Twine-Highbeams

/* Your story will use the CSS in this passage to style the page.\nGive this passage more tags, and it will only affect passages with those tags.\nExample selectors: */\n\n#credits { display: none; }\n\nbody {\n\t/* This affects the entire page */\t\n}\n\nbody[data-tags~="black"] {\n/* the "data-tag" goes in the "Tags" slot at top of passage window */\n\tcolor: hsl(0,0%,100%);\n\tbackground-color: hsl(0,0%,0%);\n\t-webkit-transition: all 3s linear;\n\ttransition: all 3s linear;\n\t-moz-transition: all 3s linear;\n}\n\nbody[data-tags~="gray1"] {\n/* the "data-tag" goes in the "Tags" slot at top of passage window */\n\tcolor: hsl(0,0%,100%);\n\tbackground-color: hsl(0,0%,20%);\n\t-webkit-transition: all 3s linear;\n\ttransition: all 3s linear;\n\t-moz-transition: all 3s linear;\n}\n\nbody[data-tags~="gray2"] {\n/* the "data-tag" goes in the "Tags" slot at top of passage window */\n\tcolor: hsl(0,0%,100%);\n\tbackground-color: hsl(0,0%,30%);\n\t-webkit-transition: all 3s linear;\n\ttransition: all 3s linear;\n\t-moz-transition: all 3s linear;\n}\n\nbody[data-tags~="gray3"] {\n/* the "data-tag" goes in the "Tags" slot at top of passage window */\n\tcolor: hsl(0,0%,100%);\n\tbackground-color: hsl(0,0%,45%);\n\t-webkit-transition: all 3s linear;\n\ttransition: all 3s linear;\n\t-moz-transition: all 3s linear;\n}\n\nbody[data-tags~="gray4"] {\n/* the "data-tag" goes in the "Tags" slot at top of passage window */\n\tcolor: hsl(0,0%,100%);\n\tbackground-color: hsl(0,0%,60%);\n\t-webkit-transition: all 3s linear;\n\ttransition: all 3s linear;\n\t-moz-transition: all 3s linear;\n}\n\nbody[data-tags~="gray5"] {\n/* the "data-tag" goes in the "Tags" slot at top of passage window */\n\tcolor: hsl(0,0%,40%);\n\tbackground-color: hsl(0,0%,75%);\n\t-webkit-transition: all 3s linear;\n\ttransition: all 3s linear;\n\t-moz-transition: all 3s linear;\n}\n\nbody[data-tags~="gray6"] {\n/* the "data-tag" goes in the "Tags" slot at top of passage window */\n\tcolor: hsl(0,0%,40%);\n\tbackground-color: hsl(0,0%,90%);\n\t-webkit-transition: all 3s linear;\n\ttransition: all 3s linear;\n\t-moz-transition: all 3s linear;\n}\n\nbody[data-tags~="white"] {\n/* the "data-tag" goes in the "Tags" slot at top of passage window */\n\tcolor: hsl(0,0%,0%);\n\tbackground-color: hsl(0,0%,100%);\n\t-webkit-transition: all 3s linear;\n\ttransition: all 3s linear;\n\t-moz-transition: all 3s linear;\n}\n\n.passage {\n\t/* This only affects passages */\n\ttext-indent: 40px;\n\tfont-family: Baskerville, georgia, palatino, serif;\n\tfont-size: 200%;\n}\n\n.passage.reddish {\n\t/* This only affects passages */\n\ttext-indent: 40px;\n\tfont-family: Baskerville, georgia, palatino, serif;\n\tfont-size: 200%;\n\tbackground-color: red;\n}\n\nbackg {\n\tcolor: black;\n}\n\np { \t\n\tmargin-top: 0em; \t\n\tmargin-bottom: 0em; \n};\n\n.passage a {\n\t/* This affects passage links */\n\t\n\t\n}\n.passage a:hover {\n\t/* This affects links while the cursor is over them */\n\t\n\t\n}\n\nh1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {\n\tfont-family: sans-serif;\n};\n\n\n

