| "Built For
Speed" (the fourth ACW monthly writing contest) |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Built For Speed" 2500 words or less. Deadline: December 15, 2001 |
| Built For Speed by H.J. Lazarus lazdom@ono.com (Entry #8) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| The original, unedited version is farther down the page. |
| “Just
look at this baby,” Nick thought to himself as he ran his hand along the
polished cherry-red surface, absorbing the coolness of the metal through his
skin. She lay waiting for him, like a docile lover, and he couldn’t wait
to get his hands on her. “Nice job guys,” he said gruffly, with a nod
of approval. He always paid top dollar, but in his line of work it was
definitely an investment. “Transportation Is Everything” had been his
motto throughout his professional life, and he, above all, should know.
He’d been doing this for so long he couldn’t remember ever not having
done it. It was a hard, fast life, and a life that was beginning to bear down on him, the years pressing in on his brain. Many of the guys thought he should hang it up, that he’d better retire now before something goes wrong. Maybe they thought he was losing his edge. He knew he wasn’t as fast as he used to be, but he could still get in and out before anybody knew what was coming. And the rest, well, that’s what this little honey was for. He wouldn’t get a chance to really see what she could do until that night, but in his mind he was already on his way. He would ask and she would give, he would push and she would fly. He could feel the icy wind stinging his eyes, burning his face as he disappeared into the night. For Nick, this was what it was all about: driving so fast the world became a blur, so fast that it didn’t matter where you were going or where you'd come from, only to get there as fast as you could. The clock was always racing, and he had to beat it, again and again. That was the real challenge. Any of these boys could get in and do the business and get out; that was child’s play. But it was that clock, ticking away, never stopping. That was what made Nick one of a kind. He could beat all the odds. He could defeat time itself. Of course, if something did go wrong, it would go terribly wrong. It would be the end of everything, really. Nick couldn’t imagine ending such a successful career in that way, he had perfected his technique to such a point that he was certain even God himself was impressed and would give him some leeway. To be caught this late in the game would be too much for him to take. Sure, there were lots of guys who could take over for him, smooth operators who were full of youth and grace. Guys who still felt that childish thrill as they silently slipped in and out. But Nick had years of experience; he had mastered the “close call” and could get out of almost any jam. But that was the hitch, there couldn’t be any jams; not with the stakes this high. A true professional should run everything like clockwork and, unfortunately for Nick, close calls were becoming more and more frequent. He turned back to his reflection in the shiny pool of red, checking out his thickening waist. He was no fool. Nick had heard the guys whispering; making jokes about the “fat old man” when they thought he was out of earshot. He knew most of it was just envy; each one of them dying to have their chance. But his age and these extra pounds did affect his performance. Lately, he could feel himself stiffening up a bit at the joints, and loss of mobility would really be the end of him. Nick shook away these thoughts with a chuckle. “They won’t catch me yet. Not with this baby waiting to take me away.” Still, each year it took a little more convincing, a little more rationalizing. His wife was always bugging him now, “Think of what would happen to me if you got caught?” she nagged. “Is it really worth the risk?” Is it worth the risk? That horrible niggling question had now become his constant companion when he was on the job. He eased his girth behind the controls and felt that surge; that kick; that feeling of complete power. “Of course it’s worth the risk,” he thought to himself, his bright blue eyes shining like they had in his youth. “Just this one last time,” he promised himself, gesturing with a quick nod for the guys to hitch up his team which was anxiously pawing at the snow. With everything in place, they finally lowered his heavy sack into the back. “Ready to go, Santa,” said his helper, ticking the last item off the checklist. “Ho ho ho! Then what are we waiting for? Let’s fly!” he bellowed, rising up and speeding off into the night. |
| Built For Speed by Laura Frizzell ljfrizzell@netscape.net (Entry #4) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| The original, unedited version is farther down the page. |
| She was my
best friend. I loved her more than my own life, if truth is to be told. I loved
the way she smelled as I brushed her coppery coat, the way she’d whinny to
me from the paddock when she knew I was coming to see her, the saucy way she
