 
Collection of Short Stories

by

Top Writers Block

on the theme:

'Wheels'

Copyright©June 2014 Top Writers Block

Published by Top Writers Block at Smashwords

ISBN: 9781310208584

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Credits

Cover design : Suzy Stewart Dubot

Cover photo : Junior Libby http://goo.gl/6cK1Tb
Table of Contents

Progeny by Elizabeth Rowan Keith

Wheels of Time by Suzy Stewart Dubot

Wheels by Barnaby Wilde

The Wheels on the Bus by Don Bick

A Tale From Shank Beach by Bill Rayburn

Run Flat by Melissa Szydlek

Gone with the Spin by Elizabeth Rowan Keith

The Running Boy by Barnaby Wilde

A Fun-loving Guy by Suzy Stewart Dubot

Progeny

by

Elizabeth Rowan Keith

©2014 Elizabeth Rowan Keith

Elizabeth Rowan Keith is a researcher, writer, and artist who has received multiple awards in all three fields. Along with her collie, Belle, she tends many gardens and trees under the grand sky of the North American

Great Plains. She is the widow of award-winning author David H. Keith.

Wheels Walker was a chip off the old block. His daddy was just as clueless.

The Walkers had no concept of cause and effect. They didn't link actions to consequences. At every predictable outcome, they were unfailingly surprised.

Both of them were like actors in a cheap horror movie. An audience of any sort could see a disaster unfolding, while the ridiculous character in the film maneuvered right into it.

Gums Walker was the first I met. The meeting was brief. It was on my first day out of the academy; my first on the street. I was paired with a training officer.

Our second call of the night had to do with an officer down. When we arrived at the scene, several other officers had already responded and were in position. They all had their service revolvers aimed at Gums. He was holding a gun, standing over the officer he'd just shot.

As my partner and I left the patrol car and took cover, the other officers were yelling orders at Gums to drop his weapon. My heart was racing. I could barely hear the shouted commands over the pounding in my ears.

Gums raised his weapon toward the officers. As the barrel leveled at them, they fired.

I'm pretty sure, for a moment, my heart stopped entirely.

Gunfire is a lot louder without the ear protection worn while training on the academy firing range. The volume caught me by surprise. This seems like the time to share that helpful fact with the rookie next to me in the passenger seat.

Anyway, that was the end of that. That was the end of Gums.

I never did learn why he was called "Gums."

So here I am, on my very last day before retirement, trainee riding shotgun, chasing what Gums had a chance to produce before he left this world. He had a son.

Charles is his first name, just like his father's. But this version of the Walker line is called "Wheels."

I could only speculate why Wheels Walker was given his nickname. It guessed it had to do with a childhood fascination with wheeled toys, which led to his untamed appreciation for motorized vehicles. They usually had something to do with whatever brand of trouble he chose.

This time it has to do with a stolen 1999 Dodge Ram 4X4 pickup truck. From the way it's moving, it has that V-10 engine.

No doubt Wheels thinks he can outrun a patrol car in that truck. Honestly, he's right.

But he can't outrun a radio. There is a rolling roadblock waiting up ahead.

I don't know what Wheels will do when he sees a line of patrol cars blocking the highway in front of him, or what he will do when they attempt to slow him to a stop. Having been privileged enough to see a broad range of Wheel's performance art, I'd guess that just about the time they begin to slow down, he will take to the ditch to go around the slowing row of patrol cars.

It would not be smart of Wheels to try escape via the ditch. The borrow ditches along here are steep and deep. Right now they're full of spring flood water.

That truck Wheels has stolen sits high. If he takes to the ditch too fast he'll flip it, one way or another. Four wheel drive and a big engine won't keep a vehicle upright.

I may as well have brought popcorn. We've came to a predictable part of the movie.

The rolling roadblock comes into view. Just as Wheels catches up to it, he hits the brakes and turns toward the ditch.

Wheels hit the slope at the edge of the ditch much faster than I expected. The Dodge Ram became airborne, which is no small thing for a vehicle that heavy. In the air it rolled over, before landing in the bottom of the ditch with enough force to shoot water up as high in the air as a geyser at Yellowstone.

Wheels buried that truck, upside down, roof collapsed, up to the doors in the muck at the bottom of the borrow ditch. Most of it was under water.

Some of the officers who had been in the roadblock tried to go in after him. Many a uniform was ruined.

No one could find a way to get into the cab of the truck. There wasn't much left of it.

Rushing water in the ditch made for a lot of difficulty in poking around the wreck. It was a huge risk to the officers attempting rescue.

We couldn't get him out. We couldn't even see him.

After the tow truck came, the driver attached a cable to pull the pickup over and out of the ditch. Water poured from the smashed truck as it was dragged upright.

We found Wheels still inside. He had probably died on impact. He appeared to have fallen forward between the dash and the roof of the truck as it collapsed. He hadn't been wearing a seatbelt. His head and chest were crushed to a soggy pulp. The rest of him looked like a wet, broken rag doll.

Fatality on impact would be a better way to go than drowning. It was quicker.

Once the coroner's van arrived, the other officers began to move what was left of Wheels into a body bag. The medical examiner would be the one to formally determine the cause of death, I explained to the young one standing next to me.

I could have offered the help of a rookie when it came to filling that body bag, but I was kind enough to allow that there would be plenty of time for loading bodies into bags as the years passed. I was looking at a face that already reminded me of a peeled russet potato around wide blue eyes.

A trainee's first night on the job shouldn't be the one to prompt a move out of the law enforcement profession. There would be many other times to come to spark that consideration.

As it is, a rookie might have nightmares from this Wheels Walker encounter. It would be normal. The first bad experiences plague the mind forever. But after a while in uniform, events like this might be mostly forgotten in a month.

I had dreams about Gums for a long time. Even now, when I think of it, the whole scene still plays like a B-grade film.

The rookie standing next to me appears a mite traumatized by the whole event; transfixed as the body bag is loaded into the coroner's van. It looked like a nightmare in the making, to me.

As for the Walkers, I have a feeling this is not entirely the end. For the rookie next to me, there might be a sequel.

"Remember this one," I advised, gesturing toward the body bag. "The Walkers seem to inherit a lethal lack of sense. And he had a son."

Author's Note

Gums Walker is a character in An Accidental Shooting, by David H. Keith, published in his short story collection, "The Reaper Files."

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Wheels of Time

by

Suzy Stewart Dubot

Copyright©June 2014 Suzy Stewart Dubot

An Anglo/American who has been living in France for over 30 years, she began writing as soon as she retired. She recently spent seventeen months in London, UK caring for an aged relative, but is now back in France. Writing follows her as easily as her laptop.

With her daughters, she is a vegetarian and a supporter of animal rights.

She is also an admirer of William Wilberforce.

It started out quite by accident.

I'd been to a charity shop and bought an old-fashioned alarm clock which didn't depend on electricity and wasn't affected by power cuts. You know the kind, the ones that are enamelled metal with a key and knobs at the back to wind up and to set them? This one was cream-coloured with black numbers and hands, except the hands had a touch of green florescence on them to make them easier to see at night.

I should have guessed that something was wrong with it by the fact that it had been given away. It ticked perfectly, strongly, for about six hours before completely running out of wind. You can read 'wind' both ways, the result is the same – it stopped without getting through the night, or the day for that matter. It was useless as a timepiece.

So I took the thing apart just for the heck of it.

I was amazed by all the metal wheels, screws, spindles and whatever else in its innards which made it tick. They were all finely, delicately shaped for such a clunky clock with no bits of plastic to crack or wear down with use. I laid the pieces out almost respectfully on my desk, the better to appreciate their precise shapes and the brass from which they were made. In a strange way, they were all tiny works of art right down to the miniature brass screws.

There was no way I could throw them away, but what to do with them?

Finally, because I needed to work on my desk, I found a box big enough to hold all the pieces; to keep them safe until I had an idea.

Not a day went by that I didn't take them out to look at them, toying with fitting their teeth together, spinning them or forming patterns which I ended up photographing thinking the images might be useful one day.

Almost in a second state, I found that I'd bought a couple more old clocks to take apart, this time with much larger cog wheels. Some were not brass but rather solid white metal. They gave off another message – that of industrial workmanship and durability. I liked their frank, 'no fancy stuff,' solidness. Even so, I was still at a loss for what to do with them – short of becoming a clockmaker/repairer.

A chance glance in a toy store window gave me my answer.

Mobiles!

What better way to give them the recognition they deserved?

It seems that I am not the only one to be fascinated by cog wheels. I sell my mobiles regularly for a reasonably good price and they are now works of art twofold.

Naturally, I have a mobile hanging above my desk. It is made from those very first brass wheels that I exposed a couple of years ago. As with any mobiles, the pieces slowly turn with the slightest flow of air. It pleases me to think of the wheels as being suspended in time.

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An English writer of quirky verse, short stories, detective fiction and novels with a sense of the ridiculous, now retired from a career in manufacturing and living in the South West of England.

 The guy who invented the first wheel was an idiot. The guy who invented the other three, he was a genius. – Sid Caesar

Wheels

(A Life Defined)

How would you define your life?

I guess for some truly great people, their lives would be defined by the changes they'd brought about in the world. Perhaps, social improvements, or political achievements. For others it might simply be the amount of money they'd managed to accumulate during their lifetime. An artist's life might be defined by the great paintings he, or she, had made; an author by the books he'd written; a musician by the scores he'd composed; an engineer by the bridges he'd built; or a sailor by the number of oceans he'd crossed.

For more ordinary people, their lives might be defined by the people they'd met, the jobs they'd worked at, the children they'd raised, the places they'd visited, or the lovers they'd had.

For an unhappy minority, the definition might be of the pain they'd endured, the cruelties they'd had inflicted on them, or the failures that they'd suffered.

These thoughts passed through my mind in a rare philosophical moment, when I wondered how I would define my own life.

Had I made a difference? Maybe, in a small way. I'd had a modest career in manufacturing. I'd raised two children with my first wife. I'd consumed more than my fair share of the world's resources and generated more than my fair share of waste, despite my professed concern for the environment, but were any of these things sufficient to define my life? I didn't think so.

I'd met some good people along the way. Ordinary people, who lived modest lives, doing their best to be good citizens and not to harm others in the process. I'd met a few famous people, too, but none of this seemed to me to define my life either.

Creatively, I'd tried my hand at pottery making, water colour painting, wood turning, writing, garden design and even jewellery making. I didn't excel in any of these pursuits, although I consider that I was, at least, modestly competent at all of them. It was unlikely, though, that these activities would define my life either.

Curiously, I came more and more to the notion that my life had been defined by wheels.

I don't know where the idea first came from, but once it had lodged itself into an empty corner of my brain, it just wouldn't go away. Whether it was lying in bed, drifting off to sleep, or sitting at my computer, like now, more and more instances of my life in wheels came to mind. Surely, this can't be so, that my life has simply been a succession of interactions with wheels?

The earliest association that I can be sure of would have been when I was only a matter of weeks old. My mother wheeled me about in a black, Royle, coach built-pram with a black, fabric-covered, folding hood at the head end and a black, waterproof apron that fastened across the body part by means of chromed thumbscrews along the top edge. This was no lightweight, aerodynamically designed, multi-functional pram such as you see young families with today. This was a heavy metal, cumbersome, solid tank of a pram, suspended on a pair of huge curved metal springs and mounted on four large, spoked wheels, with solid tires and metal rims. The rear wheels of which were smaller diameter than the front. Interestingly, these wheels feature again in this story in a second life.