There is a man lying on the floorboards, tucked between the back seats and the front. He's short and strong, his arms thick, his hands hard, the backs covered in wiry gold hairs smooshed obscenely by the surgical gloves he's wearing. These are taut and transparent, probably a size too small, and make his hands look swollen and cartoonish. The fingers of the right hand are wrapped around the handle of an expensive Yanagi-ba sashimi knife, the blade oiled and flawless. His wedding ring is clearly visible through the left glove, like a goldfish flash-frozen in a Koi pond. The fingers of that hand are wrapped around the neck of a wire coat hanger that's been pulled out into a loop, like a noose. He's wearing a disposable Tyvek painters suit, and has his hair tucked up under a shower cap. He is prepared for messy work.\t\t\t"So? " the driver says, cajoling. "Whaddya think?"\t\tThere's a vague smile on the backseat man's pale lips. Below that, his throat gapes with the wide red grin you carved into him while the driver was still in the gymnasium lobby, struggling to get the vending machine to accept his tattered dollar. By the time the driver had given up, he was in a rush to get into position--not a moment to spare, let alone time to check on his protégé. You'd already looped back to come out of the gymnasium doors just a little behind everyone else, lonely as a cloud, vulnerable as a lamb lost in the hills.\t\t\tThe quiet spools out, the driver's bright-toothed grin fading with every added second of silence.\t\tThe driver looks at you, finally truly seeing you, and the series of expressions that cross over his face are wonderful, like a gentle breath coaxing the dim ember in you to kindle, growing brighter. He's at first bemused and curious, then briefly confused, then momentarily flummoxed. And then the reality of the world and his predicament dawns inside him, hot and bright. Yet he keeps his cool.\t\t"Well," he sighs, "I'd been wondering why that dumbass hadn't popped up yet." His voice is a soothing, hypnotic purr. "[[See, this is why I make these tourists pay in advance--|do not want to look in the backseat]]"

"Really?" He glances over at you. "When I was a kid, everyone knew that story. It was in that //Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark// book. We all read that thing to tatters. The stories were good, good and creepy, but the art--those muddy, runny pen-and-ink drawings? My gawd, those terrified me!" He chuckles with the fond memory. "I loved 'em!"\t\tThere's just enough light in the car for you to see his eyes cut to the rear view mirror. Just a peek, and then back to the road ahead.\t\t"Anyway, so, there's this girl, right? Lives way out in the country. She's out late, at a high school basketball game, and when she rolls out of the parking lot she notices that this pickup rolls right out after her. It's a little weird, because she lives way out back in the middle of nowhere, and this guy is right on her tail, but she tells herself that he must just happen to be going the same way. Except she doesn't recognize the truck, and it isn't like there are that many people out in her neck of the woods. She speeds up so he isn't tailgating her so bad, and he speeds right up along with her. And then he starts flashing her with his high beams."\t\tThe driver's eyes cut to the rear-view again, and then back to the road.\t\t"''//Pow!//'', downright blinding. She speeds up, he speeds up. He hits her with the brights, and it's like getting stabbed in the eyes. She cuts a fast turn without signaling, he's right behind her. //''Pow!''// with the brights. She cuts another turn, almost too fast. He doesn't back off an inch. //''Pow!''// with the brights. //''Pow! Pow!''// Right on her tail, slamming her with the brights. Finally she makes it to her driveway--" \t\tHis eyes cut to the rear-view, then back to the road. Just a flicker, almost a twitch.\t\t"--tears up toward the house, throwing gravel. She dives out, and that pickup pulls in right behind her. She's sprinting toward the house as the driver swings out, shotgun in his hand. She screams, the driver heads her way--but not coming after her. He runs to her car, pulls open the back door, and hauls out some guy, some crazed fella with a goddamn butcher knife in hand."\t\tThe driver is chuckling again, shaking his head.\t\t"Turns out, that guy in the pickup had happened to see the psychopath crawl into the girl's back seat just before the game got out. She pulled off so quick, he had no time to warn her, so he followed. Every time that psycho reared up to stab her in the back, the truck driver hit his high beams and scared the guy back down."\t\tHe glances again at the rearview.\t\t"Anyway, so [[here's the thing: ...|Of course you do]]"

You sit and stare out the windshield, at the dark house and shed and pole barn. He sits and stares at you. Then cuts the headlights.\t\t"This your place?"\t\t"Nope."\t\tHe nods, still smiling to himself.\t\t"Whatever. You wanna take a look in the back seat before you try and get out?"\t\tHis teeth sparkle in the green under-sea gloom of the dashboard lights.\t\t"Can't," you say, your voice scrupulously flat and cold. "Too dark back there."\t\tHe clicks on the dome light wordlessly, flooding the car with yellow light. You glimpse upholstery mottled with distressing dark stains.\t\tYou [[don't need to look in the back seat|do not want to look in the backseat]]. But maybe [[you look anyway|you do anyway]].

