The Race Down Deadman’s Hill by Dawn DeBraal, iced water

My older brother, Lee, lived fifteen months, three weeks, and five days more than me. He lorded it over my head every chance he got, feeling that that amount of time gave him vast experience and knowledge.

“I get to go first because I’m older,” he’d say, pushing me aside and getting on the go-cart at the top of Dead Man’s Hill. I would shake my head and mutter under my breath.  One day, I would make Lee eat his words. I was only an inch shorter and had him by a couple of pounds. Mom said it was because I took after my dad, and Lee took after her.

We spent a week building that go-cart, using wheels from an old buggy and parts of the buggy itself to form a stylish race car. Lee took the front of the cart and built a crossbar from two-by-fours bolted together to make a “T” shape. By using our feet, we could steer the cart to swivel left or right. There was nothing to stop us from going into Gordman’s Creek except to drop our feet and drag them like brakes.

Deadman’s Hill was the only hill in the neighborhood that didn’t empty into heavy traffic, so it provided a softer ending in case we couldn’t stop in time, and so far, Lee and I had been able to stop well before the end of the boat ramp.

The buggy-turned-go cart worked so well that we entered the annual Downhill Pushcart run. Parking Old Bess, as we named her, at the top of the Hill, we watched several other teams enter the race. Because of the width of the road, the race only allowed seven teams, and this year, all the slots were filled. Andy Krakow and his brother Randy parked their cart next to ours, and he laughed at the buggy body we had retained.

“You look like a bunch of babies,” Andy cracked. I gave him my scowl face and ignored him while Lee and I talked about the better strategy. A heavier driver in the cart would make it go down the Hill faster, and the stronger pusher would run us to the start line quicker, so we decided since I was heavier than he was, and his long legs would get us to the start line faster, I was the driver, and he was the pusher. I put my bicycle helmet on my head, letting the straps hang down, feeling like a pilot ready to take flight as I sat on our racer.

All the carts were very different one from the other. Some were made by kids, like ours, and you could tell the ones where an adult had a heavy hand in their build by putting more of themselves into the vehicles.  I looked down the line left and right. Some of the carts were much more sophisticated than ours, but Lee and I held true to the rules.

For safety reasons, an adult could only inspect the carts, and our father checked and rechecked all the moving parts. Seven carts were parked back from the start line, and the excitement was palpable. The runners would run the carts to the start lines and then let go, allowing gravity to do its job. I could see Lee stomping from one leg to the other, making me feel his adrenaline was on overcharge, and he was ready to push us to victory.

“Get ready.” Seven carts lined up at the boat landing, leading to Gordman’s Creek. I hunkered down because, as I’d read, sitting tall, offered wind resistance.

“Get set.”  Mr. Feldman, the banker and the giver of the twenty-five-dollar prize, held a starter pistol in the air.

“Go!” He fired the pistol, and all the pusher kids started to run their carts to the start line. Lee’s legs pistoned up and down like a train engine behind me. Moving the cart closer to the starting line, slightly ahead of the others, he let go once I crossed the chalked line.

The cart took off, and the racers around me kept up. We were neck and neck down Deadman’s Hill toward the creek. Andy Kraków pulled slightly ahead, and Old Bess’s wheels were flying while I focused on the task in front of me, keeping the cart straight as I could while trying to get to the finish line. When all the other drivers dropped their feet to slow down, I headed for the creek and let the cart pass by everyone.

 I flew over the finish line ahead of the rest of them and then put my feet to the ground, trying to stop the forward momentum. My shoe fell off, and I could no longer stop myself. Over the bank, I went, flying into the creek.

“Teddy! You did it!” Lee shouted, whooping it up on the bank. No one had the guts to do what I did, not put their feet down, taking their carts into the creek. The water was deeper than I imagined, and pulled at the cart, trying to carry it downstream.

“Lee, I’m losing it. Old Bess is headed down the creek!” I shouted from the water.

“Let her go, Ted, it’s too late.” I couldn’t believe my brother was suggesting we let Old Bess go.

“I can’t hang on. Help me!” I called back as the go-cart floated toward the faster water, trying to pull me with it.

