Glass, like gorgeous jewels, flew through the air. The sheered shards caught the light as they skittered and scattered over Sutherland Street, covering it with tiny white and silver diamonds. It reminded the onlookers of Christmas Eve, of every birthday and anniversary they'd ever celebrated. One man was astonished to see the soft nature of sheet metal reveal itself; how little collision force it took for a car to crumple.
"It looks like a used napkin", said his wife.
"It does!", he exclaimed, her words letting flower to the thoughts furled up in the watery soup suspended in his skull.
Others in the crowd of rubberneckers (and quite a crowd had built up and quickly, too) found themselves transfixed by the vicarious thrill of disaster. It was beautiful and macabre. Red flowed luxuriously, as though in slow motion. 'Twas as dark in the middle as rubies melting in lava, or ripe strawberries washed and waiting to be dipped in cream. The edges, where the sanguine sap was thinner, were the exact shade of crimson Revlon made ...
"What's the colour called again?", the young girl inquired of her sister. Neither could remember, but the second promised to consult her nail polish collection when they got back inside.
Oh, you should have seen the lights! Through cracked and splintered glass, what remained of the vehicle's foreshortened façade gamely foisted a beam upon the tarmac. Incongruously, it looked mightily cheerful in the dull, dank air, cutting straight through the crowd to dazzle a small boy of about six or seven. Standing up, clutching his dad's hand for security, he blinked his big eyes rapidly, like a startled rabbit.
The lamppost, which had sealed the vehicle's fate, was bent in the middle, as though sickened or upset by what it had done. The nimbus of lights made paler the ever-deepening surrounding black of the winter night.
By the time the ambulance arrived, some had turned to leave for the warmth of home, but they paused on their sheepskin-slippered feet in order to watch it hurtling down the road. Screeching its characteristic nasal whine of, "It's me, ma, it's me!", like a petulant and furious adolescent, it reminded them of highly inebriated late night rides home from the club in younger years, while Dad rattled on in an irritated tone about having to take a break from watching a documentary on the life cycle of the deep sea clam (or something equally banal) to come haul their ungrateful arses to bed. It made manifest the cold and delicious thrill of danger, of knowing life is short.
Blue and red flickered over the faces, steaming breath, of the gawkers and lolly-gaggers, rendering them alien and humiliated.
As it turns out, there was no need for the siren or the rush, after all; the passengers were clearly corpses by now. "What have we got here?", pondered the paramedic, to nobody in particular, as he eased himself out of the driver's door and rubbed his cheek. His large-knuckled hand scraped against bristling hairs.
Three long stretchers were manhandled from the back, their wheels bouncing slightly as they hit the hard road. Nearby, a dog started barking. The human flotsam ebbed away and life returned to normal.
Lead image: Poster's own photo
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