New Year's Eve Ghosts

All coincidence to actual instances considered previous are to be considered purely coincidental.

   They were all standing in the dark in the small, glass greenhouse at the end of the long, timber porch out the front of the house, under the front veranda, when a cop car’s headlight lifted up onto the intersection between them and the opposite corner.

At the precise moment the headlight washed over her, she threw down the bong from her mouth, quickly engaging in a movement whereby she arched her back ballerina-like in a movie star's opening night premiere spotlight beam, and if the cops had not yet noticed her, she engaged an an obviously obfuscating deflection of this perhaps recently perceived legal impropriety, and hid within seconds from their view of the illegal water pipe that she’d just had gripped, previously, by moonlight, to her mouth, with another, politely helping her, by striking at the cone with an almost empty Bic lighter.

   The assumed pose within the picture that she had made within that headlight oval of white light against white weather boards accentuated every radiant feature of her beautiful, young face, as there, she prettily stood, looking like a fawning child, all innocent-like.

The cops took no bait, hadn’t noticed and turned the lead-tipped dorsal fin back end of their car in the other direction and away, leaving alone this small group of ten wastoids, who now were the guests and the hosts that made up that phase of this party. 

All of them, in there, lounging, standing around, waiting for their turn, and/or, just watching, in this small, plant-less, glass greenhouse, at the end of a balcony that stood beneath
a veranda, where, years after they had all long ago left to become yet others who’d once lived there, and who unknowingly were, along with all those unsuspecting others who’d likewise ever inhabited the place, now also destined to haunt the place.

Without their knowledge, this would be affirmed to them in dreams throughout their lives.  

   Teenage wasters, resting, still, there in the relative cool of the not-as-dumb-as-you-thought glass-house, with the milder night air, drawn through, and over, the front garden bank of vintage rose bushes, up and into the room through the corner with the broken window pane, ventilating the space, air-conditioner like, on this summer, end of the year, night.

Behind, under, and through, these dirt dusted, long way away moon, image-bearing cubes of darkness, outside glass reflection, squares, corner stuck shadows, small dry leaves, affixed cobwebs and glow in the dark yellow and green, Halloween pumpkins, under the hot moon, power line cube, night sky street light, star flourish, shroud.

Just an open doored, empty room.