I have no memory of riding in that pram, of course, but I do remember the pram itself, because it was used, in turn, for many years by my two younger sisters and two younger brothers. My mother pushed that pram for uncounted miles, often with more than one child aboard and grocery shopping stashed under that black apron. Although I don't remember being wheeled in it, I do remember hanging onto the swan necked handlebar at the front while my mother trailed back and forth to the shops and, more than once, being run over by the giant front wheels when I wasn't paying enough attention to her change of direction.

There was a pushchair, too. A complicated, four wheeled, folding device with metal struts that would close like scissors when it was collapsed. Finger traps that would never pass any health and safety inspection today. The pushchair also lived through five young children, who each graduated to riding by standing on the back axle and hanging onto the handlebar when their rightful place in the forward facing seat was usurped by a younger sibling.

My favourite toys as a young child were die cast model cars made by Corgi or Dinky. These were unsophisticated models with no internal detailing, simply a metal shell and floor pan with two axles and four small wheels that invariably pulled off, or fell off during the rough play that they endured. I have no idea how many cars I had, but the number with four wheels remaining was numbered in single digits, low ones at that. These model cars can now sell for hundreds of pounds on ebay, but only if they were never played with and still retain their original packaging. My battered and wheel less examples would have been melted down for scrap, or, worse, ended up in landfill decades ago.

I had a horse, too. A horse with wheels. This metal horse was made by Mobo and featured an ingenious method of propulsion. Hidden within the four hooves of the horse, were small, solid rubber wheels, fitted with a simple brake mechanism, which allowed them to rotate in one direction only. The horse's legs were attached to the body, back and front, on axles at the top end, and by a linkage between the two sets of legs, hidden within the horses abdomen. This was joined, in turn, to stirrups on either side of the body. By standing in the stirrups and transferring my body weight from saddle to stirrup, the horse's legs would be forced apart and the horse would roll a few inches forwards on its wheels. By repeating this sitting/standing cycle, the horse would travel across the room.

The flaw in this arrangement was that there was no steering mechanism. The horse would only travel in a straight line, until it met a solid obstacle. I would then have to dismount and turn it around, or, more often, yell for the assistance of an adult. It was a toy that seemed to have been designed specifically to cause more frustration than pleasure.

I still have that horse. It's at the back of the garage, but it still works. It saw out my four brothers and sisters and my own two children. It may yet live again through my grandchildren.

As I grew up, I had a succession of tricycles and bicycles, all of them second hand and restored by my father. I had no notion, though, of them being pre-owned. On the council estate where I grew up, no one could afford new bikes for their kids. We thought it was normal for our dads to de-rust, rebuild and hand paint our bikes. As I outgrew each one, it would be passed down the line to my younger brother, until the day he grew bigger than me, and then that particular hand-me-down scenario broke down. By then, though, we'd grown old enough to build our own bikes and we would spend hours dismantling, repairing and painting each successive model. There was a thriving market in bike frames, wheels, chains, handlebars, saddles and tires at school. Any time a kid at the top of the chain got a new bike, the old one would be stripped, swapped, sold, or sometimes given, to the next kid in the chain, who would then strip and swap his bike and so on, and so on.

I guess there must have been a bike graveyard somewhere, but if there was, I never found it.

My favourite bike was one I built when I was about fifteen. It had a front brake, but no brake at the rear, which was of the fixed wheel variety, which meant that there were no gears and no ability to coast, unless one took both feet off the pedals. The bike was painted with yellow and black stripes, like a wasp, and had cow horn handlebars at the front. My best friend had just been given a brand new racing bike, with drop handlebars and derailleur gears, eighteen if I remember correctly, and centre pull brakes. The saddle was of the buttock splitting variety. He was the only kid I knew with a brand new bike and the only way I could compete with this was show my total disdain of anything so effete by building the most basic and masculine (I thought) bike possible, from the discarded bits of others. We remained friends, cycling the three miles to and from school together each day on our mismatched machines.

There were scooters, too, somewhere along the way and roller skates. Not the integrated boot and skate, with rubber wheels and backstop that one sees today, nor the inline skate variety, but a basic, one size fits all metal skate, with metal wheels and leather buckled straps that clamped over normal shoes. One size fits all, of course, is another way of saying that one size fits none, because whatever shoes you wore and however tight you did up the straps, the skates would come loose, twist round and trip you up. Gangs of kids would roam the streets on our estate, hanging onto one another, hanging onto bikes and hanging onto passing vans and trucks, if the chance ever presented, for a free tow. In those days, of course we were still wearing short pants, so grazed shins and knees were the norm.

I got my first car when I was seventeen. My dad didn't get his first car until he was in his thirties, only a couple of years before I got mine. In our street, only one other family had their own car, apart from the Wilsons, five doors down, but theirs was really a mobile grocery van that their dad drove around, selling door to door. When they went on holiday, he cleared all the groceries out of the back and the kids sat on the floor. We weren't troubled by safety belt laws, or MOT inspections in those days.

My first car was a Ford Anglia, manufactured in 1947, the same year I was born. It was black, with only two doors and was that variety which is sometimes called 'sit up and beg'. The top of the roof was waterproofed canvas, but the seats were genuine leather. It had a top speed of about fifty miles an hour and travelled about twenty five miles to the gallon, when you could still buy four gallons of petrol for a pound and have change.

I got the car just before I started at University and I was the only first year student in that new term to have a car on the campus. The main reason for that was that it was a rule that first year students shouldn't own cars. There was also a rule that members of the opposite sex weren't allowed in student's rooms after eight pm. By the start of the second term, I wasn't the only first year student ignoring both rules.

That car made me very popular and I would regularly ferry up to eight passengers, six in the back and two in the front, the three miles between our Hall of Residence and the University campus. They paid me three old pence a ride, cheaper than the bus fare and enough to pay most of my fuel bills.

I sold that car after eighteen months for almost what I'd paid for it and bought an Austin Somerset saloon, also in black. This car had a bulbous body, sometimes called the mobile meringue, and beautiful leather seats. It had a steering column gear change and an umbrella hand brake set just below the dash, which allowed my front seat passenger to cuddle up close to me on the front bench seat while we drove.

The car was built like a tank, weighed almost a ton and had only a nine hundred and something cc engine, which meant it was underpowered and completely lacking in acceleration. It was possible to get the speed above sixty miles an hour, but only downhill, or on very long level straights. Stopping it from that speed was another matter entirely, which required considerable forward planning. Despite the many more sophisticated, or modern, cars that I've owned since, I have to say that it remains in my affections as one of the best cars I've owned, or, maybe, it's simply that the period in which I owned the car was one of the most enjoyable, being the middle two years of my university career.

Ordinarily, one might expect one's motoring experiences to improve steadily as one got older, but following the Austin Somerset and a less memorable Ford Popular, which was sold to a scrap dealer for two pounds, my motoring experience regressed for a while. I never owned a motorbike, but after three cars, I was reduced to riding motor scooters, the first a Vespa and the second a Lambretta.

I have to admit, that when the weather is good and when the said scooter is running well, it's actually quite a pleasurable way to travel. When it's cold and wet, however, and when the thing won't start, or develops electrical trouble, or the kick-start falls off, as it regularly did, or when your girlfriend absolutely refuses to ride pillion because her skirt is too short, then it isn't so good. I don't actually remember what happened to the Vespa, but the Lambretta was abandoned in a ditch by my brother after he'd borrowed it to ride twenty miles to see his girlfriend and it broke down en route.

After this, dear reader, I'm wondering if my assertion that my life has been defined by wheels is in danger of breaking down. During my working life I owned a series of unremarkable cars, ranging from a Triumph Dolomite saloon car, to a beaten up Austin A40 Farina, an old Renault Four and an almost new Chrysler Alpine hatchback. The hatchback design, which has since become ubiquitous, being quite a novelty then. The Alpine was followed by not one, but two Austin Montego estate cars, both new and both white, one being a company car. The Montegos were superseded by two Ford Mondeo Estates, perhaps the most useful cars I've ever owned.

Somewhere in that list I missed out the one and only sports car I've owned, bought jointly with my young wife before our children were born. It was the first new car that either of us had owned, an MG Midget in Teal Blue colour with tan upholstery.

That car was the most unreliable vehicle I've ever owned. During the first year, it spent as much time off the road in the repair shop as it did being driven. All four wheel bearings had to be replaced, as did the speedometer, battery and the alternator. The gearbox was stripped down three times because the synchromesh didn't work properly. It finally bedded in after the car had covered more than ten thousand miles. Finally, a core plug blew out of the engine, spraying oil and smoke everywhere.

Despite that, the Midget was the most fun car we ever owned. We drove it across Europe, through France and Germany, to Italy, ending up in Sorrento. We camped all the way in our two man tent and managed to stow, additionally, a table, two chairs, a cooker, a double airbed, electric lights for the tent, washing up bowl, sleeping bags, water bottle, food and a suitcase full of clothes. No mean feat in a car which had a six cubic foot boot space, most of which was taken up with the spare wheel.

We finally had to give up the Midget when my wife was pregnant with our first child and could no longer physically fit between the steering wheel and the driving seat.

I bought a racing cycle when I was forty. Drop handlebars, derailleur gears, eighteen of them, the most uncomfortable saddle I've ever sat on and wheels that seemed impossibly thin. My enthusiasm for cycling was short-lived, though almost every year since I've pulled the bike out of the garage, dusted it off, oiled the chain, pumped up the tires and given it at least one circuit of the block.

It's hard to stretch the wheels theme to cover my working career. I spent thirty years employed in a manufacturing role for a large photographic company. Towards the end of that time I was responsible, amongst other things, for managing a huge paper making machine. The beast was as big as a house and comprised hundreds, if not thousands of rollers in a multitude of diameters. The largest weighed more than two tons and cost twenty thousand dollars a time to resurface if they were scratched. Not wheels in the traditional sense, perhaps, though rollers were almost certainly the precursor to the invention of the wheel proper.

I also forgot to mention the fate of that old Royle coach built pram, in which I began my early association with the wheel. Unsurprisingly, after coping with the ravages of five children, the pram was showing its age and was allowed to retire, but not before the four wheels and axles had been removed. With the addition of a plank of wood, a length of rope and a few nuts and bolts, the wheels were transformed into an unpowered go cart, or trolley. We raced the cart downhill on the local estate roads – there were few cars about then – and on a piece of waste ground locally, which had a short, but steep, hill, which ended in a stream. To add to the fun, we would build walls to crash through, ramps to jump over and even barriers of fire to career through. There were no brakes and the steering was rudimentary. Once your journey had started, either you rode it to the end, or you baled. There were plenty of minor injuries, cuts and grazes mainly, but I don't ever recall any kid suffering a serious injury, which was probably just as well, since we'd been told not to go near the waste ground, which was the site of an old landfill dump.

And here I am today. Retired, widowered and living in sheltered accommodation.

Two years ago, sadly, my second wife died in a car crash. We were driving in her Renault Meganne cabriolet with the roof down, when the front near side coil spring snapped. The broken spring pierced and shredded the front tire, causing the car to roll. Although the airbags deployed, they were of little use in an open topped car when it rolled directly into the path of an articulated truck, the huge wheels of which crushed my beloved partner as though she was made of paper.