“Let go, Teddy. We won; we’ll build a new cart.  You are more important!” I wrestled with my thoughts a bit and let go. Old Bess floated from my grasp and rode the creek rapids headed for bigger waters while I climbed the bank, taking my brother’s hand and letting him pull me on shore. The cart was no longer visible as it meandered around a bend.

“I lost her.” I wanted to cry with disappointment.

“You won the race, that’s all that counts!” Lee slapped me on the back, and drops of water sprayed him on the face, making me laugh.

“It’s a good thing you drove, and I pushed. I would have stopped before the creek like the rest of them. You are one crazy guy!” My brother had paid me the highest compliment he could give, which made me smile despite losing Old Bess. Usually, I wouldn’t believe his praises, but today, after winning the race, I chose to believe him because sometimes, he was right. 

 

About the author

 

Dawn DeBraal lives in rural Wisconsin with her husband, Red, a rescue dog and a stray cat. She has published over 700 stories, poems, and drabbles in several online magazines and anthologies. https://www.facebook.com/All-The-Clever-Names-Were-Taken-114783950248991 https://linktr.ee/dawndebraal Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

The Weary Traveler

 

by Sheila Henry

ice water

Recently, I was looking through my treasure box. I hadn’t opened it in years and forgotten about the contents. The first thing I saw was the red and gold doily that aunt Ethel hand knitted and gifted me many years ago. It’s always good to spot something of hers, because I miss her so.

 

Next were handwritten letters from loved ones, some no longer here. I am not sure why I kept them, but they once meant something, perhaps providing comfort when I needed it most.

 

I couldn’t remember storing the gold necklaces I received as gifts from friends on my 40th birthday, but there they were, kept all these years. Gold necklaces are not my preferred style of jewelry. But it was wonderful to have received them at my surprise 40th birthday party.     

Then there was the stop watch, a gift I received from George, the weary stranger from Russia. The watch reminded me of a chance encounter that brought extreme joy. 

 

“My name is George. I am a scientist from Russia,” he told me on our unusual first meeting.

 

It was a beautiful sunny day in September, the sky an azure blue with fluffy white clouds that drew my eyes upwards. It was a little cooler than normal for the time of year. I had some errands to take care of in Edison, the next town over, a place I once lived and still frequented the markets for their exotic fruits.  

 

As I was driving up the main road, I could see a person walking up ahead about half a mile or so away. He was a tall, lean man about 6’ 2” and I guessed he might have been in his late forties or early fifties. He was wearing a long, beige trench coat and was pulling a suitcase behind him. He also carried a bag in his other hand. 

 

As I drove closer, I noticed something about the way he walked. His frame was bent forward, and he walked with a steady but slow gait. I could tell he was more than tired. Somewhere within myself, I was being told to stop and offer this man a ride. 

 

The closer I got I knew I had to make a quick decision. Do I stop for him or not? I started applying the breaks to slow down, all the while questioning my myself about what to do. Suddenly, following my instincts, I made my decision. I drove slowly past the man and came to a complete stop.

 

Rolling down the window of the passenger side, I asked “Sir, would you like a ride to where you’re going?”

 

“Yes, yes, thank you,” he responded with a thick accent. I assumed it could be Russian. Identifying accents and their origin is an art I developed from working in retail. I worked with a diverse clientele. Clients would smile a happy smile, when I guessed where they were from originally.

 

I introduced myself as I put the car in drive. 

 

“Where are you going?” I asked, as he settled in. 

 

He handed me a piece of crumpled paper he took out of his pocket. It had a street address in Edison printed on it. “My name is George. I am a Scientist from Russia,” he spoke in his thick accent. “I came in at JFK airport from Russia and took the train to Edison.” 

 

I kept driving and looking for the street. George told me it was off the main road we were on. However, I got to the end of the town, but there was no such named street as shown on the sheet of paper.

 

“Are you sure the street is off this road?” I asked. “We are now nearing the next town over, and I haven’t seen it.”

 

“Yes, it’s here” 

 

George’s response was a sure indicator he had no idea where he was going. I thought, it’s up to me to find this place. I was fascinated, though, that he traveled this far to an unfamiliar country without having the specifics how to get to his intended destination. 

 

As we were about to leave the town, I told him the street was not in the direction we were headed. I then stopped at a service station and purchased a map. The map showed the street we were searching for was on the opposite side of town, which was about a twenty-five-minute drive away. I had only one option I could think of and that was to bring him to the address. So, off we went. 