tossed her head to free a stubborn mouthful of hay from the rest of the bale so
she could crunch it up and swallow it. Her bloodlines should have given her the
usual boxy look of the Quarter Horse: thick jaw, short back, and powerful
hindquarters. But no, her genes had provided her a sleeker, more streamlined
look, and there wasn’t any flesh on her which was not made for the purpose
of running. She had been built for speed. Even the wind had trouble keeping
pace with her. Speed was her joy, and speed was what killed
her. I blinked back a tear as I continued my reverie, but another splashed onto the leaves at my feet. I bent and picked up a twisted yellow one, just like the thousands here where I sat on a fallen log, in the pasture where it had happened. I turned the leaf by the stem, then brought my left hand over and cupped it. Crunch. Just like that, yellow powder in my palm. I brushed my hands together, letting the leaf’s remains fall to be fertilizer for next year’s grass. She loved to run. It was what she was designed to do and she did it very well. When she was a filly, she would race in circles around her mother, gangly legs flying, little fluffy baby-tail held straight out behind her, like the feathers on an arrow. She moved as if she had invisible wings helping her along, and so we called her Flier. As she grew, she never lost that love of speed. Playing with her fellow two-year-olds, she was easily the quickest, and used her agility to her advantage as she would nip one on the hind end and then whirl and be gone before he could turn and counterattack. The next summer, her coat became as shiny as a penny fresh from the mint, and reflected sunlight off the lines of the muscles beneath her skin in dazzling streaks of light. She was placed in my care for training, and we two souls became one. The little white spot on her forehead was about the size of a nickel, and the only white patch on her body. It was like the Third Eye of the Hindus; the chakra of enlightenment. I loved to hold my hand over that spot and feel the energy flowing between us. We became the stars of the barrel circuit; no one could match Flier’s sheer love of speed, or her ability to hug each barrel so tightly without brushing my leg against it and knocking it over. On the straight-away, she made it clear that no horse could grab the dirt and leap ahead with the power she was capable of. I was given offers for her first colts, but laughed them off. Flier wasn’t about to retire yet. I stood up and scuffed my feet through the rustling leaves, then looked up to the branches above me, now bare. What possessed them to do it? Was the thrill of the hunt worth the life of my beautiful horse? I sat down again as my vision blurred with more tears. Although no one had been there to witness the accident, I had reconstructed the event in my mind a hundred different ways. The image that stuck was of Flier as we found her in that twisted wire. Agh. I wiped my eyes, rose, and shuffled through the leaves some more. So they had some money, but not enough brains to do anything good with it. I know the type well. They hire a helicopter, and with their high-powered rifles, fly off to get some glory. Something that will prove what big men they are. So, one of them must have spotted a small herd of deer. In my mind, I picture some does and a couple of young bucks. They direct the pilot to swoop low. Flier and her two gelding companions are distracted from their grazing as the machine approaches. They’re used to visits from their wild cousins of the forest, but this is unusual. A door opens, a slim metal rod pokes out, and a sharp crack is heard over the thrum of the engine. The deer scatter, one buck and the does fleeing north, but the other buck leaping away from the herd, toward the horses. “After him!” one of the men shouts, and the pilot swings lower, picking up speed. The blades are beating ever louder with gathering acceleration, and the horses’ instincts take over. They run. It’s chasing us! Adrenaline rushes, and faster they run. It’s still coming! Hurry! Heart rates jump, and again they pick up speed. Flier is out front, of course, but gets distracted by another gunshot and hits the barbed-wire fence at chest level. The others clear it, and keep running. The top wire snaps, and rakes her chest open in a gash two feet long, five inches deep. She flips forward, front legs caught by the lower wires. Trying desperately to get purchase with her hind legs, she instead tangles them in the wire, too. The barbs claw and tear at her fine legs like predators, and she thrashes, panicking, terrified. Nostrils flaring, sides heaving, and squealing in pain, she rolls her eyes wildly as she sees the helicopter land in the pasture. The buck has gone down, and now the hunters step out of the helicopter and walk over to it. They hack at its neck until they get the head separated from the body. They only want the trophy, and they leave the carcass for the coyotes to clean up. Laughing and joking, they drag it by the antlers back to the idling helicopter. It can only carry this much cargo, they justify. None of them sees