Every Friday night: finished school for the week they gathered at diners before hopping into their daddy’s cars and cruising through the streets, then drag-racing over at the abandoned drive-in on Parsons Street.
Every week the private guard at the abandoned drive-in complained at the police station. ‘Teenagers,’ he was told. This new breed of young adults. They all wanted to be like James Dean.
He bought a fresh padlock. They brought bolt cutters. The first time he had confronted them they laughed and pushed him aside. His employers demanded he stop them. They were just a bunch of kids.
In they came, tyres screeching, young voices screaming.
A race about to begin, the guard stepped out in front of the headlights. This time they would listen to him. He unholstered his sidearm, shouted and fired one shot into the air.
Panicked, they dived back into cars, engines gunned, they scrammed. The guard smiled. Just kids, he thought, that gave ’em a scare.
He didn’t spot the teenager who hadn’t left, who had borrowed something else cool from his daddy that night.
The gunshot echoed across the abandoned drive-in. The teenager ran through the open gate.
Written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction. Write a story of around 200 words based on the photo prompt given (above). Hosted by Al Forbes. For more details visit HERE.
To read more stories based on this week’s prompt, visit HERE.
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