 

At some point during the ride, he took out a stop watch from the bag he was holding on his lap, and handed it to me. “This gift is for you,” he said.

 

I initially declined the gift, telling him it was not necessary. However, he insisted I should have it. He showed me many more objects in his bag, items he brought as gifts. I saw bottles of vodka among them. I then accepted the watch, thanked him and placed it in the console. 

 

We arrived at the destination about twenty-five minutes later. I accompanied George to the home. It was in a townhouse development. George rang the doorbell. After a few minutes, he knocked on the door. There was no response. We stood there for a few minutes longer. It appeared no-one was at the home. As we waited, George shared that the people who lived at the home were just his contacts. He did not know them personally, and they were not expecting him. Interesting!

 

I somehow felt responsible for George. I could not leave him to fend for himself. I knocked on the contact’s neighbor’s door, and when a woman answered, I introduced myself and George. I shared George’s story and asked would she put him up until her neighbor returned. She agreed to do so, and took George in. I gave him my phone number and asked that he contact me when he was settled in. I wanted to know how he made out.

 

After we said our goodbyes, I sat in my car to absorb the experience. It was surreal. 

My heart was full that I was able to help this stranger. I wondered had I not stopped for him, how would he have gotten to his destination? I wondered if anyone else would have done the same. I know I was grateful for the opportunity. 

 

On my way back home, I had an overwhelming feeling of joy. A feeling I could not articulate until recently when I came across this great word ‘eudaimonia’ which is described as a more powerful feeling than happiness. I felt it many times before when volunteering or just doing something random for a stranger. The feeling could be described as been lifted off the ground by a surge of energy or a rush of adrenaline. 

 

About a week after meeting George, he called to let me know he had reached his final destination. He was settled in Ithaca, New York. He found employment there.

 

Many years later, as I held the watch in my hand, I thought of that random act of kindness. And I thought of George. I wondered how had he fared living in the U.S.

 

George’s story is a reminder to listen to our inner voice, that quiet voice that reaches out and nudges us to see opportunities to serve others; the “thank you’s” you receive are a blessing like no other. They really are.

About the author  

Sheila’s writing style can best be categorized as Visual Poetry, blending emotion and vision into a poem or story of color. Her poems and short stories are featured at Spillwords Publications, Literary Yard, Sweety Cat Press Anthology, I, The Writer, and Poetica2 series.

 

 

The Bus to The End of The World

by Henry Lewi

iced water 

 The flyer dropped through his door early one morning. In bright red with bold white lettering it announced, “The Bus to the End of the World”. Below the title it continued,

“Transport for London is pleased to announce a new service from the weekend.”

  

Take the Bus to the end of the world,

  See sights that’ll amaze you,

  Watch the changing stars,

  Get to meet new and interesting people,

  Take tea with the Old Gods,

  Have cocktails with such celebrities as Bacchus, Thor and Odin.

  Eat Dinner in the Halls of Valhalla  

  Catch the Bus at your nearest Bus Stop

  Pre-Booking is recommended

  All Major Credit Cards Accepted.

  TfL permits the use of Oyster Cards on this route

  Concessionary Travel Cards will be honoured  

Please book by going online at www.endoftheworld@elysium.co.uk

He quickly went online and found that there was a single slot left for that evening, so he booked it knowing that it was all free with his Senior Citizen Bus Pass. 

So, what to wear for the event he thought, opening his large wardrobe. He spotted a white blazer with vertical red stripes, perfectly complemented by white trousers, white shoes and a white shirt, he topped this off with a red bow-tie and a straw boater with a red stripped Ribbon. Admiring himself in the mirror he thought, “I look just like Dick van Dyke in Mary Poppins!” 

After a few minutes he muttered to himself, “that’s strange, I don’t remember buying these clothes – oh well, they’ll do.”

 Just after dusk he waited patiently alone at the bus stop, no-one was around, and then he saw the bus, it was a new Routemaster – he remembered the old ones that he used to take to school when he was a boy in London. It was a number 937 – “A prime number.”  The thought just popped into his head – “how did I know that?” 

 The destination shown on the front was, “The End of the World”.

 Getting on, he showed his bus pass to the silent driver and went upstairs to take a seat for a better view, but the windows were so dark he couldn’t see out.