or hears my dying horse, or if they do, don’t care. How much would it have taken for one of them to take that rifle, walk over to her, place the muzzle against that clean white spot on her forehead, and end her misery? More compassion than they were capable of. Cowards. As the morbid scene faded, the tears had begun flowing freely, and I used both palms to wipe my face dry. Why? I kick my legs out in frustration and pain. Crunch, crunch. Just like that, yellow powder under my boots. I sobbed for a few more minutes, contemplating a world where humanity is capable of such atrocities, where millions die by the commands of a maniacal Nazi leader, where passenger jets are purposely crashed into buildings, and where a few men of power have the ability to wipe all life from our planet if they get too happy pushing red buttons. And, I added to the list, where a beautiful, copper-colored horse who did nothing but amaze us with her beauty and speed, could die such a cruel and senseless death. Eventually, I came to a strange sense of calm that day. I realized I would never be the same without her, but I had been enriched for having known her. I picked up yet another yellow leaf, and looked up at the bare branches of the tree that towered above me. On this tree, I thought, all the leaves at my feet had grown, flourished, took in air and breathed it out. They’d gathered light from the sun and made food from it. They lay on the ground now, but next year the nutrients released by their decay would feed the roots of the tree and the grass that grows all around it. I held the leaf as high as I could, and the wind took it from me. It flew away. That’s when I let her go. Flier will always be here, in the wind, in the trees, in the grass. One day there will be born some creature that is built for speed, who loves to run, and it will have her soul. And, this creature will be just as marvelous. |
Here are all the entries. They're listed in the order they were received.
| Build for Speed By Timothy Callahan |
#1 of 14 |
| Thirty years is a long time to
keep something a secret but, seeing as you came all this way to hear my story I
guess it's time to start telling it. You see, my friend John had this hotrod.
It was a 1968 red corvette. The funny thing about a Corvette, I always thought,
was that the front looked to long, and middle a but squashed, and the trunk
nearly nonexistent. John put lots of time and energy into making his car the
fastest in our small town. Every Friday night we would go to the desert where a
group of other drivers would meet and then spend the night drag racing down
this small strip of abandoned highway. His car would win its fair share of
races and the money he won he'd put back into his car. I liked hanging around
John and his hotrod buddies. I couldn't yet drive because I was only fourteen
years old. One day John comes running up to me smiling in a way that told me he'd found something to make his car faster. "What's up John?" "Bill, I got this thing that I want you to see. You won't believe it." I placed the magazine I was reading down on the porch. "What is it?" "Come on and I'll show you." I followed John down the street. He was still talking. "I was driving down the highway last night and you'll never guess what happen to me." I was kind of sarcastic when I answered, "you're right, I'd never guess, so you might as well tell me." Without missing a beat John told me the story. I recall seeing something in his eyes that told me the story was true. But, it was all lost on me because the story was just so far out there that I couldn't believe it. "I saw this light in the sky. At first I thought it was a plane but you know what, it wasn't. It like, hovered over my head for a few seconds and then this brighter light shut my car off." "You don't say." I remember thinking that John sometimes let his imagination get the better of him. He told me that he saw Star Wars and the other sequels at least fifty times each. "What happen next?" "I got out of my car and looked up. You know what, it was a spaceship. A real goddamn UFO. I was looking at it for a few seconds when I heard this voice in my head." Now you tell me, how the hell am I suppose to believe in something like that? So I asked, "what did it say?" "It asked me if I would want a gift. So I said, sure, I'd love a gift. That's when this football thing fell out of the ship and landed in front of me." "What was it?" I asked. "It's an engine. I know this because they told me about it in my head. Told me everything about how it works and how to make it run. It's like they gave me the manual mentally or something. Wish they'd done something like that when I went to school." I nodded. "Is that what you want to show me?" "Yeah. The aliens told me to use it for good and if I did they would give me more gifts." Once in his garage he ran over to where he usually kept his car. The car wasn't there so I asked, "where's the car?" "I had to get a new paint job. When the spaceship took off the heat from it's engines melted some of the paint off. It'll be ready by tonight though." He