car had scattered its bumper, glass, and other parts across the yellow lines.
“Keep Going” briefly raced through my head, but no one was around, someone might be inside the crushed vehicle and other cars could wreck if they ran into the debris. I backed up my car to the middle of the road and put my caution blinkers and high beams on. Plumsteadville Police was written on the trunk, black letters on white. I yelled hello, feeling as if I were in some dream or movie scene, as I walked closer.