Her funeral was delayed until I was well enough to be allowed out of hospital, and I was wheeled into the chapel at the crematorium by my son in time to see my wife's coffin slowly moved in on a wheeled gurney by the attendant funeral staff. It seemed that carrying the coffin on the pall bearers' shoulders had fallen foul of Health and Safety legislation somewhere along the way.

I can still get about a little on my own legs, using a Zimmer frame, the kind with a couple of small wheels on the front. Mostly, though, I find myself confined to a wheelchair. It's getting more difficult to propel myself in the chair, but these days I'm happy enough to have some pretty young thing push me about. More often than not, though, it's a not so pretty, not so young thing that does the pushing.

Yeh. I guess if I had to sum up my life in a single word, wheels would be as good a word as any.

The End

Copyright Barnaby Wilde May 2014

You can find out more about Barnaby Wilde at the author's website or follow him on Twitter and on his blog

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The Wheels on the Bus

by

Don Bick

Don is a Vietnam Veteran. He recently spent several months in Vietnam working on his war memoirs - The Boy Died in Vietnam. He has written several novels and short stories available as e-books. His two favorite topics are love and life after death.

The wheels on the bus go round and round. Round and round. Round and round. The wheels on the bus go round and round, all through the town.

The kids in the back of me sang in loud laughing voices. They were having a good time and in doing so they were making it an easy trip for me, their driver.

They were a well behaved bunch of 6th graders, had been all day. I picked them up that morning at 6:30 in Denver. And we wouldn't make it back until about 7:00 pm that night. It would be a long day for everyone. But most definitely a good one!

I drove a luxury bus for a limo company in Colorado. I took the kids to Dinosaur National Park and everyone, including me, had a great time. And they were still full of energy and having fun behind me. We were on our way back to the school where I had picked them up earlier.

I had been driving buses and limos for nearly 15 years. My record was spotless. I've never even had an accident or a serious issue on any of my runs in all that time. Of course I have had my share of drunks being obnoxious, people getting sick in my vehicle, some doing drugs, having sex in the back of the limo, high school students drinking on the way to the prom, and many other things. But they were all the normal type of stuff that happens when people party, drink and play. But I have never had a major issue with law enforcement or fist fights; no one brandishing guns or other weapons. I've been more than lucky, especially when you see some of the other driver reports or hear about some of the incidents they have had over the years.

It was late afternoon and the sun was getting low on the horizon. It would be dark before we arrived back in Denver. Fortunately, we would finish the worst part of the drive while it was still light enough to see well. I was coming to the end of the curvy section of highway we had to travel before entering the freeway for the rest of the drive into the city. And it was along this stretch of road that it happened. My right front tire blew apart. I didn't know what had caused it. There wasn't anything on the roadway that I saw and it hadn't felt like I ran over something. But even through the tire was nearly new, I had inspected it myself that morning, something had caused it to explode. And explode it did, made an awful noise when it happened, almost like a canon had gone off.

As I fought the steering wheel to try and control the vehicle, it was as though everything began moving in slow motion. I was aware of the children behind me becoming instantly quiet when they heard the tire blow. I was aware of the guardrail on the right side coming ever closer as I tried to force the bus back toward the center of the roadway. I was aware of the deep ravine beyond the guardrail, but couldn't see the bottom. I could see trees towering skyward about 100 yards away, on the opposite side of the steep embankment. I was conscious of the fact that I wasn't going to be able to stop our pull into the railing. We had been going nearly 50 miles per hour when the tire came apart and there wasn't enough time to stop the forward momentum of the vehicle. It only took a few seconds to move to the right shoulder where the safety rail was positioned. I knew the bus was going to hit it and we were still moving at a fairly good clip. Still, I struggled with every ounce of strength I had, trying to stop the inevitable. But it wasn't enough.

My next hope was that the guardrail would be strong enough to keep us from plowing through it and going over the edge. Soon that hope was also dashed. The heavy vehicle crashed through the metal railing as though it were made of cardboard. We hadn't slowed nearly enough. Then we were airborne.

I watched through the windshield as the front end of the bus turned downward. Everything still seemed to be moving in slow motion. I stared down at some large boulders alongside a creek at the bottom of the ravine. They were a frighteningly long way down the steep bank. I was aware of the children screaming behind me.

Perhaps it had happened too fast for me to get scared. I felt strangely calm. My first accident and it hadn't even been my fault. I knew I was going to die and the last thought I had prior to hitting the rocks was that I hoped many of the children would make it. When we hit everything went black.

But an instant later I was awake and alive. I climbed out through the windshield opening. The glass had shattered on impact. The bus had crashed nose first and then slowly fell backward, hanging up on a section of the undercarriage, but still in an upright position. The rear wheels were off the ground and spinning. The engine was still running, but I didn't hear anything. It was deadly quiet, which seemed really weird since I could see the wheels turning. There wasn't any fire or explosion like you see in the movies with this type of accident, only the incredible crunching and breaking apart of metal and plastic from the impact. I felt fine, wasn't hurt anywhere in the slightest that I could tell, except there was something wrong with my hearing. But my ears didn't hurt, or anything else. I didn't even feel bruised, which was strange as hard as we had landed, not even soreness from where the seatbelt would have tightened across my chest.

And as I stood outside on one of the large boulders, I saw others climbing out of the windows of the wrecked vehicle. How was that possible, I wondered? None of the children were wearing seatbelts. There weren't any installed on the seats in the bus, only the driver's seat. But they were making their way through the broken windows! Soon they were all standing beside me, every one of them! I couldn't believe it! It was impossible for all of them to have survived. They would have been thrown forward with terrible force. And they were so small, their bodies so fragile and vulnerable. How could they have survived the impact of hitting things inside the bus? But here they all were. It was an absolute miracle!

Then I noticed they weren't children at all. They were adults, and I knew them, knew them all. And that was when I realized I was dead, had been killed in the accident. So had they, every last one. We had all died in the crash. That was why I couldn't hear anything. I was no longer on that plane, although I could see it clearly. In that moment of realization my mind flooded with memories of these people; other lives, other adventures, other deaths. This was just another episode in our long journey of life. These people were my friends, my family, and my loved ones. We began hugging each other as loving souls do; embraces full of understanding, hugs full of compassion, hearts full of love, rejoicing in the fact that we were all immortal children of God.

Visit Don's website for more info http://www.donbick.com/

Return to beginning
A Tale From Shank Beach

by

Bill Rayburn

Copyright©Bill Rayburn

I am a native Californian, having only recently moved to France after seventeen months in England. I was born in 1960 in the San Francisco Bay Area, have lived on the east coast (northern New Jersey), and now have crossed the pond to ply my wares in the old country. I am currently marketing a collection of my fictional short stories, while working on a 'memoIRISH novel' (does that phrase even exist?).

Open to suggestions, critique etc.

Spinning Wheel – Blood, Sweat and Tears

"What goes up must come down

spinning wheel got to go round

Talking about your troubles it's a crying sin

Ride a painted pony

Let the spinning wheel spin

You got no money, and you got no home

Spinning wheel, spinning all alone

Talking about your troubles and you never learn

Ride a painted pony

let the spinning wheel turn"

You don't want to get stabbed to death on Shank Beach. If you do, your death will, ironically, live on forever in beach lore.

Shank Beach is named after the body of water that winds inland from the bay and ends at a point, with the sandy beach spreading out from the tip of the water like spilled blood.

The shape of the inlet is, from the air, eerily like that of a shank, including a pinched middle about halfway to the shore, where the handle would have ended, and the thick part of the blade would begin, and the water once again pinching to the point of the blade at the introduction of the beach.

The number of times the sign directing you to the beach has been altered with an 'R' over the 'N' is in the hundreds. Shark, shank, either one conjures up potentially horrific consequences.

As I got out of the car, I cradled the brown bag in the crook of my arm as if it was an infant, a posture not lacking in irony. It was an almost protective gesture, designed to ensure safe passage. Inside the bag was a bottle of gin.

When I awoke that morning, I'd paused and looked at my unmade bed, which told a story. A tale that involved fierce wrestling with my demons during sleep. Twisted comforter, wrinkled sheets. All that was missing were the ropes around the ring. There had been no referee overseeing what had clearly been a knockout.

Billy Faulkner, F. Scott, Eddie Poe, Leo Tolstoy, Tennessee Williams, Dickens, even Hemingway. All great writers. All suffered from depression. Great writers have a lot in common. One is the mistrust of coincidences.

"A good writer is an upright, walking sponge that absorbs through all available senses and, when squeezed, emits an enhanced, captivating version of what he has inhaled.

"A great writer does not need to be squeezed."

Do you know who wrote that? I did. I could fucking write in my day, I'll tell ya.

Somewhere over the dunes that bracketed the water, the sun was rising on the bay. I'd taken to coming down here in the early morning hours. There was a weathered, worn, fading white deck chair that, in my book, spoke more than the people who ever sat there.

I sank into it, sighing, watching the sun give its morning kiss to the sky.

Out of the bag came the gin. I took a swig. I once told a friend, also a writer, of my penchant for doing this, and he immediately brought up suicide, which has a rich tradition in my family.

He didn't get it. Was I imbued with the drama queen gene that colors most suicides; I sure wouldn't trek here alone, to Shank Beach, with a bottle of gin and a sad, sardonic smile. What a dingy way to leave this earth. Let's hope my exit has better lines, better visuals, and an open bar.

I told him not to worry. I was taking the scenic route. Booze would get me, in its own time, at its own pace. I was merely along for the ride. A good friend gave me a collection of Hemingway's short stories when I was a fledgling writer in my 20s. In it, he inscribed "Writers must read." Then he handed me a bottle of whiskey and said, sagely, "Writers must also drink." The man was a profit.

This morning was no different. I was agenda-less. It was often a fitful night's sleep that drove me here to watch the day start its engine. I sat and drank and let my mind wander.

This morning's regret-laden thought stream was about lost loves, the ones that got away. Or got chased away. I took a healthy slug.

Kimberly.

The one.

She got me. Oh, not the obvious shit; the depression, the drinking, the occasionally brilliant flashes of writing. That was the front room, the opening hallway, the foyer to my house of cards. Everybody got that.

Kim knew who and what inhabited all the back rooms, the closets, even the dusky dungeon down below. She was the only woman I'd ever let see the truly dark stuff. She understood not only what was behind all that, but why I needed to store it away, to keep it out of sight.

The word demon gets tossed around too casually for my taste. In fact, it's been demonized to the point that I'd bet the devil has disassociated himself from the term. Read a rather intriguing definition of the word recently: "only in rare cases is the ancient rite of exorcism performed to cast out a troublesome demon".

I remember setting the dictionary down and thinking, there are demons that aren't troublesome?

Shit, my demons were, to a demon, insurmountable. Unconquerable. Unquenchable. They not only wouldn't go away, I'd end up inviting them to stay, with ambivalence of course, like the card player asks Redford to 'stick around' in the opening scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

I'd grown to be at ease in their presence. Yes, they were comforting to have around, if only because of their familiarity. Often it took a drink or three to usher them into the auditorium, but they were faithful in their attendance and I became reliant upon their role in my life.

And they could be a convivial bunch, often taking on different forms and shapes, arriving each day, usually at the cusp of cocktail hour, outfitted as if every day were Halloween.