<img src="high_beams-blankbg.png" width=400 align=right>\n<h1>Brights</h1> <h3> //by David Erik Nelson//</h3>\n\nNow that it's dark, you feel a little silly in the stupid skirt--a short kilt, the tartan shot through with the occasional hot-pink thread. Silly, and more than a little chilly. It looks cute, and it was fine all day--a bright October day, the leaves crisp and crunchy, sun-warmed and smelling faintly cinnamony. Then the sun set and it began to cool off, but the skirt was still fine, because you were in the gymnasium, packed into the bleachers with your friends, cheering like a maniac. You've never played volleyball--you aren't leggy enough, let alone tall enough--but you still love it. Not just the action--the grunts and dives and squeak of sneakers on waxed wood, the pop and arc of the ball, the way the girls flow across the floor, adjusting for the trajectory of the ball like hawks closing on terrified starlings. It's //everything//: The smell of the old wood, the bleachers worn glossy and splinterless by generations of shifting high school butts, the vibration of the air as the whole crowd breathes the joy of your girls dominating the visitors.But now it's late and dark, the crowd has dispersed, and you are shivering in the parking lot in your stupid little kilt.You should have been home studying. But when the days started getting dark like this, the sun rising late and setting early and sticking closer to the horizon as it crossed the sky, as though it could hardly be bothered to drag itself out of bed--the whole season dragged your spirit down, dulling it, weighing on it like weeds tangling the ankles of a flagging swimmer. Sometimes you just need to do something a little bad to chase off the gathering gloom and thaw out the slush puddles that pool deep down in your guts as autumn dries up and curls around the edges. And coming out to the game in your moderately silly kilt seemed just right, like blowing gently on dim embers until they brighten to licks of flame.But now everyone is basically gone. The place isn't abandoned: The janitors are still sweeping up, and some of the players are still shouting and laughing in the girl's locker room. There are even still a few kids wandering around in conspiratorial pairs and manic knots. But everyone you really know is gone, and the parking lot is empty enough that you can hear the flood lights buzzing against the dark blue of the gathering night.And you don't have a ride. And you are chilly, your legs bare beneath the kilt, your arms crossed and shoulders drawn in, your pink hoody cute, but uselessly thin.A pale, nondescript sedan is rolling across the parking lot. It had been parked in the darkest corner of the lot all night, spotlight folded in, no one behind the wheel. You'd assumed the driver was patrolling the lot on foot, scoping out the packed gymnasium, keeping an eye on the knots and clusters of teens in the lobby.\tThe cruiser pulls into the turnaround the wrong way, so that the driver's window is close to the curb. It stops a little short of where you're standing, just outside the pool of smudgy parking-lot light.\tThe driver's window rolls down to reveal a handsome guy in a navy blue uniform. He's not quite dad-age, but close. \t"Need a lift?" He smiles, and the smile practically sparkles.\t[[You smile in return]], relieved.\tOr maybe not. [[Maybe you take a step back]].

