Young Writers Society

Blue and red lights reflected off the rain-soaked pavement, gleaming like sapphire and ruby stars. The crescent moon above hung eerily quiet over the scene. Its glassy silver eyes had witnessed everything—four drunken kids, two sporty cars racing at deadly speeds, the yellow light that had held every ounce of its color before submitting to the red that took over. The sleepy moon had watched helplessly as one of the cars, red as the newly-changed light, was violently struck at full speed by another vehicle, completely mangling what was only just moments ago the hood of the car and its perfectly upholstered front seats.
From its vantage point high in the solar system, the moon saw the other car race away and could say nothing, do nothing, to save the two kids that were surely bleeding to death in the red totaled vehicle far down on earth. Somewhere in that mess of jarred metal and smoking engine laid a boy, too oblivious from alcohol to comprehend what had happened to him. He would die that way, oblivious. Oblivious to the rain hitting his unshaven face, oblivious to the police cars and ambulance arriving to the scene, oblivious to the last words his girlfriend said to him. “Perhaps”, said the half-sober girl lying next to him as she watched him breathe his last few breaths from across a pile of rubble, “perhaps I should’ve driven us home.”