There were the usual suspects, of course. The long departed Mom and Dad, the deceased brother and sister, the best friend whose death was a knockout punch, her resulting absence nothing short of outright desertion. Those were the regulars, a group that eventually learned to get along, grew to know each other's drink, and how they liked it. And they were always welcoming to the fringe demons, the daily party crashers who barreled in unannounced, bellying up to the bar without invitation, smelling...what did they smell like? I would have to say they smelled 'recent'. They were the John Belushi's of the party.

Don't your demons wear togas?

And Kim, bless her heart, never shied away. She understood. She knew I needed them far more than they needed me. Her role in this nightly debauchery was a supporting one, as she knew the entire party occurred in my head. Oh, she would pour drinks and mingle, her kissing of my mom and dad much like the crossing of swords, but this figurative world she knew was very, very real to me, and she played the role of co-hostess with just the right mix of empathy, and lion tamer.

Kim, of course, grew weary of playing the party host for Hell. She got a sizeable dose of the 'healthy' me. But it wasn't enough.

It never is.

So, now my nightly cocktail hour, so benignly labeled, yet so rife with landmines, was a more risky dance floor upon which to twirl. I had no beautiful brunette to run interference, to fend off the drunken demons (a particularly evil lot), to kiss mom and dad in an effort to defang, to render toothless and feckless. Yes, her kiss could do all that.

"Once in every life

Someone comes along

And you came to me

It was almost like a song"

\---Ronnie Milsap---

I stumbled to my car and was back home making a pot of coffee before anyone else had wandered onto the small beach. Only the locals knew of it.

I'd done what I do best in my final moments in the white weathered worn wooden chair.

I distilled.

Distilled my life down to one word: Almost.

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Return to beginning
Run Flat

by

Melissa A. Szydlek

Copyright © 2014 Melissa A. Szydlek

Melissa Szydlek lives in the United States. Originally from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, she survived Detroit for many years and has settled into a quieter life in North Carolina.

The car jerked subtly, barely noticeable. Melanie would have ignored it completely until Mick, her husband, suddenly said, "Shit."

"Hon?" Melanie said. An alarm sounded in the car and a warning flashed on the dash.

"We're losing tire pressure in one of the wheels," Mick said.

The alarm got louder and the pulsing noise quickened.

"Shit," Mick said again. "Jesus. Pressure is down to 17. What the hell?"

Melanie leaned over and looked at the dash behind the steering wheel. An illustration that vaguely resembled their car flashed on the screen and four numbers, one next to each tire, appeared on the screen. All of the other tires said 40. The right front tire, however, was quickly headed toward zero. 14, 10, 7, 0.

Mick slowed the car and hit the hazard light button, but he hesitated pulling over on the shoulder. The highway was crowded. It was 5:00 p.m. on a Saturday and dozens of vehicles zoomed around them.

"Don't pull over on the highway," Melanie said, suddenly apprehensive. "It's too busy. Eight lanes. I've seen too many reports on the news of drivers not paying attention and slamming into disabled vehicles on the side of the road."

"I don't know if we'll make it to the next exit," Mick said, worry in his voice.

"They're run flats," Melanie said. "The dealer said we should be fine if we got a flat."

"Run flats should still hold some pressure," Mick said. "I've got a negative number showing here on the screen. Something's really wrong."

They passed a sign that said Exit 98, a quarter mile.

"Chance it," Melanie said.

"That noise sounds really bad," Mick said.

"I know," said Melanie, "But I'd rather have to buy a new rim and a new tire than chance stopping on an eight-lane highway."

Mick nodded his head. The car limped to the exit. At the end of the ramp they saw an Acura dealer.

"Damn," said Mick. "Why couldn't it be a BMW dealer? Maybe a BMW dealership would have the exact tire we need."

He pulled into the lot anyway and got out of the car, walking to Melanie's side and bending down to inspect the damage.

"Jesus, what happened?" he said.

"It's bad?" asked Melanie.

"It's not just a hole or a puncture," Mick said. "The tire is shredded."

He walked back to the driver's side and slid into the seat. He pressed the SOS button on the console next to the dome lights. The phone system connected and began to ring.

"BMW Roadside Assistance, are you currently with your vehicle in a safe place?" said a voice.

"Yes," Mick said.

"Mr. Houghton, we have your location on Ramseur Road in Columbia, South Carolina. Is that correct?"

"I have no idea where I'm at," Mick said. Our tire is flat and we pulled off of the highway."

"Sir, according to our records your vehicle was purchased three months ago, is that correct?"

"Yes," Mick said.

"You have run-flat tires, sir, you should be able to reach a dealership."

"Tire is dead," Mick said.

"Our records do not show that you purchased the premium tire and roadside assistance package."

"That's not correct," Mick said, growing frustrated. He pointed to the glove box. Melanie opened it and pulled out paperwork. She scanned several sheets and then handed Mick a long yellow form.

"I'm looking at our roadside emergency package paperwork right now," Mick said. "According to what I was charged, and all ready paid for, you are responsible to assist us. In this instance, according to these documents, you are to send a tow truck with a tire, or tow me to the nearest dealership, or have the dealership send someone with a car for us."

"Sir, that would be correct if you purchased the package," the operator said.

"And I'm telling you that I purchased the package, I have the paperwork with me. Send someone out and I'll show them the paperwork. Jesus Christ."

"One moment, sir." The line was quiet.

While they waited a man in a suit and tie walked out of the Acura showroom and walked toward the car. Melanie rolled down her window.

"I see you got a flat there," the man said.

"We're trying to get some help," Melanie said. "Can you help us?"

"Well, uhhh, I was just coming out here to tell you we are about to lock up the lot and we need you to move your vehicle outside that gate there," the man said, pointing toward the road.

"Are you serious?" Melanie said. "I'm not even sure we should be driving on it."

"You've got run-flats, right? You should be fine. Just over there, ma'am," the man said.

"You're an asshole," Mick yelled, turning the car around and exiting the lot. The man swung the metal gate closed and walked back into the building.

"So much for human kindness," Melanie whispered.

"Sir?" came the operator's voice.

"Still waiting," Mick said.

"Yes, sir. Our records do not show you purchased the premium tire and roadside assistance package."

"Have I traveled back in time?" Mick yelled. "Dude, are you serious? We've done this dance all ready. I have the paperwork proving that I did purchase that package right here with me in the car. I have proof. Send someone out and I'll show it to them."

"Sir, we can't send a tow truck unless you have pre-purchased the package."

"I have purchased the package. Send someone out and I'll discuss it with them."

"Sir, our policy does not allow us to do that."

"Can't you have them bring me a tire?"

"Sir, I cannot. I'm not authorized to do that. But you have run flats, sir. You should be able to travel a maximum of 100 miles on the run-flat as long as you go 50 miles per hour or less."

"The tire is shredded. It won't hold any pressure at all. I'm almost riding on the rim at this point. I'm not driving anywhere and risk damaging the car more," Mick said, his voice rising.

"You can try calling the local dealership and see if they have a tire or if they can send a car for you."

"That's part of what you are supposed to be doing to help us," Mick screamed.

"If I had proper documentation that you purchased the premium tire and roadside assistance package I could do that," the operator stated in a monotone.

"Fuck you," Mick said, disconnecting the call.

Melanie reached out and squeezed Mick's hand. "Ok," she said. "What do we do now?"

"There's a Lexus dealer down the road there," Mick pointed. I can see the sign. Let's walk down there and see if they have a tire."

"I'll call the local dealer," Melanie said, "And see if they can do anything for us. You start calling tire places."

They exited the car, locked the doors and got on their cell phones.

When they reached the Lexus dealer, Melanie hung up, her face red from anger.

Mick slapped his phone against his palm.

"No one has that size tire, not even in a non-run flat," Mick said. "Nobody. I don't get it."

"That's what we get for buying the deluxe performance sports tire package," Melanie said. "The dealership people are total assholes. Total run-around, said they are short staffed and can't send anyone over. They close in ten minutes and no one will be there, even if we get the car towed over there. They said they would have to order the tire because they don't keep it in stock. We'd be stuck here until Wednesday."

"Wednesday!" Mick yelled. "That's four days. How do they expect us to get the car over there? Or get to a car rental place, or get to a hotel? Jesus."

"Yeah, I asked them about renting a car. They can't help us and said all the rental places in town are closed. We'd have to take a cab to the airport, rent a car, get the tow truck out here to get the car to the local dealer, and find a hotel."

"For four days," Mick said, defeat in his voice.

"Four days," Melanie said.

"This is asinine," Mick said. "I thought buying a luxury car and all the warranties, roadside assistance, and bells-and-whistles programs would prevent this shit from happening. Now we're stuck, 400 miles from home. I've never felt so helpless."

"And it's getting dark," Melanie said jokingly, trying to lighten the mood.

"Don't joke about that, look around. This is an industrial area. Once these car guys go home, we're out here all alone."

Melanie looked around her. Visions of the many horror films she had watched came screaming into her consciousness. Deserted areas in unfamiliar places spelled trouble.

"Whatever happens," Melanie said, "Don't ever say 'I'll be right back' and don't split up. That's when you get 'it'."

"Not funny," Mick said as they approached the Lexus dealership. He opened the door and held it for Melanie. Inside, the faces on the salesmen and office workers alike did not look welcoming. Mick approached a large desk where four men sat talking. None of them acknowledged him. Melanie saw Mick's fists clench in annoyance and she stepped up to the desk.

"Excuse me, gentleman. We have a flat tire and were wondering if you could help us. We are having some issues getting a tow truck out here, wondering if you had the tire we need?"

"Our service department is closed," said the man directly in front of them. He was dressed in a burgundy suit that complemented his dark skin. He looked at Melanie but did not offer a smile or even kindness in his eyes.

"Okayyyyy," Melanie said. "Is there anything you can do to help us?"

"Where's the car?" the salesman asked.

"Down the road, near the Acura dealer."

"What kind of car is it?"

"A BMW," Melanie said.

"It'd be a different story if were a Lexus," the man said. "I can't help you."

"Please," Melanie said. "We're 400 miles away from home and just need some help getting a rental car or a tire, a ride to the airport, or something."

"All the car rental places are closed by now," the salesman said. "You'd have to go to the airport. Our service departments closed. Like I said, if you had a Lexus, I'd loan you one of our cars. But you don't, so I can't help you."

Mick had enough. "Are you fucking serious?" he said. "It doesn't matter what kind of car it is, what happened to human decency, compassion, helping other people?"

"You know what, sir," the man said, standing up, "I don't need your attitude."

"You are setting a great precedent for the Lexus brand," Melanie said, pulling Mick by the hand and heading for the door. "I'll make sure to spread the word of how you treat potential customers."

The salesman looked shocked, but followed them to the door, and locked it behind them when they exited the showroom.

"Remind me never to come back to the city of Columbia, South Carolina," Mick said.

"And never to buy a Lexus," Melanie said.

He took Melanie's hand and they started down the road back to their car.

"Let me try one more place," Melanie said, grabbing her cell phone. She stopped walking and looked up the number for Sears, hoping they might have a tire, but knowing the special size and type of what they needed wouldn't be available. She called anyway. As she spoke to the automotive department, she saw two men in a large white pickup truck slow down and talk to Mick. When Sears said they didn't have the tire, she thanked the sales person and hung up the phone. She walked toward the truck and Mick. The men in the truck pulled away. A large trailer was hooked up to the back of the truck and a Lexus SUV was loaded onto it.

"What was that about?" she asked.

