Crossroads

Going To the Crossroads

Some years ago, I was walking through the room while my girlfriend was watching “Supernatural”. Something about the episode caught my attention, and rather to my surprise, I sat down and watched it.

The story happened to be one I know, and know well: that of Robert Johnson, who reputedly sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for his insane talent, playing blues guitar. Now, the television show and the legend were a bit different, and the truth of the matter is stranger still. I’ll tell you all about those in a minute.

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The Beltway Driver’s Dream

Contest entry, rejected

Imprisoned in ant-farm condos, the wild is walled away. Trees march between us in nice even rows. Aliens descend weekly to lop the heads off all our dandelions, speaking lovely liquid Português. We cannot have flowers or paint our doors red. I bet the aliens can.

Gates constrain us, curbing channels us, our parking spaces are assigned. Separated by common landings, we nod politely, never speaking. Nightly garbage walks are furtive lest, caught unawares, we meet.

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