IDEA:\n\tHave "high beams" pick start out dim and get brighter as you proceed; at bottom-line FINAL it is blazing. At all other DEAD ENDS it is absent.???\n\nCHANGING BGCOLOR AND TEXT:\n\thttp://twinery.org/forum/discussion/1528/css-is-your-friend-the-basics-of-changing-twine-s-default-appearance-for-newbs\n\thttp://twinery.org/forum/discussion/4544/changing-background-image-from-passage-to-passage\n\nracerboy_high_beams: https://www.flickr.com/photos/28096801@N05/4663078253/in/photolist-874uGV-7rxdEQ-6GS2fb-85HHFr-biaUgt-biaUJ4-biaUVH-85HHsk-6UQc8y-biaU18-biaTMv-biaTmB-biaSKk-biaUtH-biaTbt-biaSZ4-85LS1j-5bvxkU-4dSVLU-7bZ4X4-68smkF-74HG5i-pY3fjj-bote2M-xSDefo-boRWZf-xff8W5-5brfx4-5brfq4-5R7uqy-6bRzgi-85LSdj-tmYZt-8aB3qR-brFi8k-quzCPw-6VphGt-4Mt17Z-pcrPBe-biaVan-f2HkyS-4Mt1ca-cpbzTs-yi7t8-535j5n-9j2CvM-7rKF42-pWnjUz-bzbdPH-nmEa2\n\n\n=======================================\n\n\n\nPOSSIBLES:\nhttps://www.flickr.com/photos/kk/29049169/in/photolist-3yTiK-q3ugqb-pQaj41-5su4NX-pu6z7u-rrKuT5-Gz9Km-rP5jSB-o1cKne-9Dwz8y-qhEYFv-9BxfaB-wTF9Y-pXDEUZ-qvfnJh-pF2nF4-9YcyxL-EPXZB-77TjN8-daMw2f-5HuYKD-bFWefP-8A1QNY-aBgVrJ-81jxJ3-gK2guo-pF765W-ppBBh9-6ymXkA-a8Ry4m-cA9NXb-f232Yw-4t8nuH-6ymXtA-6yhPF8-5W3YPx-9kCBzo-owtXq-4LUu4T-9BjmXM-8CB1qJ-5Cs68a-8VQad-6MkWu-4iQQ1s-kMKV7-9JcHD1-hL6Go-8CXA3i-cz68AU\n\nhttps://www.flickr.com/photos/aresauburnphotos/4896733176/in/photolist-8sH3b5-gmJDA1-sm3S46-ahB7hJ-cSuQ1C-75U8mS-aoHtj6-7eFfMK-nD5bZy-pWPcvu-n9kLbV-ogvcYf-9mvyqe-8N5eXc-dTZHgB-eqPWb9-o4Gov3-eiQyVC-qS4Fce-836yu3-92EFCB-qu4Jv2-mdVKMK-bRs2uP-6v1h1-oRp8Uf-okZzKj-bvYEcH-8NnjXJ-fi9JC4-fip17A-asykE9-996H1K-awz4KQ-jjXndJ-7zbrNJ-dgWYqj-8Jwyyt-aixcya-gtJvu1-4DnoCW-n3PKtT-eM3UVh-eM3UTu-ajVxdy-7Uuv4H-dw8y9k-7f6kS-nCzNTd-hv44vd\n\nhttps://www.flickr.com/photos/andrewbain/2743518729/in/photolist-5brfx4-5brfq4-5R7uqy-6bRzgi-85LSdj-tmYZt-8aB3qR-brFi8k-quzCPw-6VphGt-4Mt17Z-pcrPBe-biaVan-f2HkyS-4Mt1ca-cpbzTs-yi7t8-535j5n-9j2CvM-7rKF42-pWnjUz-bzbdPH-nmEa2-4zy6Yd-db8TYJ-tniEW-uND2yA-5HuYKD-9M195H-pRbpan-e2W156-6DTuR-7BBBDn-4CchDg-emWAiZ-3yTiK-bchP2t-bqLAc-coyjxS-7rPBr9-gqhpT-7rKF9a-dKv3sY-5AJaVA-7Kazdo-xt6MG2-5ADSqg-5ADTvV-kFWixK-5bvxtE\n\nhttps://www.flickr.com/photos/28096801@N05/4663078253/in/photolist-874uGV-7rxdEQ-6GS2fb-85HHFr-biaUgt-biaUJ4-biaUVH-85HHsk-6UQc8y-biaU18-biaTMv-biaTmB-biaSKk-biaUtH-biaTbt-biaSZ4-85LS1j-5bvxkU-4dSVLU-7bZ4X4-68smkF-74HG5i-pY3fjj-bote2M-xSDefo-boRWZf-xff8W5-5brfx4-5brfq4-5R7uqy-6bRzgi-85LSdj-tmYZt-8aB3qR-brFi8k-quzCPw-6VphGt-4Mt17Z-pcrPBe-biaVan-f2HkyS-4Mt1ca-cpbzTs-yi7t8-535j5n-9j2CvM-7rKF42-pWnjUz-bzbdPH-nmEa2\n\nhttps://www.flickr.com/photos/maxwellgs/4426617674/in/photolist-7Kazdo-xt6MG2-5ADSqg-5ADTvV-kFWixK-5bvxtE-75LH78-gqXZB-cYVg2b-7UQv1x-7UTKAy-7UTJVb-5vNkAf-4LVG6K-bmgmgS-8Zoo3-5xBV5i-7Au49D-4iPckT-cYV5U5-8a5HcV-FoDWG-voJFUY-482GhP-49YHem-a9UHQF-8N5dqK-8at9Km-aaaAUc-n9kLbV-92EFCB-dj4HAV-dj4GhN-5qZ8GK-8duagM-5BPrmz-92HN7w-RLg6K-kXSzuB-4oLW8Z-4o3DYk-9HDEnS-dY5udY-ii7vy-aaateV-aaaB6z-aaaAN4-a9YQq3-awVD6E-awSVQp\n\nhttps://www.flickr.com/photos/nakrnsm/7864005636/in/photolist-cYV5U5-8a5HcV-FoDWG-voJFUY-482GhP-49YHem-a9UHQF-8N5dqK-8at9Km-aaaAUc-n9kLbV-92EFCB-dj4HAV-dj4GhN-5qZ8GK-8duagM-5BPrmz-92HN7w-RLg6K-kXSzuB-4oLW8Z-4o3DYk-9HDEnS-dY5udY-ii7vy-aaateV-aaaB6z-aaaAN4-a9YQq3-awVD6E-awSVQp-a9W2Xc-a9W3fz-5np34T-msZ65z-6Q5McX-yN7AHV-4ocbFE-d1fa9q-aN3RFR-s9Dx6J-dKP89h-agNNNZ-5Gz6xe-drxuBN-5bvxmL-95eRWk-9FsA24-3rKMNM-7AxNVU\n\nhttps://www.flickr.com/photos/maxwellgs/4267282936/in/photolist-7v5WxJ-8LeCnt-57TkuE-9MPXcg-8pEAiw-6UJAwc-dRfKw7-74RMz6-8ScZxF-ejviNg-4Z6iR5-8ScZTc-8ScZvM-8ScZHV-Pztfn-2eFw4-buML9P-msZ3A6-mt26a9-7v5Yb5-7v1Wix-7v5ZRh-dxfNgv-dxfLMz-dxmhhd-dxmdg7-dxfLcv-8ScZBc-nVRXEe-nWJ93m-8Sg7Gy-8ScZKr-33Wgh-7tP2ni-dw7nfH-t58Nr-8Sg7JU-CG1aM-52djoF-nWJ9wh-nGZU9r-7may3-ptKJfZ-oWuSTU-5PWkiG-8Sg7X9-3gewHa-8ExPJt-74Xdc9-dqzP6F\n\nhttps://www.flickr.com/photos/qmnonic/125292870/in/photolist-c5acU-biaTzZ-5vp1ZB-5CM2b5-zzye9-874uGV-7rxdEQ-6GS2fb-85HHFr-biaUgt-biaUJ4-biaUVH-85HHsk-6UQc8y-biaU18-biaTMv-biaTmB-biaSKk-biaUtH-biaTbt-biaSZ4-85LS1j-5bvxkU-4dSVLU-7bZ4X4-68smkF-74HG5i-pY3fjj-bote2M-xSDefo-boRWZf-xff8W5-5brfx4-5brfq4-5R7uqy-6bRzgi-85LSdj-tmYZt-8aB3qR-brFi8k-quzCPw-6VphGt-4Mt17Z-pcrPBe-biaVan-f2HkyS-4Mt1ca-cpbzTs-yi7t8-535j5n\n\nhttps://www.flickr.com/photos/aresauburnphotos/4896733176/in/photolist-8sH3b5-7Au49D-75Q5dg-qRMCi7-75Qb8g-7v1Wix-y7VVhj-96j9wU-75U8mS-r2QRUi-dMaGX3-7AxNVU-759UjX-75Qe5v-7Au46T-75QbZV-rb5apB-7v5WSu-7AxNY3-7v5WxJ-jt6uxw-4o3DYk-og6Q4p-75dLx9-M9u3P-yFt82-qaQkan-rpMUnp-u6E8k9-7v5VEf-7v5Yb5-aGysqM-851aKY-rmTawv-6PfxKw-bcVRez-8sH2YW-rcG3W2-8sH5PG-5uZGHY-8C4jqW-8sH6Lo-gMpS4C-5GkaXQ-nUMjSW-q2GMsN-rQqm9R-s5zEx9-kVvVeG-reyHdD\n\nhttps://www.flickr.com/photos/martinaphotography/7140508819/in/photolist-bSYYv2-cwUKcA-qCpV8V-5j5WeL-r8CFti-4V4AcM-8FFULd-fgnwWH-bN1t3F-4ycrh5-b6FhFp-6XdzEk-vjweMW-pu7hNQ-6wu9fd-7kLEvJ-9jbZD9-azJLQm-bcVQVH-ic5hJz-m3ZR64-nLtgVN-nTayay-7vge8e-ahBMJ1-fJEXS9-j3Khso-P5bZs-4tkMyH-4pK8yj-c3HGXu-jTprx-aaJ1En-P5bYN-8AmMm-9q6SMF-26RFXL-pXAYiL-MwDhp-P5Fb6-8mKLcH-8dx3QC-AGwm-8H2eDT-6hKZGD-dwndF-aB2S63-5u8KC8-bEgoUo-eRFd7P\n\nhttps://www.flickr.com/photos/soumya_p/13161054865/in/photolist-m3ZR64-nLtgVN-nTayay-7vge8e-ahBMJ1-fJEXS9-j3Khso-P5bZs-4tkMyH-4pK8yj-c3HGXu-jTprx-aaJ1En-P5bYN-8AmMm-9q6SMF-26RFXL-pXAYiL-MwDhp-P5Fb6-8mKLcH-8dx3QC-AGwm-8H2eDT-6hKZGD-dwndF-aB2S63-5u8KC8-bEgoUo-eRFd7P-9EN8P5-6EKfwb-GhEvv-6a21QW-b6SBPv-ef2CtW-aDAiDh-7u2XuP-3c4b4-f58x15-7u6SmC-7u2XvR-NhNQ3-dAdP6g-tttWJ-5DiQof-4mw5G4-68XeQr-8TvBH5-9wN1rg\n\n