"They saw the car down the road. Saw the dealer name on the license plate frame and asked if that was us with the shredded tire. I told them yes. They offered us a ride. Said they were an independent transport company and are heading to, get this, Pineboro. They're going home."

"What?" Melanie shouted, excited. "They're going to Pineboro? Oh my God, Mick, what did you say?"

"I said no thank you, we'd make BMW pay for it in the long run."

Without thinking, Melanie took off running toward the truck. They were moving slowly along the narrow road. She waved her arms and reached the trailer, knocking on the metal. The truck stopped. Melanie approached the passenger side and tapped on the door. A young man in his late 20's rolled down the window. The driver, who reminded Melanie of Jason Statham, removed his sunglasses. Both men stared at her.

"Hi, ummm, sorry to bother you, but were you serious about giving us, and our car, a ride back to Pineboro?"

"Sure," the driver said.

"Are you sure?" Melanie wanted to keep them talking, to try and get a feel for them, if they were creepy or halfway normal. She'd take both as long as they didn't seem like serial killers.

"It's no problem, really," the driver said.

"I'll pay you," Melanie said. "How much will it be to take us and the car?"

"Not much," said the driver.

"How much is that?" Melanie asked. She got a weird vibe from them, but she really wanted to get home.

"How about you buy us dinner?" said the driver.

"I can do that," Melanie said. "But that's not enough. You deserve something for going out of your way like this."

"How about I take you to the dealership in Pineboro and I'll leave them an invoice for the haul. That be ok?"

"That sounds fair," Melanie said. "Thank you."

"No problem," said the driver. "I'll turn around and meet you by the car."

Melanie ran back to Mick while the truck made a U-turn in the Lexus parking lot.

"Well, we got a ride," Melanie said, throwing her arms up in the air.

"Are you nuts?" Mick said. "Have you lost it? You are the one who always says you don't trust people. You say you don't want to get 'serial-killed.'"

"Well I don't want to get serial-killed, but we can take our chances walking the streets in an iffy neighborhood or take our chances with these two."

"Christ Mel," Mick said. "What if they're weird?"

"They might be. But I'll take five hours of weird over four days stuck down here. I promised to buy them dinner. That's going to be an awkward event."

The truck pulled up, passed the car, made another U-turn, and pulled in front of the car, backing up close to its front pumper. The driver and the passenger got out.

"Thank you again," Melanie said.

"No problem," said the driver.

"I'm Melanie, this is my husband, Mick."

Mick shook hands with both men.

"I'm Chris," said the driver. "This is Preston."

Preston prepared the trailer, bringing down the ramp. He looked at the car.

"Nice car," he said. "Very low to the ground. I'm going to need the blocks."

He got some blocks from the bed of the truck and put them under the ramp. Chris opened the crew cab doors on the pickup and began taking items out and putting them in the bed. Preston took the key from Mick and drove the car onto the trailer. Chris and Preston began securing it.

"You guys didn't have a spare?" Chris asked.

"It's a run-flat," Mick said. "In theory, it should be drivable but you see how that worked out."

Chris laughed and said, "Go ahead and get in if you want."

Mick gave Melanie a wide-eyed look and they walked to the pickup.

"One of you will have to sit in the middle," Chris called. "We had to leave some of our gear in the back."

"No problem," Melanie called, opening the door and stepping in. The truck sat high off the ground and she had to step high, even with the use of a running board to support her. She moved to the middle and then Mick got in. It was a tight fit, but they managed. Three coolers and some bags sat piled on the seat behind the passenger side.

"Just stay alert," Melanie whispered. "If they drive to some secluded spot, we run."

"Jesus, Mel," Mick said. "What have you gotten us into?

"Hell if I know, but I'm praying hard they aren't weirdos."

Preston opened the passenger door and climbed in. Chris followed a few minutes later.

"Ok," Chris said. "Where to for dinner?"

"Anywhere you want," Melanie said. "We're paying."

"We'll see what's off the highway then, how's that?"

"Sure," Mick said.

Chris put the truck in gear and headed for the highway. Mick had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

An awkward silence filled the truck for the first ten minutes. Finally, Chris said, "What brought you guys to Columbia?"

"Puppies," Melanie said. "We were visiting a breeder further south."

"Nice," Chris said.

"How long have you been doing transportation work?" Melanie asked.

"Preston and me just moved down to North Carolina from Brookhaven, New York. It's upstate. We did some transport work up there. My wife is from down here, so we moved to get closer to her family. I started the business, and here we are."

"I'm staying with Chris for now," Preston offered, "Till I get on my feet."

Preston grabbed a handgripper, a hand exerciser that looked like pliers with a rounded top. Five of them sat lined up along the dashboard on the passenger side. He began to squeeze and release the grip in rapid succession. Melanie looked at Mick and gave a slight curl of her lip, her silent way of saying, "Oh God," to her husband. Mick patted her knee and shook his head.

"Can you feel the a/c back there?" Chris asked. "It's hot out there today." Chris reached back, and at first Melanie thought he was trying to feel up her legs and knees, but he was reaching for the vents directly in front of her. He pushed a flap and cool air came pouring back.

"Oh, we do now. Much better," Melanie said.

Chris pointed ahead at a sign. "There's a diner. Want to go there?"

"Whatever you want is fine," Mick said.

"Maybe they'll have a good steak," said Chris.

"We're not really ones to ask," Mick said. "We're vegetarians."

"Vegetarians!" Chris yelled suddenly. "Good Lord. Oh well."

Chris changed lanes quickly, moving two lanes over so fast it made Melanie and Mick nervous. Melanie gripped her purse tightly with one hand and grabbed Mick's arm with the other. They both let out a sigh of relief when he came to the stop sign at the end of the off-ramp and the truck slowed down.

"Everybody say cheese," Chris said.

Mick and Melanie looked up and they heard the distinct click of a camera phone go off.

"See, we always said we'd pick up hitchhikers," Chris laughed and Preston joined in.

Melanie's self-preservation alarms begin to ping. All she could think of was the film Hostel, thinking Chris was sending their picture to weirdo bidders who would fight to buy them only to slaughter them later.

"Morbid," Melanie thought to herself. "Stop it."

Chris pulled into the diner and parked in the back, taking up at least a dozen spots.

"Here we are," Chris said, opening the door and exiting the truck.

"I'll be there in a minute," Preston said. "I need a smoke."

Melanie felt very uneasy leaving her car and her belongings. She didn't think Preston would take off with the car as long as Chris was with them, but she still felt another alarm ping in her body. She reluctantly followed Chris and Mick into the diner. From inside, they could not see the back parking area. Melanie bit her lower lip, worrying taking over.

"How many?" The hostess asked.

"Four," Chris said.

"It's going to be a 25 minute wait," said the hostess.

"I don't like to wait," Chris said.

Melanie grabbed Mick's hand. She could see how Chris would not be a man you would want to piss off.

"We've got stools at the counter, if you prefer," she said.

"Fine," Chris said, moving into the diner and over to the counter.

There were three empty seats in a row followed by a couple and then another empty seat.

"I'll just sit down here," Melanie said, going for the single empty stool.

"No, no, it's fine," Chris said. He leaned down to the couple and said, "Would the two of you mind moving down for us? I'd really appreciate it."

Melanie became very uncomfortable. She would never in a million years have asked anyone to move. To her, it was rude and kind of a jerky thing to do. But the couple, taking one look at Chris, did move. Once they were seated Preston came in and sat next to Melanie.

"I'm hungry," he said.

"You guys order whatever you want," Melanie said. She turned her stool to Mick and said, "I'm going to the ladies room. Be right back."

Despite the situation, Mick laughed and whispered to her, "You just broke the number one and number two rules of surviving a horror movie. Good luck."

Melanie rolled her eyes at him and went to the back of the diner. The ladies room was old and worn, but clean. She used the toilet and washed her hands, looking at herself in the mirror.

"What the hell have you gotten yourself into woman?" she asked herself. She sighed and left the bathroom.

Back at the counter the men were eating rolls and butter. Melanie had no appetite and declined the bread. When the waitress took their orders she ordered a side of broccoli and an iced tea. She was too nervous to eat. She just wanted to get home.

Chris and Preston ordered steak and shrimp. They joked and ate slowly. Chris kept checking his phone, a large, monstrous looking Galaxy that seemed too big for his hands. Preston pulled his cell phone from his pocket and showed it to Melanie.

"So much for indestructible," he said.

The glass on the screen was smashed, but Preston still turned it on and used it. He was looking at maps from what Melanie could tell, though looking at the screen through the zigzag cracks gave her a headache.

Melanie finished her broccoli and drank her tea. She sat quietly waiting for the men to finish. Mick took the bill when the waitress brought it to the counter and handed her his credit card. When he had signed the receipt and tucked his card back into his wallet, Chris and Preston got up and headed for the door.

Mick said, "I have to use the bathroom, be right back."

Melanie panicked, her eyes growing wide. She said quickly, "I'll meet you out there."

"You sure?" Mick said. He didn't like it, and Melanie knew it, but she vowed she wouldn't let Chris and Preston go to the truck alone. Without her and Mick, they could drive off and take their car and all their possessions with them.

Melanie nodded. "Yeah, I'm sure, but hurry," she said, her voice cracking.

She quickly caught up with Chris. Preston was all ready at the trailer, checking chains and ensuring everything was in place.

"So," Melanie said, "You're both from New York. Do you miss it sometimes?"

Chris shrugged. "Sometimes. I still have my mom up there and Preston has some sisters. I don't miss the snow and frigid winters."

"I hear ya. We moved here from Michigan and we don't miss the snow either."

Chris opened the crew cab door for Melanie and then got in the truck. Melanie turned back, but didn't see Mick coming yet. Preston was at the rear of the trailer, smoking. She took her iPhone out of her purse and tucked it into her bra. If something did happen, if they took her purse away, she'd still have the phone.

"Come on in," Chris said as he rolled down his window. "Your hubby will be along soon enough."

Melanie nodded and feigned trouble with the zipper on her purse. As she put her foot on the running board to step into the truck, she looked back toward the diner again. Mick was there, halfway across the lot, coming toward them. Melanie relaxed a bit and got into the truck slowly. Mick broke into a small jog and joined her, shutting the door.

Preston finished his cigarette and got into the front seat. Chris pressed some buttons on his GPS and then turned his attention to the radio. He pressed a small black button and a fairly large screen slipped out of the console and popped up.

"We watch movies while we are on the road," Chris said. "It gets boring."

Melanie wondered how he could watch movies when he was supposed to be driving, but didn't dare rock the boat. Chris opened the center storage console and pulled out a stack of dvd's.

"Here," he said, "You guys pick what we watch." He shoved the stack of discs toward Melanie and she took them. She turned to Mick and vigorously shook her head. She silently pleaded, "Please don't let this be porn, please don't let this be porn. Or worse, some weird torture film. God, please don't let this be weird."

She took a deep breath and looked down at the titles. She let out a deep breath she hadn't realized she was holding in and sorted through comedies such as Animal House, National Lampoon's Vacation, and Empire Records.

"Oh, here," Melanie said, handing Chris a dvd case. "Dazed and Confused is one of my favorites."

"Oh good," Chris said. "I haven't seen this one yet."

He slid the disk into the player and the truck was filled with Foghat singing Slow Ride as the movie started. Preston was fidgety. He kept putting a travel pillow around his neck and then taking it off, moving around, and intermittently squeezing the various handgripper exercisers from the dashboard.

