Creativity - The Untapped Potential  

                                                      “The Jungle”

                                                                                 by Lisa Boston Frye

              The door slams and locks behind me as I step into cold January air, snow flurries, and the comforting silence of a small city at midnight.  Freed from the ravages of work and the heavy mantle of customer service, I rush for my minivan, start the engine, and ease out of the parking lot.  The music of the Eagles pours from my back speakers.

              Ah, relaxation.  I enjoy this time alone as I drive between work and home.  Its my twenty five minutes of freedom to unwind, to breathe, to be myself once again.

              As I turn the corner toward Route 4 and South Berwick, I notice the car behind me - it’s engine revs menacingly.  The driver hurtles it forward and then back.  The lights are blinding.  I am being stalked by a tail-gaiting maniac with high beams.  Is this a cold emotionless serial killer armed with a big knife or worse - a meat cleaver?  Maybe a car jacker?  A rapist?  I don’t even have pepper spray.  My heart pounds.  I breathe a little faster.  Suddenly the car rumbles left and is swallowed up by a turn in the road.  A black hole. 

              I am alone again.  The music pulses through the air as my foot taps on the gas pedal.  I drive toward North Berwick, past the golf course, and click my headlights to bright in case a moose steps in front of me.  What is that ahead in the road?  Something white - is it alive?  Oh no - its leaping up at my car!  Crack!  I turn my face from the specter as I feel the impact of a rock hard skull slamming into glass. 

              What the hell was that? 

              I look closely and see something hanging from the windshield, blowing in the wind.  Is it feather or fur?  I can’t tell at this point, driving as I am at 45mph.  Whatever I hit is back there still, a broken lump on the side of the road.  “Rest in Peace” I say to it guiltily.  I half expect its ghost to loom over my car, to chase me down and seek revenge.  It may call later and gurgle, “I saw you, I saw what you did.”   

              Almost home.  I begin to sing a little louder, my voice becomes a bit more high pitched.  I turn up the volume on the cd player.  A crack snakes its way across the windshield.

               I am entering a wonderland of snow - nature untouched by human taint.  Enveloped by a sea of white, I am a bug caught in a milk spill, being stalked by the family cat.  Blood runs like ice through my veins.  My senses are on fire.  I must keep moving.  

              Balsam branches hang over-laden with wet snow.  Now they’re the soft paws of towering polar bears.  Lined up like dominoes, the bears stand at attention - silent sentinels that guard this lonely stretch of country road.  Their huge claws swipe at the car. 

              I kill the music and sink deeper into the seat, my grip tightens on the steering wheel, my foot is heavier on the gas pedal.  I’m driving on the edge of a stone wheel that rolls through a haunted forest.  The wheel morphs into a massive snowball whirling, hurtling, now careening toward home.

              My mind is racing as I round the corner to my driveway.  I cut the curve a little too quickly, spinning my back tires in a splash of slush.  I turn off the engine, rush from the car, whip open my front door.  I’m inside.

              I whisper breathlessly, “It’s a jungle out there.”  The door closes, locks, and the outside lights go black.  I kick off my shoes, greet my husband, check on the kids, feed the cat.  As I snuggle in to the warmth of home, the luxury of ease, I say it again, softly.  “It’s a jungle out there, and thank God for that.”