“That’s weird,” he thought, “there’s no one else on board, oh well, I’m sure they’ll pick up more passengers en-route.” 

After an indeterminate period of time during which he thought he must have dozed off and missed most of the journey, the Routemaster pulled up and the driver announced, “last stop for the End of the World.” 

   Looking around he realised he was the last one remaining on the bus.  “Strange,” he thought, I haven’t seen any other passengers. He quickly descended the stairs and got off the bus. It was getting quite dark and he initially thought he was alone.

“Where were all the signs to the Tea Rooms, Restaurants, Bars and Halls of Valhalla?” He wondered.

Out the corner of his eye he noted a number of black clothed figures all heading toward some bright lights. Following,  he was intrigued to see that the lights flickered on and off and got brighter the closer he got to them 

 Unexpectedly he was at a gate when a uniformed attendant shone a light in his face and asked, “where is your admission ticket?” 

“I, I don’t have one”, he replied, as the light grew brighter and more painful, “I didn’t know I needed an admission ticket,” he said trying to turn away from the light,  he found he couldn’t, and it was now becoming increasingly more difficult to speak. 

Suddenly he heard a voice, “It’s OK, don’t struggle, welcome back Fred, you’ve been in a coma for the last month, but it’s all fine and you are back with us. There’s a tube in your throat which is why you can’t speak, so we’re going to remove it now that you’re awake.”

About the author

 Henry is now retired from the NHS, and has had a number of short stories published by Café Lit. He is a member of the Canvey Writers Group.  

Cloud Moods

by Roshna Rusiniya

iced water

I stare at the box of color pencils  in front of me, my eyebrows knitted together in focus. There are too many colors  to choose from, yet I can’t make up my mind. Frustration grows inside me both at myself and the art project that is due for submission in two days. How difficult is it to make a drawing of clouds? 

There was a collective snicker around the class when the teacher announced that the theme for our art project is ‘cloud’. All of us, including me, thought the theme was more suitable for kindergarten  than ninth grade. But now sitting here, gazing at the sky for the past one hour, I am not ashamed to admit that my confidence is faltering a bit. It’s so easy to draw a bright blue sky with white fluffy clouds scattered all over, but that’s what everyone else will do. And the teacher specifically said the picture should be realistic and impactful or we won’t get an ‘A’. Realistic and impactful- sounds a bit tricky!

Looking at the blushing evening sky,  I wish my grandfather was still alive. One of my favorite childhood memories is of me visiting him during the summer holidays. He used to tell me that every single thing we see around has a story to tell. If he was here, he would have had something to say about the mysterious orange clouds above me-  blazing with fire one last time, before the darkness swallowed them.

I miss him. 

I got up to leave; my heart heavy with disappointment as I couldn’t even draw one line.

When I reached home, dinner was served on the table. Mom looked grumpy,  which means Dad is working late, again… After quickly eating my dinner, I went up to my room, ready to call it a day. 

 ***

It’s nearly midnight and I am still awake, listening to my parents arguing in the bedroom next to mine. It has become kind of a nightly ritual recently. Dad comes home very late and mom throws a fit. I overheard her telling my grandmother that she is planning to divorce my dad. It should have made me upset one or two years back. But now, I am past caring.

Unable to return to sleep, I get up and walk over to  my study table. After switching the desk lamp on, I spread out the drawing sheet on the table, pull up a chair and sit down. 

After examining the colors momentarily, I take the black and grey pencils out, close the box and started drawing...

About the author

Roshna Rusiniya is a full-time homemaker and a part-time writer.

The Best Things in Life Are Free (or are they?)

By Lynn Clement

iced water

Gable woke with a start. He was at that part of his recurring nightmare where his parents were being battered with a hammer. He was grateful to be awake and avoid the pools of blood. It was banging from next door’s pod that had woken him, whilst he was taking a nap after his long shift at the carbon mine. The noise got louder; Gable wondered what old Soma was doing in there. He had a lot of time on his hands since he was laid off by the mine for being too slow at 35 years old, maybe he was busy doing up his pod. Gable coughed. He eased himself up from his chair to tap on the gauge attached to his wall. He rubbed his hands to get the blood flowing again, he couldn’t afford to show any signs of ill health, or he too would be laid off by the mine.