You pull the door handle and throw the door open.\t\t"Jesus!" the driver screams, involuntarily slamming on the breaks, throwing the car into a mild skid that makes it all the easier to hop out and hit the hard-packed dirt road running. You almost stumble, then catch yourself. Two long strides, and you're in control, peeling away, leaping the drainage ditch as the car rights itself. It hits the soft shoulder on the wrong side of the road and jukes, nosing into the ditch. You hear the door scream on its old hinges, the edges of the door whickering through the overgrown grass. Then boots on the hard pack. He splashes through the ditch and cracks into the brush behind you.\t\tThe dark night air is good and clean and light in your lungs, and fills you with the growing brightness of even breaths, the joy of the hunt.\t\tHis boots are crunching closer in the dark, faster, pistoning hard. You think of a poem that was in your English textbook the year before, the Emily Dickinson one that starts "A wounded deer leaps highest." There's a bunch of stuff in that poem you can't recall, but somewhere in there sings of "the ecstasy of death before the brake is still."\t\t//Ecstasy of death// loops in your head, smooth and thyrhmic, as you break through the thicket.\t\tHe's closer now, and you're still running, even as he closes.\t\tAnd despite it all, the thing you feel is joy.\t\tAnd now that you're feeling good and light and strong, you start to wish you //had// [[stayed in the car]] and heard how his story ended...\n\n