lifted up a sheet and held out the gift from the aliens. There was nothing special about it from what I could see. It looked like a silver football with a small hole drilled at one end and a grate on the other. "It looks like a football." "I know. Hear, take a closer look." He handed it to me. It was so light I hardly even knew that I was holding anything. John wasn't the smartest person in the world you see. One of his racing buddies said to me once, "if you put two of him together it wouldn't even equal a moron." Of course, I defended John, but I knew that this guy was right so I quickly came to the conclusion that someone had to be playing a big joke on John. I just wish whoever it was had told me about it. Maybe I shouldn't have, but I decided to play along. "What do you plan on doing with it?" "I want to hook it up to my car." I nearly laughed. "Really? Why?" "Can you imagine how fast I'd go with an alien engine? I'd never lose." "I suppose not. Don't you want to test it first? I mean, what if it doesn't work?" He rubbed his chin for a few moments. "You know, that's a good idea. I'll come pick you up at eight after I get my car and we'll head on out to the track before anyone else arrives." "Good. I'll be ready." I'm glad he decided to test it first. I didn't want him telling stories about alien engines to everyone else. I was thinking that when we get into the desert and he sees that the engine doesn't work he'll know it was a joke. It'll save us both a lot of embarrassment. I didn't know it was going to be the last time I saw John, or the Corvette. He picked me up at eight and the two of us drove to the drag strip. The sun had gone down and the stars were coming out in force. John pulled the engine from the his trunk. "Help me place this on the roof." "I thought it was an engine. Shouldn't we put it in the car?" "No. This is where it goes." "How do you know?" "They told me, remember?" "Fine." I said. "Do you know how to hook it up?" "Sure, all we have to do is place it into the roof. Then I get into my car. Simple." The engine had some sort of powerful magnet on the bottom so it was easy to attach the engine on the rooftop. I heard a loud popping noise coming from the bottom of the engine. I then tried to move it without any luck. This person when too a lot of trouble with this joke. "How does the engine start? Do you have a key or something?" "No, I just yell, 'start' and it does. Simple." "Ah. Yeah, simple." When I find out who played this joke I have to know how they convinced him that they were talking to him in his head. Maybe they got him drunk then hypnotized him Whatever it was I sure wished I knew. "All right Bill, I'm ready. I want you to time me, got your wrist watch?" I held up my arm. "Sure do." "Good. I'm going to the end of the strip where I'll turn around and come back. My best time is what?" "6.98 seconds. Got it right before your nitro thingy exploded." "Yeah, that was kind of cool but man, I can't wait to see what happens when I kick this baby into overdrive." Looking back on it now a many number of things could have happen that would have prevented him from firing that engine up. It could have rained, the cops could have caught us, or his car would still be in the paint shop. As it turned out none of those things happened. He drove to the other end of the strip. I took my watch off and readied it to time him. I put my hand up signaling that I was ready. He blinked his lights telling me that he was also ready. I lowered my arm and started my watch. The car was passed me before I had my arm lowered all the way. The blast from the engine blew me backwards, I think I traveled fifteen feet into the air before I landed on my ass. I quickly jumped up and looked around. I saw a bright, blue flame on the highway traveling toward the town moving at an impossible speed. I watched as the flame slowly lifted into the air. I was hopping that the engine had broken off and that John was all right. But as I watched it I could still see John's car attached. The blue flame got dimmer as it lifted higher into the air. Before long the flame had disappeared along with John's car. The only sound I heard was my own breathing. I stared up at the sky for what seemed like hours waiting for some sign that John was all right and that he had landed somewhere or that this cruel joke was over. Nothing happened. I walked over to the drag strip to find it melted. No one was going to drag tonight. I never forgot that night and I often wondered whatever happen to John and his car. Twenty years later I read a story in a tabloid magazine about how NASA had found strange artifacts on Mars telling of a civilization that lived there thousands of years ago. Somewhere in the story they mention that a car was discovered. A 1968 Corvette stingray. I re-read the story several times just to be sure I had read it right. At that point I started to laugh and I didn't stop for a very long time. |
|
| Built For Speed P. Scott Garcia |
#2 of 14 |
| Well, hell! What was I supposed
to do now? I thought the situation couldn’t get any worse and it had.
