Wild Things

The night was awake and restless. Schizophrenic flocks of live oak leaves skittered across the darkened blacktop streets, fueled by a tempestuous cold front from the West. A feral man and his dog pedal the dark windswept streets, the dog fueled by wild instinct, the man by memories of 1974, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79.....Memories of friends in high top sneaks on clunker bikes racing........No, howling through the night like tom cats in search of new pinball machines and girls. Joyous young barbarians unleashed from the bonds of school and social expectations.


The boy is older now, but he still rides the night. His dog leans into her collar and she pants as she feels her most elemental instinct, a wild black wolf lineage deep inside her soul. The old man rides on, furiously chasing the memories that like his dog, he was once a wild thing.