/% <img src="high_beams_final.png" width=400 align=right> %/\n\nYou slide the knife out of the plastic sheath you've taped high up on the outside of your right thigh, where you knew it would be concealed not just by your kilt, but also by the dark and the door and the distance from the driver. He sees the dashboard light kick of the clean swoop of the blade. It's a fisherman's filleting knife, thin and light and flexible and sharp enough to tease delicate, glittering skin from airy pink flesh. It's cheap--practically disposable--but it'll certainly git'er done, one way or the other.\t\t"Listen, honey," the driver says, his voice a warm purr even as his left hand creeps down between the door and seat, down to where he had stashed the revolver that he doesn't know now weighs heavy in your tiny black backpack.\t\tYou smile, and the smile is as sweet and bright and warm as the afternoon sunshine, as care-free as the silly kilt, as loose and steady as the autumn breeze. Quick but smooth, you slide the knife in under the shelf of his jaw, carving him a set of gills that gape and gasp blood.\t\tHis bemusement falls away, and he just looks surprised. And then he begins to fade, even as you grow brighter and brighter still. And you keep carving, because there's a lot of work to do here in the dark: It takes a lot of cuts to free up the warmth and light when it gets all bogged down at the bottom of the world.

You interrupt: "High beams?"\t\t"It's what mechanics call your 'brights'--you know, the bright headlights that you can click on and off?"\t\tHe flashes his brights several times to illustrate.\t\t"Oh, yeah," you say, nodding. "[[Gotcha]]."

... he pauses for effect before saying: \t\t"That exact same thing happened to me one time."\t\tThis isn't what you were expecting at all. "What?"\t\t"Mmm-hmm," he nods, "That same thing." His eyes cut to the rearview mirror for just a second, and then back to the road.\t\t"No way," you smile.\t\tHe looks affronted--but mock affronted. "Yes way, my dear! This was--shit, thirty years ago now, back where I grew up, out west. 'Big Sky Country,' they call it, and that's literal: The land is flat and empty and the sky huge. You can drive up on a thunderstorm for three hours before you hit it, watching it flash and skulk in the horizon the whole time. The storm just sits out there waiting, something that doesn't even concern you, like a ballgame you don't care about on a bar TV with the sound off. Then, //pow!//, the fury of that storm just swallows you up."\t\tHis eyes flick to the rearview again.\t\t"It's a Big Sky, but also an Empty Sky, Empty Land. Out here--" he gestures out the windshield, at the tunnel of trees drawn tight to the shoulder of the road, "It's easy to feel like someone, or something, is always watching. You can feel like there's a God out here, tucked back into the trees. Or at least 'coons and possums and bats. But out there, the land is just laid out as flat as an abandoned blacktop parking lot, and the sky big and empty over it, like a cloudy dead eyeball. You are alone, and you are exposed."\t\tAnother flicker to the rearview and back again. \t\t"I didn't work much back then, but when I did I worked late. //Late//-late. So late, it's almost early--and it gets early real early out there, where the sky is a 180-degree wrap-around nuthin'. So I'm in the car, way out on one of these country roads. Shouldn't be no one else that far out, not that time of night, but there is. Some fella in a big ole pickup, high-clearance, fog-lights, roll-bars, the whole nine yards. And he keeps riding hard up on the bumper, engine revving, high beams filling the car with 1000 watts of sunshine. Then he clicks them back down to low beams and backs off."\t\tAs he's been talking his eyes have flicked back to the rearview at least three more times. It reminds you of how a shoplifter will keep patting where she's shoved the blouse down into her baggy pants, her hand wondering down all on its own. Tap, then fluttering away. Tap, then fluttering away. A tick. A tell.\t\tYou glance into the side mirror, which warns you that objects are closer than they appear. There's nothing behind you but looming branches and a dead, starless sky.\t\tYou have a sinking feeling.\t\tUp ahead, light glimmers through the trees. It's a gas station, one of those big 24-hour oasis ones, with a store attached, the kind that caters to truckers and sells one kind of everything: bubblegum, boots, frozen burritos, snap-front cowboy shirts, in-cab video players, weird cheap porno. The kind of oasis that's always got folks coming and going.\t\tYou wonder if he'll [[stop|ask him to pull off]]. But you let the station [[slip past|it slips past]] without a peep.