Stupid commitments. How could I have made such a mistake? Over achiever, able
to do anything I tried. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! How could this monster of a piece of rebuilt sheet metal do me in? Even my grammar was going to hell. Well, hell! I could still think of a way out of this predicament. I looked at the wrench in my hand; I looked down at my foot. How much would it hurt if I just broke my little toe? No, I really hate pain. I hate the sight of my own blood more than just about anything. No, I hate this damn hunk of tin worse! Momentarily, feeling like Chuck Norris, I kicked out trying to inflict some serious damage. Yeooow!!! Hopping on my remaining good foot, I lurched toward the blue-green webbed lawn chair at the side of the driveway. I should have dropped the wrench. I was really loosing it. No, way! I wasn’t going to let this little miscalculation get to me. I told her I would get the car running by tonight, and I would. I looked to the right and left to assure myself I had no audience. The streets were empty. I knew I was acting childishly as I stuck out my tongue, then shot the finger at the old piece of junk. I tossed the wrench toward the toolbox, betting to myself whether it would hit the target. Wham! It hit the target, alright. Chuckling evilly to myself, I hobbled over and surveyed the scrape and dent on the lower edge of the baby blue hued right front fender. Oops! I knew that toolbox was too close to the car. Glaring toward the object of my growing hatred, I rubbed the toes on my right foot. I shook my head and wondered; if, in fact, I had broken not just my toes but my whole foot. The foot was taking on a decidedly purple cast. The wrench was again in my hand. The three, inch long bolts were on the cement shining happily up at me. I hated them and their happy little sunny glint. I looked at the dent. It wasn’t that big-maybe she wouldn’t notice it. My gaze drifted back to the bolts, too small to be such a pain in the butt. I knew that they had come from somewhere under the hood. I had spent the last hour trying to find where they belonged. I had installed the rebuilt carburetor, changed out the old oil to a new synthetic, and then put in that new highly rated air filter I’d seen in that magazine at the transmission place. I squinted up at the sun and figured I had about an hour before she got home. Deciding that if it cranked and ran, the bolts weren’t that important anyway; I scooped up the bolts and shoved them into my pocket. I pulled open the driver’s door and plopped into the powder blue bucket seat. The 1964 Ford Mustang, V-6 roared to life. Those bolts couldn’t be that important. I shut off the engine and pushed out of the seat as I shoved the door open. Baby blue, sheesh!, a girl car. Everyone knew these old baby blue mustangs were girl cars. Shoot, guys drove the red ones, or even the black ones-or the Chrysler Barracuda. Now an old ‘cuda could run, and it looked strong and was built for speed. Shoot, this little baby blue car was girly cute. Now the new ‘stangs, they were bigger and bolder. I could here the squealing tire’s of Jude’s boyfriend Ted’s hot, tan and brown, Z28 Camaro as it turned the corner off our block. That car sounded fast. I managed to shut down the engine and make it to the lawn chair before they made it to our house. “Hey, Sis.” I spoke first. “Hey, yourself, brother dear.” She gave Ted a quick kiss in the air by his cheek and glided toward me, as Ted accelerated down the street. “Finished the car?” “I said I would, didn’t I?” The hand in my pant’s pocket toyed with the bolts and I smiled. “No, problemo.” Smiling I gestured toward the car and handed her the keys. “Take her for a spin.” She threw her arms around me and squeezed. “Thanks, I will.” Jude hopped into her car and revved up the engine. She stuck her head from the window, “Sounds better.” I smiled, insanely, and said, “Your old bro’ does know how to tune a car.” I smirked, in a self-gratuitous way and waved her off. I jiggled the bolts in my pocket and thought I heard a soft rattle from the car. Nothing to worry about, I listened again. The rattling increased as she bottomed out the bumper on our steep driveway. I watched in morbid fascination, as the rattle turned into the banging sound of metal hitting cement as the car made it about the distance of two houses down the street. Jude slammed that ‘stang into park and was out of the car heading my way, almost before the oil pan finished hitting the road. I took off running, but she tackled me before I could make it into the house. I was slammed to the ground and rolled into a tuck position as she beat on me, screaming. All I could think of, as I ducked punches, was “Damn, that girl was built for speed!” Copyright © 2001 P. Scott Garcia |
