by H. Tsory
We were looking through a knothole in the wooden wall of an outhouse as the ladies went pee, fighting to see what we could see.
The band still rip-roaring inside the hall, too much snuck alcohol. We had unseasoned brains back then. They heard us and we ran. Their boyfriends went looking to beat us up.
We were saved by parents just in time, whisked into a van and driven away on grid roads where the vehicles of intoxicated liquor pilots sped home on random collision courses, turning up dust in the stillness of the prairie night.