Brights \n(//In the Midst of Darkness, Light Persists//)

You have to ask twice before he falters in telling his tale, and then he seems off balance. He chews his lips a little, glances in the rearview again. The light spilling out from the station makes it day-bright inside the car. There happens to be a woman at the outermost pump, and she happens to glance up from her station wagon's gas cap. A tired young mom, her blonde hair a wreck held back by a chip-clip, showing dark roots. A corn-silk blond toddler is limp and sleeping in the car seat in back.\t\t"You sure?" The man who isn't a cop asks as he eases to a stop just beyond the reach of the overhead lights illuminating the pump islands. "You sure you want out now, before my story's done?"\t\tYou make eye contact with the tired mom, and she cocks her head like a golden retriever. She doesn't recognize you, because she doesn't know you, but she clearly has the impression she maybe should. Part of you wants to stay in the car, cruise out into the dark, ride this one out. It's bad, a Bad Idea, but you were feeling so much lighter, so much brighter this evening, and now you're going dark and cold all over again.\t\tBut still, you know that caution is the better part of valor.\t\t"Yeah," you almost sigh. "Totally sure."\t\tHe snorts, a touch derisively, like a boy annoyed by a pal chickening out on a dare.\t\t"Fine then," he rolls his eyes throws the car into park. "Your funeral."\t\t"I guess." You feign a yawn and hop out. You don't slam the door. He doesn't put in any effort wishing you well. He quietly rolls out of the parking lot, turning back the way he came.\t\tStanding in the dark, yyou survey the bright oasis, its gleaming candy racks and wall-to-wall cold cases, wondering just what you'll do about being stranded alone in the night.\t\t"The one that got away?"\t\tYou turn to see the tired young mom hooking the nozzle back onto the pump, then screwing her gas cap in place.\t\t"Yeah," you sigh, feeling dim and heavy.\t\tThe young mom looks up, her eyes a light and luminous blue. "I wouldn't worry, honey. A place like this, guys like that, they're easy pickins." The young mom smiles the honest, bright smile of a runner who's just finished a brisk 10k. She reaches up with her right hand to push back several hanks of hair that have slipped their clip. You aren't particularly surprised to see that the back of her sweatshirt cuff is stiff with dried blood. "Easy pickins," she repeats, then adds "for gals like us."\t\tThe young mom hooks back around, climbs into her car, and pulls away. The toddler in back stirs in her sleep, then settles back down as the oasis lights slide off her window.\t\tAnd sure enough, before the young mom has even turned out of the parking lot, there's the purr of an engine, and the over-warm question floating up over your shoulder: "You look cold out here, honey; [[you need a ride|You smile in return]]?"

"Sure!" You say, hoping off the curb and scooting around the front of the car, splashing through his headlights and into the dark of the passenger side. It's a Bad Idea, but you're in a Bad Idea sort of mood. "Thanks!"\t\t\tWhen you open the door no dome-light comes on, but the heater is so nice and warm that you slip off your little black backpack, plop into the seat, and slam the door before this really registers. The guy roles away from the curb immediately, clicking the radio on to quiet country music.\tYou tell him to hang a right out of the parking lot.\tEven by the dim, green under-the-sea dashboard lights, it's clear this isn't a cop car, and that the uniform isn't a uniform. The guy just happens to be dressed all in dark blue, the sort of sturdy, slightly stiff jacket and work pants a janitor or mechanic wears, but spotless, still brand new.\tHe swings out of the parking lot and hangs a right. \t\t"My daughter plays on the team," he offers. "Tall setter, blonde ponytail."\t\t"Don't you need to wait for her?"\t\tHe smiles. "Naw. She's getting pizza with the team. Once I drop you off, I'll go pick her up."\t\tYou relax a little and give him your address. It hasn't started to dawn on you yet that //tall setter, blonde ponytail// would describe basically anyone on the court, accept for one girl on the visiting team, who had a red lob just like Angela on //My So-Called Life//.\t\tThe roads around the school are dark: Narrow residential streets with no street lights, the houses a little too far back for their porch lights to reach the road. It brightens briefly as you approach the freeway, but instead of sliding onto the on ramp as you'd expected--it's at least 15 minutes faster that way--he cruises up the overpass, diving into the long, straight country roads that cut through the dark soy and alfalfa fields.\t\t"You know that '[[High Beams]]' story?" he asks. "It's like an urban legend nowadays."\t\t[[Of course you do|Yeah]]; who doesn't? But you say //[[No]]//, because you like the sound of his drawl floating on top of the quiet wash of guitar music as the two of you cut down the cold road in your warm sea-green bubble.