|
| Built for Speed by Margot Woods |
#3 of 14 |
| This poor dog was really one of
the sorriest things I’d seen in a long time. Dark steel gray in color,
with a short, tight fitting and rather thin coat, a long thin whip of a tail
and a tuck-up so extreme it made you wonder if the rear end was actually
attached to the front end. And thin, so thin you could count every rib and see
each vertebra, she carried her head so low it actually looked like she was in
danger of scraping her chin on the ground most of the time. And I was supposed
to train this creature? She certainly didn’t show much promise in the life
category let alone the train it category. But I figured I could at least find
out what her story was and then maybe I’d come up with
something. I started with asking about her overall physical condition since she most assuredly didn’t look well fed. Was I ever wrong! Seems she was eating 8 to 10 cups of very high quality food every single day, no she didn’t have worms. She had been checked over and over again. And no, there didn’t seem to be anything wrong with her digestive system, every thing was normal in that area as well. So failing to learn much of interest in the health area other than the fact that this 40 pound dog was packing away upwards of 10 cups of food a day and not holding onto an ounce of it, I was no wiser. I moved on to exercise. Now I was getting somewhere. Seems this little gal demanded to be allowed to run. Not my choice of words but that of the owner, he actually said, “she demands that I run her every single day.” “She demands to be run? Just how much does she run?” “At least ten miles every day.” “Ten MILES? Did I hear you correctly? You did say ten MILES?” “Oh yes, we’ve clocked her when we had to chase her in the car. She can do up to 35 miles an hour for really short bursts but most of the time she moves along at about 10 miles an hour and she is quite happy to do that just about all day if she can get away with it.” “So how do you get her back when she gets away from you?” “Oh we just get in the car and follow her. That’s a big part of the problem. I want her to start coming when I call her and I want to find a place where it will be safe for her to do her running. She used to run the farm next door to our property. But now that land has been sold to a developer and well you know how that goes.” So now I had a handle on the problem. Well, more or less had a handle on it. There was more to the story. Like the fact that this owner wasn’t the first owner. And the fact the newest next-door neighbor, a neighbor I might add that had just moved to ‘the country’ from ‘the city’, had turned them in for dog abuse. “Dog abuse? What do you mean, dog abuse?” “Well look at her. She is nothing but skin and bone and they say we don’t feed her enough and we are forcing her to run by chasing her in the car.” By now I was busy running my hands over this little speed demon. Let me tell you, she was all muscle under that skin. Any place on her body that didn’t need a heavy layer of muscle was pretty much just skin. This gal was built to run and she also obviously came with a large amount of desire and heart. “I know I can teach her to come every time but you are still going to have to find a safe place for her to run. I have an idea.” “What?” “While I am teaching her to come I want you to check out the track at the high school. Find out what times it is in use and what times it is empty. I’m not sure it will work but it’s at least a shot in the right direction. She needs to run to stay healthy. By the way, where did you get her and what is she?” “My brother picked her out of a litter of pups at a filling station about two years ago. The owner said her mother was a birddog and the father was a traveling man.” “That figures. So why didn’t he