Written as part of a challenge called Flash Fiction for the purposeful practitioner, https://rogershipp.wordpress.com
“It was really dark last night, but I’m pretty sure this is the place.” Joe starts to explain the condition of his brother’s Camaro. “OK it happened like this….”
“”The one lane bridge! First to cross gets fifty!” Bradley says
He was leaning against the windshield of his mom’s Mustang. He pried up the lid of a faded cap to look at his friend.
“You ain’t got no fifty bucks! I bet you ain’t got fifty cents. Just a bunch of lint!” I yell at him sitting in the driver’s side of your Camara.
“If you ain’t gonna lose, you ain’t got to pay! That thing won’t make the bridge! Hey, let me call my little sister. Natalie on her banana bike could take you.” he pulls that hat back down and smiles.
“OK, chicken little. You just wait for the sky to fall. I’m going to take a run at the bridge. You sure to don’t want to get your ass beat?!” i rev the motor. The engine roars through headers and very little exhaust. A cloud of blue grey smoke billows from behind. He laughs the excited teen laugh “Bug control, baby!”
He slides down the hood. “I’ll take your money. You better have it, scum bag!”
We line up side by side . The curving road, about mile to the bridge.
“OK, start of next song!” I yell over.
We are off. Mustang in left lane jumps quicker. He cuts over in front of me. He makes 50 by the first turn. I come wide of him on left. He’s barreling into it, tires crying as they wiggle the back side of the Camaro. Bradley keeps him in the lane. The Mustang even with the door of the Camaro. We approach second curve. It turns left. I need to come out ahead to make the bridge.
Tire screech. Speedometer climbs to 70. The road is getting the best of the Camaro. It swings out. He moves in a bit. He sees he losing control at the front corner of his Mustang. His eyes catch a spot of blue by the bridge. He locks up the brakes. I go flying across the front of him. Spinning into the grass sliding to the creek.
Then a blue pickup crawls out of the bridge. The old farmer smiles. He sees at me balancing on the edge of creek. He is frozen to the wheel with ghost white,skin and black boles for eyes.
“What you racing for boys?” The farmer rubs his grey beard as he talks.
“What? We were screwing around. You ain’t telling my mom, are you?” He asks knowing the farmer is two doors down.
“I said, ‘what wereyou racing for?’ Back in the day, we races chariots for clams. So what is it boys?” The smile of the old farmer grows wider.
“Fifty! We were going for fifty, sir.” I yell from a stalled car.
“Fifty gets you pulled out then. We all win. Noone finds out nothin.” The wicked smile of the farmer flashes as he drives on to the grass. ” I got chains, if you got cash.”
We dig for funds. It cost us $47.85.”