Only four and half hours to go, Melanie thought.

Preston kept fidgeting but seemed engrossed in the film, rarely taking his eyes from the screen. Chris barely kept his eyes off the screen as well, causing several drivers to honk. Mick and Melanie were sure they were going to die anyway because in between watching the movie, Chris would text, check Facebook, and generally play with his phone apps. He was going well over the speed limit and the swaying trailer in the back didn't make the ride any easier.

There were several times when Mick would grab the seat, sure the truck was going to go off the road or hit another vehicle, but neither Chris nor Preston were fazed. As they drove, Preston continued to fidget. He pulled out his cell phone at one point and kept looking at maps. Occasionally, he would show the phone to Chris and say things like, "Was that the place?" or "That was the one, right?"

Chris would affirm whatever Preston was asking and then Preston would put the phone away. As the sun began to set and night folded the day away, Preston appeared to become agitated. If Chris asked Mick a question, he would pause the movie. Once Mick answered and the conversation seemed to lag, Preston would say, "Ok, movie time," loudly and Chris would hit play. At one point, Chris paused the movie to show Preston his phone, where a YouTube video was playing. Mick and Melanie hung on for dear life.

With all of the interruptions, questions, and videos, it took almost three hours to watch Dazed and Confused. When it was over, Chris continued watching YouTube videos on his phone and Preston consulted his own phone, looking at maps on his broken screen. Crossing into North Carolina, Chris reached into the space in his door and pulled out some trail mix.

"Want some?" he offered, reaching the bag to the back seat.

"No, thanks," Melanie and Mick said in unison.

"That's my trail mix," Preston said.

"What?" said Chris. "No it's not. I got this at the Lexus dealer."

"I got one too," Preston said. "And a fruit punch. Where's mine?"

"Probably in your door."

Preston rustled around in the door and pulled out another bag. "Got it, he said," putting it back and taking some trail mix out of the bag Chris all ready had opened. He chewed and reached for a water bottle in the cup holder, downing the remaining liquid. Preston started fidgeting again, making Melanie nervous. For most of the trip she watched Chris and Preston's hands, to make sure nothing untoward happened. When she saw Preston open the glove compartment and pull out pocketknife, she jerked backward. Mick put his arm around her and gave her shoulder a soft squeeze. Mick then picked up his backpack that was on the floor, and held it up across his stomach. Melanie did the same with her purse. She was right in the middle. If Preston decided to reach back and stab, she'd be the first to get it. In her mind, all she could see was the killer from the Wolf Creek films, who picked up unsuspecting hitchhikers and reached back to stab them. Melanie tensed up, held her purse tight, and waited.

Preston flicked the knife open and closed a few times and then put it back in the glove compartment. Mick sighed heavily but Melanie was hyper vigilant. Preston turned back toward Melanie and smiled.

"Hey!" he said, "Could you open up that cooler and hand me that fruit punch out of there?"

"Sure, sure," Melanie said. She reached over and pulled the lid off of the smaller red cooler. Inside were two bottles of water, an orange juice, and a fruit punch. She got the punch and handed it to Preston.

"Thanks," he said.

"Jesus, God, just get us home," Melanie prayed silently.

****

It was past midnight when the truck pulled into the dealership in Pineboro. Preston set up the ramp and the blocks while Chris removed the chains and various straps keeping the car in place. As Preston drove the car down the ramp, Melanie went up to Chris.

"Thank you," she said, shaking his hand. "Seriously, thank you so much. Not many people would do what you did."

"It's ok, no problem," Chris said. "You guys gonna be okay from here?"

"Yeah," Melanie said. "Mick's dad is coming to pick us up."

"I'll put the key and my invoice in their drop box," Chris said,

"That will be fine."

Preston parked the car in a spot near the service entrance, locked the car, and gave the key to Chris. He walked it over to the drop box and put in with a slip of paper.

Mick shook Chris's hand and gave him a fifty dollar bill, and did the same with Preston.

"Sorry it's not more," Mick said. "It's literally all the cash we have on hand right now."

"Naw, you don't gotta do this," Chris said.

"Keep it," said Mick.

"Thanks," Chris and Preston said in unison.

The men walked back to the truck and got in. Chris started the engine and backed slowly out of the lot. Mick and Melanie sat down on the sidewalk curb and waited for their ride home. Melanie had her iPhone in her hand and was scanning something on the Internet.

"Huh," she said.

"What?" Mick asked.

"Nothing, really," said Melanie. "I was just being weird."

"Ok. Tell me anyway."

"I Googled unsolved serial killings in upstate New York."

"Yeah, and?"

"Well," Melanie said, shutting off her phone and putting it in her purse, "There was a spat of unsolved killings outside of Rochester that lasted five years. 13 dead. Men and women. There's been nothing in the last six months. Not since Arthur Shawcross had the police seen such brutality in that part of the state. You probably don't know who Shawcross was, right?"

"Nope."

"He was a serial killer, killed at least a dozen people in the 80's."

"It's disturbing that you know this about serial killers."

"Sorry," Melanie laughed. "It's just weird, that those killings stopped."

"Coincidence is all it is. Don't make something out of nothing."

"I'm not. I was just curious. Passing the time. Funny thing, though."

"Oh God, what?"

"In those unsolved serial murders the authorities suspect a folie a deux."

"A what?"

"Folie a deux. It's a term used in psychology. It basically means a psychosis shared by two. Usually, in serial killings, there is a leader, one with a stronger personality who influences the weaker partner to kill, or believe in something. Shared madness."

"You are a scary and disturbed person to know all this," Mick laughed. "But, we made it out alive. Do you really think they were killers?"

"Probably not," Melanie said. "Most killers can't resist killing. I mean, we were sitting ducks. They were a little weird, but like you said, here we are."

****

As they pulled away from the dealership Chris turned to Preston. They both looked into the backseat at the large red cooler.

"Good thing she opened the right cooler when you asked for that fruit punch," Chris said.

Preston laughed, leaning forward in the seat and slapping his knee with his left hand. "I know, right! I didn't even think about it until I heard the lid come off the one she opened."

"I don't know, I'm kinda glad she didn't open it," Chris said. "They seemed nice."

"Yeah," Preston said. "We wouldn't have had room for anymore anyway. The big red cooler is full as it is." He grabbed a handgrip from the dash and squeezed it in rapid succession.

Chris hit the gas and the diesel engine roared, picking up speed.

"It'll be nice to be home for a while," Chris said.

The items in the cooler jiggled and made wet, slippery noises as the truck accelerated.

###

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Gone with the Spin

by

Elizabeth Rowan Keith

Copyright©June 2014 Elizabeth Rowan Keith

Elizabeth Rowan Keith is a researcher, writer, and artist who has received multiple awards in all three fields. Along with her collie, Belle, she tends many gardens and trees under the grand sky of the North American

Great Plains. She is the widow of award-winning author David H. Keith.

Kelly loudly tromped down the stairs and into the kitchen, flopping down in the chair across the table from me with practiced drama designed for effect. Kelly lived to be noticed.

I did not look up from my book. I had grown weary of being Kelly's audience on demand.

In the three months we had lived together I had come to realize I was an unwitting wind-up toy for Kelly. In all the efforts I had made to resolve the surprising conflict that came out of nowhere, thinking they had come from misunderstanding or opposite perspective, I had been a dupe and a plaything. My efforts had been focused on understanding, compromise, and resolution, even when our arguments made no sense.

Then it dawned on me. The nonsense was intentional. It was a strategy. Confusion creates a state of uncertainty. I never knew where I stood or what would be coming at me. The point was to keep me at a disadvantage of searching for meaning when there was none. It was the conflict, whether it made any sense or not, that was the point.

I had come to realize Kelly was narcissistic, immature, passive/aggressive, and thrived on discord. Kelly was addicted to tension and anxiety in others. Hurt feelings were a bonus. Whether it be panic, a crescendo of corrosive chaos, or an explosion of discord, there was a sick sense of power and accomplishment in the achievement of upset. Kelly fed on pain and conflict.

But it would no longer come from me. I was tired of playing the game. My ability to produce the conditions Kelly desired had eroded completely. It was just then, as Kelly sat down, that I realized I had achieved a measure of distance from a life of biting at the bait so skillfully tossed in front of me.

Kelly expelled a dramatic sigh.

I turned a page.

Under the guise of moving closer to the table, Kelly grasped the seat of the kitchen chair with both hands, raised it, and loudly slammed the legs down on the floor.

My eyes followed lines of print.

Kelly poked a finger into the dishes on the lazy Susan at the center of the table, rustling the nuts and candy in one tray after another. Three nuts and a jelly bean fell onto the table.

I finished a page. My eyes moved to the top of the next.

Kelly began to toy with the lazy Susan, no longer interested in the nuts and candy it held. It was the squeak the lazy Susan produced as the carousel rotated that played into Kelly's latest game.

Grasping the edge of the platform, Kelly moved the lazy Susan back and forth at its shrillest, squeakiest point. A sense of expectation filled the air.

I hated that squeak and Kelly knew it. It was a piercing, metallic squeal of three separate tones. It set my teeth on edge. Every sense I possessed exploded at the sound of those grating noises. That blasted squeak abraded every fiber of my being.

In Kelly's hands, the lazy Susan was a weapon. That squeak tore into me.

For an instant I felt corrosive anxiety fire inside. Kelly so prized that effect, and waited with a sly, knowing smile and a posture ready for playing the innocent in an unfair attack.

Just as quickly, calm returned. I was done. I had become wise to Kelly's ways. The peace that rested within was a surprise even to me.

Kelly became visibly irritated, and spun the lazy Susan in a full circle. The squeak sounded loudly in the quiet of the kitchen.

I turned a page.

Kelly halted the lazy Susan and began to drop nuts into the candy, and candy in with the nuts. From the corner of my eye, I could see Kelly casting glances my way to determine if I had noticed.

My eyes never left the book.

Slamming bodily into the back of the kitchen chair, Kelly angrily reached forward and gave the wheel of the lazy Susan a spin so harsh I was not certain it would remain on the pedestal. Shrill squeaking echoed against the kitchen walls.

"You've become boring," Kelly informed me. "And you're ugly when you read."

"Noted," I replied.

"Is that all you have to say about that?" Kelly asked.

"Yes," I said.

Kelly studied me intently through half-squinted eyes, attempting to ascertain the reasons for my lack of desired reaction, and deciding what to do about it.

I turned a page.

"You should pay attention to me," Kelly advised.

I did not respond. My eyes moved from the bottom of one page to the top of the next.

Kelly reached for the lazy Susan.

"You know I don't have to be here, right? You know there are other people who would be only too happy to have my company. I have friends. I have prospects."

"Hm," I uttered, my eyes traveling along the lines of the page.

"I could go back to my mother's house," Kelly warned.

"True," I acknowledged.

"Is that all you can do?" Kelly demanded. "You can only produce one word at a time?"

"No," I calmly responded, turning a page.

Kelly was testing me. It wasn't going as well as intended.

Frustrated, Kelly shook the lazy Susan to produce a series of screaming squeaks. Candy and nuts spilled out onto the table.

My eyes went from the bottom of one page to the top of the next.

"You don't deserve me!" Kelly yelled.

"Agreed." I couldn't have agreed more.