\n\nYou think to [[ask him to pull off]], saying that you have to use the toilet really bad, or that your brother works at the station and can give you a lift from there. But you let the station [[slip past|it slips past]] without a peep.\n\n\nBrights \nor //In the Midst of Darkness, Light Persists//a brief tale of uncertain moral

This doesn't feel right. Not //terrible//--he doesn't leer or drool or hulk, he doesn't seem like a creeper or chester--but it's a little off, and a little off can be big, big trouble.\tYou take another step back, separating yourself further from the sedan. Some shadow passes over the driver's face. You take one more step back, putting you in the bright squares of white light spilling through the bank of glass doors that lead into the gym lobby, where the girls' shouts and laughter still echo up from the locker rooms.\tThe driver forces a smile, gives a little //toodle-ooh!// wave of the fingers, and drives off, his nondescript sedan sliding into the dark like an eel seeping away into the dark weeds.\tThe chill of the air is forgotten. The faint ridiculousness of your unseasonably short skirt is forgotten. In some dim way, you're sorry to see him go. The lively brightness inside you slumps and dims, and you trudge back inside to the pay phones, to call for a ride.

... because you //could// pull the door handle and roll out into the drainage ditch.\t\tBut that's nuts--and besides, you're [[almost home]].

!function(d,s,id){var js,fjs=d.getElementsByTagName(s)[0],p=/^http:/.test(d.location)?'http':'https';if(!d.getElementById(id)){js=d.createElement(s);js.id=id;js.src=p+'://platform.twitter.com/widgets.js';fjs.parentNode.insertBefore(js,fjs);}}(document, 'script', 'twitter-wjs');\n

"The pickup kept up like that," he says, his eyes never leaving the road--apart from the occasional quick check of the rearview. You keep your attention divided between him and the side mirror; still flat night behind you, not a sign of anyone. "For miles and miles, through ignored stop signs, unsignaled turns, even a near miss with a screaming freight train at a crossing. But that fella was downright relentless: Coming tight to the bumper, blasting the interior with his high beams, then backing off again."\t\tYou're not feeling good now, your stomach knotted with something somewhere between fear and anticipation, halfway between the stage fright a person gets before accepting an award and the jitters she feels in the Planned Parenthood waiting room.\t\tThe driver, he's sunk deep into the telling of his story. He's not smiling anymore. His voice is as flat as the void night sky. He's not telling the story to you anymore, just reciting it in your presence, the way someone might absently talk themselves through fixing a dishwasher or gutting a mess of fish.\t\t"That high beam light's so bright it makes your pupils ache, and then you're blind when he clicks it off, driving through the countryside with your vision full of big floating yellow blobs. It was the closest I could imagine to a true and accurate vision of Hell."\t\tYou watch the darkness wash past outside, and try to figure your odds.\t\t"Finally we tear into the driveway, gravel flying. That fella in the pickup is right behind. He's out before the truck's even come to a full stop--"\t\tYou never did buckle up. [[You could pull the door handle and roll out]] into the drainage ditch. The trees have lost most of their leaves, and it's rained a lot. The drainage ditch might be soft and mucky enough. You could walk from here--or run. You could disappear into the scrubby woods, the hills and gullies, the cold darkness.\t\tBut that's nuts--and besides, you're [[almost home]].

"Yeah," you say, "That one where the girl's driving home late at night, and the guy following her keeps flashing his brights in her review, because it turns out there's some psycho hiding in her back seat."\t\tHe nods as you speak, [[then ... |Of course you do]]

The driver has slowed some, peering around at the crooked, rusted mailboxes sporadically pegged at the side of the road, looking for the address you named.\t\t"That pickup fella, he's got a big ole snub-nosed .357 Mag in one hand, and he hauls the rear door of the car open with the other. Levels that pistol right at my head and shouts: //You ain't gonna stab that girl, fuck-o!// Scared me so bad, I almost dropped my butcher knife!"\t\tHe laughs at his own joke, too loud and too long. In the close, warm confines of the car it's like a blast of dynamite followed by the rumble of falling rocks. He spots the mailbox and swoops up into the driveway just as he gets his chuckles under control.\t\t"Anyways," he continues, rolling to a stop on the crunching gravel, "I had to pop up quick and slice that Billy Bad-Ass a good one across the eyes, the bitch in the front seat squealing the whole fucking time. I broke a sweat--and my tighty-whities had to be consigned to the trash bin when it was all through--but it wasn't no big thing. As a policy, I git'er done, one way or the other."\t\tThe car squeaks to a stop, then creaks back on its springs, and he [[kills the engine]].

by David Erik Nelson\n<a href="http://www.davideriknelson.com">dave0.com</a>

... "So you know that 'High Beams' story?" he asks. "It's like an urban legend nowadays."\t\t[[Of course you do]]; who doesn't? But you say //[[No]]//, because you like the sound of his drawl floating on top of the quiet wash of guitar music.