ZENITH by Cody Shrum
Cody Shrum ZENITH Four of them were out that night: two brothers and a couple. They’d been howling at the moon, driving around, being kids—senior year, winter break. Wattles Road was just outside town, nobody around to bother them. The sky hanging over the town was dull gray, its belly full of snow. The old car’s heater wasn’t worth a shit, so the cab was full of breath. Rock music blasted from the stereo, speakers huffing static. The older brother, the senior, tapped the song’s tune on the steering wheel. The car edged to the shoulder of the road where pavement turned to gravel. Up ahead was the railroad crossing, the one without crossing gates their mothers had warned them about. The brothers got out of the car and went back to the trunk. The couple stayed inside the car, breath visible, leaned against one another. She said she’d rather … chop! chop! read more!