"I'm leaving!" Kelly hotly announced, violently flipping the edge of the lazy Susan. Nearly all the candy and nuts spilled onto the table. A few hit the floor.

Kelly stomped out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I could hear the bang of doors and drawers.

When I heard a few unidentified crashes I thought about going up to guard against damage. Then I realized this packing display was probably not serious to Kelly. There was no real intent to leave. There would be no destruction.

This was another game, one that would end with me coming to my senses before I could risk such a profound loss. I would realize the error of my ways.

Or, so Kelly believed.

Through the kitchen doorway I watched Kelly storm back and forth from staircase to living room, dropping packed bags, boxes, and suitcases by the front door. I said nothing as Kelly hauled the cargo outside.

Everyone within hearing distance knew Kelly was in the driveway. First the trunk of the car slammed shut, and then the doors. Kelly stomped on the pavement every step of the way.

Relief filled the house as the baggage, bit by bit, was self-evicted. The indoor air seemed to become lighter and brighter.

At last, Kelly confidently stood by the door, irritated to have had to go through so much trouble before I announced the anticipated stay. Perhaps I was expected to, eventually, beg. No doubt Kelly had already formed plans on how I would pay.

I turned a page.

"Don't you have anything to say?" Kelly demanded.

"Key," I said without looking up from the book.

"What?" Kelly asked, incredulously.

"Key," I repeated.

"You want my key?" Kelly clarified.

"Yes."

Kelly dramatically struggled to remove the key from a ring.

My eyes went from the bottom of one page to the top of the next.

Kelly slammed the key hard against top of the table by the door. There would probably be a scratch.

"Do you know what you're losing?" Kelly demanded to know.

"Yes," I honestly replied.

Kelly paused a moment, gathering the knowledge that I was sincere. I could feel those eyes on me as the efforts to form one last scheme were in the works.

"You're going to miss me. You know you will."

I said nothing. I turned a page.

Strategy failed, Kelly walked out the door in front of a slam so hard it shook the glass. After indignant stomping, one final bang of a car door, and the roar of an engine, Kelly was gone.

"Bye," I smiled.

Closing my book, I turned to the mess on the table. As a sign of Kelly's leaving, I was satisfied to have it.

A single cashew remained in one of the dishes on the lazy Susan. To bring the nut within reach, I spun the carousel. It squeaked.

Popping the cashew into my mouth, I gently spun the lazy Susan again. A new quality had come to the sound of the squeak. Strangely, it seemed more of a chirp than a squeak.

Spinning the lazy Susan, I could distinctly hear joyful tones rather than the grating squeaks that had been there before. How interesting it was to observe such a metamorphosis in sound. The lazy Susan sang as I spun the wheel of it several more times.

I leaned back in my chair, soaking in the calm, quiet of the house. Peace had returned. Stress floated from my body, mind, and spirit. I felt free.

Reaching to the center of the table, I gently turned the carousel, which began to take on the quality of a musical instrument. Each turn of the wheel produced clean, clear notes. A happy tune emerged.

The effect was magical. I began to enjoy the sound of each spin.

With a smile I returned to my book, keeping one hand on the carousel. Spinning it time and again, snacking on the candy and nuts, I marveled at the delightful melody of a musical lazy Susan.

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An English writer of quirky verse, short stories, detective fiction and novels with a sense of the ridiculous, now retired from a career in manufacturing and living in the South West of England.

The Running Boy

by

Barnaby Wilde

The first time I saw Kieran he must have been about twelve years old. I'd just finished my day shift and decided that I might as well get straight over to the athletics field. There wasn't really time to go home and get a meal, so I just picked up a couple of items and a can from the 24/7 store and took it with me to eat in the car before the kids turned up.

Tuesdays are one of the regular training days through the summer and I take charge of the youngsters on the running track. The session doesn't start officially until seven o'clock, but sometimes a few kids get there early and I like to be there for them. It's great to see their enthusiasm, but sometimes they need a bit of adult supervision to stop them getting into trouble.

That particular day was a fine July evening with blue skies and just the odd small white cloud. It could even have been a bit too hot for running, but there was a gentle breeze to take the edge off the heat and by seven the temperature would be dropping. Anyway, I landed up at the track around six, not expecting any kids to be there yet, and settled down with my sandwich and coke in the sunshine, just enjoying being outside on such a fine day, when a kid appeared through the trees on the far side of the track. I didn't recognise him and he wasn't one of our regulars. He was wearing trainers, jeans and a tee-shirt and he didn't appear to be carrying any other kit. That wasn't particularly unusual. Quite a lot of the kids who train here come from poor families and we have a scheme that can help them out with the cost of kit if they show any promise.

I watched the kid set himself up on the hundred metre track on the far side of the field. There were blocks there from earlier, left out for the evening session and he adjusted a set of blocks and ran himself a hundred metre race. He had a good action, I noticed, although his start was about what you'd expect from a kid who'd never had any instruction.

He jogged back to the start and got down in the blocks again. Out of curiosity I pressed the start button on my stopwatch as he took off and timed him down the track. Not bad for his age. With a bit of instruction he might well develop into a nice little runner.

Clearly he hadn't noticed me in the car, because when I slammed the door and began to walk over to him, he took one look and bolted. I called after him, but he was gone back through the trees where he'd come from. I didn't realise that I looked so intimidating, but then I'd forgotten that I'd come straight from work and was still wearing my uniform.

By and by the regular kids turned up and I got into the usual warm up routines with them. We practised some starts, did some laps to build up a bit of strength in their legs and finished with a few races, which was always the part they enjoyed the most. Some of the parents stayed up in the stands to watch their kids, but others just dropped off and picked up. Some kids came and went using their own bikes or skateboards, or walked if they lived close by. By nine o'clock everyone had pretty much gone home and I was just locking up the equipment store when I thought I saw Kieran again. Of course, I didn't know his name then, but it looked like the same kid I'd seen earlier. He was hovering just inside the tree line on the far side of the field, but when he saw that I'd eye balled him, he just melted away again. Looked like he wanted to join in, but didn't know how.

I decided to walk the perimeter of the field, but there was no further sign of him and I didn't see him again until a week later.

The following Tuesday was a rest day for me and I took off early for the track. We have a contract for the mowing, but there's always a hundred other little jobs to do. Checking over equipment, clearing waste bins, touching up the paint, or just walking the track to make sure that someone's not allowed their dog to foul the area. It's amazing how many people seem to think that just because no one saw their dog messing on the running track or in the field sports areas that it's OK just to leave it there. They don't do it twice if I see them, that's for sure.

Anyway, I was doing my walk when I had that feeling I was being watched. I should tell you that on that day I wasn't in uniform. I was just wearing a regular track suit. I didn't react too much, just sort of kept an eye on the patch of wood on the edge of the field and, sure enough, it was that kid again. He knew I'd seen him, but this time he didn't just retreat into the trees, he stood and watched me for a while, but I could see he had his escape route planned out in case he wanted to leave in a hurry.

I gave him a wave, but he didn't reply. Just stood there watching. I had an idea and headed back to the equipment store and grabbed some blocks. He watched me all the way and I waved the blocks so he could see what I was carrying. I beckoned him to come over, but he stayed put. He didn't run away, though, as I made my way over the field. When I got to the track I set the blocks down near the start line of the hundred metre straight and waved to him to come over. He clearly didn't trust me because he made no move to come closer. I decided to give him some space, so I left the blocks on the track and backed off across the field, all the while I was waving him over to use the blocks. Eventually he took a few tentative steps onto the field and, when he could see that I wasn't going to chase him away, finally jogged across to the start line.

For the next half hour the kid just ran hundred after hundred. I had my watch in my tracksuit pocket and timed him over a few runs. He was quick. More importantly there was a fluidity to his running which was unusual in one so young. This guy was a natural runner.

I grabbed a couple of cans of coke from the trunk of my car and began to walk over to him. I could see he was ready to bolt, but I held one of the cans up for him to see and he let me get close enough to give it to him. He was nervous as hell, though. I could see it in his eyes. I reckon if I'd done so much as blink a bit fast, he'd have been off.

For a while we just stood and sipped at our cans of coke. He kept a wary eye on me, but he didn't look like he was about to bolt any more.

"You're a good runner," I said. "Fast."

He nodded, but said nothing.

"My name's Ted," I said offering him my hand. He nodded, but he didn't return the handshake. He didn't offer his name either and I didn't push him.

"You like running?" I said and he nodded his head just the once.

"Would you like to join the other kids?" I asked, but he shook his head and backed off a little.

"Would you like me to time you?" I asked. After a short pause he gave me the single nod.

"OK," I said, and I pulled my watch out of the tracksuit. "I'll move up the other end and when I drop my hand, you start."

I glanced back as I walked down the track and saw him settling into the blocks. He was still wearing normal trainers and denims I noticed, not running shoes. No matter. I waved to him to show I was ready and then when he rose in the blocks I dropped my arm. A skinny twelve year old's body came hurtling down the track towards me. A wobbly start, but the action was very fluid once he got into his stride.

I showed him the watch when he'd finished. "Is that good?" he asked as he peered at the watch face. It was the first time I'd heard him speak.

"Yep," I replied. "That's not bad, but you could go faster."

He looked up at me with doubt in his eyes. "I went as fast as I could," he said.

"I know you did," I said, "but I could show you how to go faster. If you're interested, that is."

He nodded without looking up at me directly.

"Come on," I said and set off back down the tracks to the start blocks.

In the next half hour I showed him how to adjust the blocks the right size for him and how to rise properly on the 'set' command. We also talked a bit about breathing and focus and I can tell you that he soaked it up like a sponge. I've never had a kid take in so much information in so little time before or since.

We practised a few starts and then I timed him again over the hundred. He'd improved by more than two seconds. I was impressed. Hell, even the kid was impressed.

It was about then that a car pulled into the lot and I saw the doubt return to the kid's eyes.

"I gotta go," he said. Apart from that and his first words to me about his running speed, he'd scarcely spoken for the whole time. He turned and set off towards the woods.

"What's your name?" I called.

"Kieran," he shouted back.

"See you next week, Kieran," I yelled after him but he gave no indication that he'd heard me. I watched him disappear into the trees and stood for a few moments before walking back across the field to join the regular kids who were now beginning to arrive. I didn't give him much more thought while I was working with the kids, but as I drove home later I wondered if I'd ever see him again. I don't know why, but I felt an affinity to the kid. Something was troubling him and I wanted to help him. I guess I was getting a bit ahead of myself. After all I knew nothing about him apart from him having a natural ability to run. I wondered if he'd show up the following week.

As it happened, it was me that didn't show up the following week. It sometimes happens that my shift pattern makes me work on a Tuesday evening. Sometimes I can get round it by swapping with one of the other guys, but that particular week there were no takers. When that happens, one of the kid's fathers stands in for me and coaches the group. I had no of way of knowing, therefore, whether Kieran had showed up. I was annoyed with myself for letting him down.

A week later and I was anxious to get to the track early to see whether he would show, but I was disappointed. There was no sign of him, nor the following week nor the week after.

In fact, it was almost a year before I saw Kieran again. I'd pretty much forgotten about him, I must admit, but the following July on a blustery day I turned up for the regular kid's training session and there he was. Not in the bunch with the other kids, but standing just in front of the woods where I'd first seen him. He looked a little taller, hair a little longer, jeans a little more faded, but there was no mistaking who it was.

I set the regular group on a training run round the four forty track and made my way over to the woods.