The hammering in the next pod became steadier until there was a sucking sound and a whoosh followed by voices. Gable strained to hear what they were saying; something about Bill and Jen he thought. He drained what was the last ration of water for the day and held the glass up against the wall, then put his ear to the other end; a trick his mother had taught him when she was listening for traitors to the polisnazers - before they turned on her.

Soma was pleading; ‘please don’t’ but there didn’t seem to be any reply. The lights in Gable’s pod flickered and the familiar hum lessened. Gable’s eyes closed as he realised what was happening.

Next door, two men were standing over Soma watching his death throes. He was clutching his throat and sucking as hard as he could, but his lungs would not inflate. One of the men turned away not wishing to see the blood spill. 

 ‘You’re getting soft in your old age,’ said the other.

 They threw Soma’s body onto their hover-cart, ensuring none of his limbs got caught on their suits and pulled out any plugs. They re-sealed the door on pod number 5064 and painted a red X on it.  

 ‘I always find that bit funny,’ said man number one.   ‘X, do you get it? X- gone, deceased, dead.’

  ‘It’s a cruel way to die,’ stated the man who’d turned away.     

 ‘Yeah, well he should have paid his oxygen bill,’ said number one, with his hooded eyes on his workmate.  

  ‘Yep you’re right,’ said number two, hoping his pal wouldn’t whistle-blow his thoughts to the polisnazers.  

   ‘Let’s get out of here and get drunk,’ he said climbing into the vehicle.

Gable went to his pod screen to watch them float away. He took a deep breath and held it for as long as he could.

Slowing Down

by James Bates

iced water 

"Tommy, can we rest up ahead? This old heart..."

            Mom let the words trail off. Conjunctive heart failure, I thought to myself, what a friggin' bitch. "Sure, Mom," I said gently. "Here, take my hand."

            With no argument she put her hand in mine, and we made our way to the bench fifteen feet away. It took five minutes.

            As we walked I gazed down at my mother, a tiny, bird of a woman, thin as a rail, her formally auburn hair now snow white. "I'm keeping it natural," she told me once, "the way it's meant to be."

            Mom was like that, independent. She became a single mother at thirty-one to four children (I was the oldest) after dad left home without a word. That was fifty-three years ago. To help make ends meet she worked part time as a cashier in a local grocery store, then later, after we'd grown, she'd become a teaching assistant helping out at the local grade school. She was a friend to many and beloved by all.

            Now this. These slow steps toward the end of her full life.

            We sat down and looked out over the wetlands behind the senior living complex she'd called home for the last seven years. Suddenly, excited, she pointed, "Tommy, look, a family of ducks. What are they? Mallards?"

            "Yes they are, Mom. Cute, aren't they?"

            She smiled, "Little puff ball babies. So sweet."

            We watched the mother and five ducklings in silence. I listened to Mom's breathing as it finally slowed down, becoming less labored. She still held my hand. I squeezed it and said, "Mom, what about it? Should be think about a wheel chair for you? It would make it easier for us to be out and about."

            "I don't know. I'm not sure."

            I nudged her gently, "How long did it take us to get down to this bench?" I asked, trying to make a point.

            Mom was no dummy. "Don't get smart with me, young man," she said, barking a phase she used with me quite often a lot when I was growing up.

            I smiled, "Well, the point is, it took us forty-five minutes. Last year we could make this walk in ten."

            She patted my hand, her tone softened, "I know, but I just don't know if I'm ready to make that step." She paused, then added, "No pun intended."

            I laughed. She had always had a good sense of humor.

            We stayed on the bench for most of the afternoon. We watched the mother with her ducklings and, later, we even saw a great white egret land nearby. I'll always remember that day.

            Three months later she passed away in her sleep. We never did get that wheelchair, we just slowed our walks down and didn't go very far. And when she got tired, I carried her. I think she enjoyed it. I know I did. She was my mom. It was the least I could do.

 About the author 

Jim is retired after working many years as a course developer and sales and technical trainer for a large manufacturing company. Since 2010 he has seriously been writing haiku, poetry, short and long fiction. In addition to CafeLit and The Writers' Cafe Magazine,  his stories can be found posted on his website: www.theviewfromlonglake.wordpress.com