"Hi," I said.

Kieran stared me down for a while. "You didn't show," he said, turning to spit into the grass.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I couldn't get away from work."

"Whatever," he shrugged.

"Do you want to run?" I asked.

"Nah," he said, but I could see in his eyes that he did.

"Come over and join the other kids," I suggested, but his body language clearly showed that he didn't want to do that. In the background I saw that the kids had finished their training lap and were coming over to see who I was talking to. Kieran began to back off into the woods.

"Kieran," I shouted. "Tomorrow. Just you and me. Come at five o'clock tomorrow."

"Whatever," he said as he merged with the trees.

I don't know precisely what it was about the boy, but he intrigued me. It wasn't only the running. I just wondered who he was, where he came from.

He didn't show the following day until nearly seven. I'd all but given up thinking he would come and was thinking that I'd be off home, when his slim figure slipped out through the trees.

I didn't waste time asking him where he'd been, we just got down to running some sprints. I'd collected a few pairs of spikes from the equipment room and we found a pair that fit him. "You can keep them," I said. "They've been donated by someone who's grown out of them."

The look of suspicion in his eyes was slowly replaced by one of delight when he'd put the shoes on and done a few little runs.

"I can keep them?" he asked.

"Sure," I said. "If you want them."

"OK," he said, like he was doing me a favour.

Anyway, we spent the next hour practising some starts and then running a few sprints. I timed him a couple of times and he'd picked up a couple of seconds on the previous year. He was better than any of our regulars of his age. Hell. He was better than most of them two or three years older.

At eight, he suddenly announced that he had to go. "Would you keep the shoes for me?" he asked.

"You can take them with you," I said, but he shook his head.

"When can I come again?" he asked.

"Come on Tuesday," I said, "with the other kids. Make a few friends."

He shook his head again. "Nah," he said. "Just you and me."

"OK," I said. "Saturday. Early. It's the only time I can make because of my shifts."

On Saturday I was there at eight. Kieran was already waiting.

"How long have you been here?" I asked.

"Dunno," he shrugged. "Hour maybe."

We spent two hours working on technique and the kid was amazing. It was as if he was born to run. He just absorbed every bit of information I threw at him, and he just kept getting faster."

"You could be a great runner, Kieran," I said to him. "A really great runner."

"Whatever," was all he said, but I had the feeling that he was pleased.

"Why don't you come along to the regular group?" I asked him. "Come every week. I reckon you'll be running at County level within a couple of weeks. Keep that up and you'll be running Internationally within a couple of years."

He snorted. "Nah. Running's for poofs. Anyway, we'll be moving on again next week, or the week after." A wistful look came into his eyes.

"Kieran," I said. "Do you want to run?"

"Nah," he said. He took off the spikes and handed them back. "Thanks," he said. That was all. He just said it the once. "Thanks."

I watched him walk back into the woods. "Will you be there on Tuesday?" I shouted after him but either he didn't hear or he didn't want to hear, because he just kept on walking.

He didn't appear on Tuesday, or any of the following Tuesdays. I didn't see him again for over two years. Until today, in fact.

I made a few enquiries, but no one knew who he was or where he came from. Someone said that there was a bunch of travellers who showed up every year about this time and pitched their vans on the far side of the wood. Maybe he was with them. I even cruised round that way but there was no sign of anyone. Just litter and rubbish where they'd been.

I wondered if he'd appear the following year, but there was no sign.

Today, though, two years after our last meeting on the running track, I saw Kieran again. And he was running.

He looked older. He was older, probably around sixteen years old. A call had come in over my radio that there had been a break in at an off license. I was one of the nearest cars, so we lit the blue lamp, turned on the siren and headed for the spot just a few streets away.

As we rounded the corner we saw a group of youths, four of them, all about sixteen to eighteen running down the street. There was something very familiar about one of them. He was fast. Faster than any of the others and his action was unusually fluid. "Kieran," I muttered. There was no doubt.

The four split up and my colleague and I jumped out of the car to give chase. I sent my partner to follow Kieran. I knew he'd never catch him, but I couldn't bring myself even to try. I caught one of the others fairly quickly after he ran into a blind alley. Sure enough he was from the traveller group.

Kieran wasn't caught that day, but in my heart I knew that it would only be a matter or time until someone, somewhere could run faster than him.

I never saw him again...

... But it wasn't the last time his name passed across my view.

I retired from full time police work the following year after thirty five years on the force. Even though I had a full pension, I was too young to sit around all day doing nothing. I've still got the athletics coaching with the kids, of course, and I do have a very neat vegetable plot in the garden, but I decided to take on a part time job shelf stacking in the DIY superstore. It only pays minimum wage, but, since I have the pension, I'm not really doing it for the money.

It was during one of my late evening shifts at the store when Kieran's name cropped up again. Someone had left a local evening paper in the break room and I began to skim through it during my break. Now, I guess, you can always take a man out of the cops, but you never truly take the cop out of the man and my eyes were always drawn to the court reports. It was disappointing how often the same names cropped up year after year for the same petty crimes. Some of these folk spent more of their lives inside for robbing garages and stealing cars, than they spent in the free world. It seemed like a terrible waste to me.

Sure enough, there was a report of yet another young man about to throw his whole life away. One Kieran Smith, of no fixed abode, had been jailed for two years for stealing cars. It was apparently not his first offense.

There was no photograph, but the age was about right and I had no doubt that it was my running boy when I read the short précis of the trial. There had been a pursuit, which culminated in the stolen car turning over into a ditch. Despite the accident, the driver, had managed to climb out of the car and outrun the pursuing officers, even slowing occasionally to taunt them, before running on again. He might have been confident in his ability to run, but he hadn't allowed for the police helicopter which led to his eventual capture.

I shook my head, sadly. Such talent, wasted. The boy had golden legs. I'm sure he could have been a truly great runner and earned himself a good living in the process. But it seemed that a set of powered wheels trumped a pair of golden legs any day, at least in his mind.

Briefly, it crossed my mind that I could visit him in jail, but, as quickly as the thought came, I dismissed it. He'd made his choice. There were other kids out there who deserved my time more.

I pushed the paper back onto the table where I'd found it and took the last mouthful of cold coffee before heading back into the store for the rest of my shift.

THE END

Barnaby Wilde June 2014

This story appeared originally in a slightly different form in Barnaby's Shorts (vol. 2)

You can find out more about Barnaby Wilde at the author's website or follow him on Twitter and on his blog

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A Fun-loving Guy

by

Suzy Stewart Dubot

copyright©June 2014 Suzy Stewart Dubot

An Anglo/American who has been living in France for over 30 years, she began writing as soon as she retired. She recently spent seventeen months in London, UK caring for an aged relative, but is now back in France. Writing follows her as easily as her laptop. With her daughters, she is a vegetarian and a supporter of animal rights. She is also an admirer of William Wilberforce.

Ohio, 1960

The lone mailbox standing alongside the highway had seen better days.

No one would be faulted for thinking that it had been abandoned as it listed to one side with its aluminium body now a dull rough finish. The terrain where it had been placed was overgrown with weeds some of which rose high around its wooden stake to press against the box's underbelly.

The United States Postal Service knew differently, though, as it deposited the occasional bill or catalogue and sometimes picked up a letter to post when the red flag was up.

R. J. Beamer, in black child-like letters, was just another name to them on their daily route. Nothing indicated if it were a man or a woman, and it wouldn't have changed anything anyway.

Next to the box was a dirt road leading to the property which disappeared behind a screen of overgrown shrubs and trees tangled with brambles and poison ivy to discourage any uninvited visitor. If the truth were known, there never were any visitors.

The nearest one-horse town was Winchell.

There were folks there who could probably tell you about R. J. when he was younger and been obliged to go to school. But after he'd left the education system and his pa had died, they'd had no further dealings with him. He'd always been mean-spirited and people had tended to avoid him. His absence from town suited everyone.

Now that he was full grown, they'd sometimes see him driving by in his beat up truck on his way to the next town over, called Madley, which was a good deal bigger. He never spent his money in Winchell having a lasting grudge against the town and everyone in it, although no one knew why in particular – except maybe Betty Sue, and she wasn't telling as she'd been gone for some time.

Years later they would be glad that he'd ignored them and done his business elsewhere.

Jeb was sitting on the porch bench outside the Winchell hardware when he saw R.J.'s truck drive past.

He squinted his eyes and followed the pick-up's progress as he heard R. J. changing gears as he gained speed on his way out of town.

"There's sumthin' not right about him," he said to Billy Ray, who was sitting next to him chewing tobacco. He hadn't needed to name the person he was talking about as Billy Ray had watched the truck pass too.

"He gives me the creeps," Billy Ray agreed, slurping a bit. "Met him in Madley and he spat at my shoes as he passed. We ain't never been presented so he had no cause to spit at me!"

"He ain't healthy. Best steer clear of him, I say," Jeb advised.

"Jeesh. Ain't lookin' to share my tobaccy with him, Jeb." Billy Ray sat chewing for a minute, then told Jeb what he'd learned.

"Mister Smith done told me R. J. collects wheels from junkyards. You know, them that's got worn out tires on 'em. Now why'd anyone want old wheels, fer land's sake?"

He aimed carefully and spat tobacco juice away from the porch.

Just then pretty Amanda Dillon came up the step to go into the hardware and distracted them from their sombre thoughts.

"Miss Amanda," they both greeted her with a smile and a nod.

-o0o-

R. J. had parked behind the house and dragged the used wheel off the back of his pick-up. This was the seventh, so far. He set it on its rubber tread and began rolling it down the trail. The black from the rubber dirtied his hands but nothing about him was particularly clean, so he wasn't too bothered.

As he wended his way with the wheel, he was hot and the brambles that caught on his clothing only adding to his mounting irritation. Nothing ever seemed to go the way he wanted. Couldn't even walk to the back of his land without getting scratched.

The six other wheels were like islands in the middle of a sea of green weeds which wafted towards the newly turned mound of dirt. 'With a bit of imagination, the dirt could be mistaken for a beach,' R. J. thought.

He smiled, pleased with the imagery. He'd never seen the sea.

The sun was bearing down steadily and R. J. could see that the dirt had already dried. It didn't matter. It wouldn't be hard yet as he'd only dug it up early this morning.

He rolled the wheel up to it and let it drop to its side before shoving it up on top of the pile, where it lay flat.

His mind shifted back to the fun he'd had last night. He was getting good at meeting women who were out looking for a bit of fun too.

But then, everything has a price and he was out here paying now – with an old wheel.

Once in place, he got onto the wheel and began to jump up and down, forcing it down into the loosened earth. As he jumped he shouted, "Bitch. Goddamn bitch."

Suddenly, he stopped and looked at all the other rubber wheels that were black islands with buried treasure. They marked the spot like an 'X', but who would guess that when it was a wheel?

"Bitches all of you!"

From his raised position he stared toward the first wheel in the sea.

"You're the biggest bitch of all, Betty Sue."

He stepped off the tire which had sunk somewhat into the mound and pulled a soiled hanky from his overall pocket to wipe the sweat from his face. It calmed him and got him thinking again about the past and the future.

Perhaps he'd better start looking for that special gal across the state line. No sense in letting folks connect a fun-loving guy with any of those missing women. Didn't want them nosing around here, digging up his treasures.

Just a shame that those bitches hadn't really been fun-loving at all. It meant he had to keep buying these damn dirty wheels.

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