keep her?” “Are you kidding? He lives in a townhouse and you would not believe what she did to the inside of it before she was even a year of age. We both figured she would be better living with me.” “And?” “And she was. Well that is she was until the farm got sold and the city people started moving in and now I just plain don’t know what to do.” “Humm… With her pointer background, has she ever shown any interest in hunting?” “No, none at all. All she wants to do is run until she is ready to drop, rest, get up and run some more.” “So what is this little runner’s name?” “You just aren’t going to believe it. He named her Miss Wings and we call her Wings.” “Fitting. Think it was a prophecy or is this a case of the dog living up to the name?” At this point I was laughing because I could almost see her wings, what with the way you could so clearly see the layback of her shoulders. Lack of any excess body fat and no coat to speak of sure makes it impossible to hide the basic structure of a dog. Once again I was hit with the thought that this little Wings was going to have to have an outlet for her need to run. So Miss Wings came to stay with me for three weeks while we worked on her learning to come when called. The first day was just about the worst type of pure misery for both of us. Wings spent that first 24 hours trying to leave. She tried to leave the yard, she tried to leave the house, she tried to leave the crate she had to sleep in. I was hot on her heels the entire time. Of course, using the term ‘hot on her heels’ was probably not the right one because I stayed out of sight the entire time. No way was I going to become the bad guy with this little gal. Much as I hate using my beloved ecollar for any sort of punishment, I had to make the basic rules clear to her and do it as quickly as possible. That being the case, I set up mirrors all over the place so I could stay hidden and still see what she was doing. Every single time she tried to climb the fence it ‘bit her’ via the ecollar. When she was in the house she learned that just about everything would bite her if she was foolish enough to put teeth or a toenail where they weren’t supposed to be. Her initial response to the crate she was to sleep in was to hurl her self from side to side and scream. No wonder she was evicted from a townhouse so fast. I mean to tell you her screams of rage were enough to wake the dead. She would screech and scream and the ecollar would bite her. She would be quite for about 5 minutes and then start all over again. It was four in the morning before she finally decided that sleep was the most reasonable option. Six a.m. and the buzz of the alarm clock got me started on the new day. With only two hours of sleep I was just praying that Miss Wings would remember at least a part of what had happened the previous day. I really didn’t want to have to spend any more time than I absolutely had to on the ugly, unpleasant stuff. I was in luck. Miss Wings stepped out of that crate and actually lifted her head and wagged her tail. Wow that sure was a good sign and it gave me a much-needed boost. Over the next hour I checked in all the day care dogs and let out and supervised all the other boarders. At about 7:30 a young Weimaraner arrived. MissL was another runner, but a runner with a difference. MissL had been coming to me for day care since puppyhood and was also enrolled in one of my classes. She knew to come when called and she seemed to take pride in showing off all the different things she had been taught to do. After a few minutes of careful circling around each other they clicked. Then again, I never had a second’s doubt that they would click. MissL took off and started the first of what was to be many laps around the yard with Wings in hot pursuit. For the next hour the two of them raced each other around was beginning to look like a racetrack. With almost a full acre fenced with seven foot chain link I had no need to worry about where they would go and I knew they would eventually slow down. I was content to just watch and wait. Along about 9 a.m. MissL was beginning to slow. “MissLCome”, tap, tap on the button of the remote that activated her ecollar. MissL did one of her more speculator mid-air flips and was now headed in my direction at top speed. Quick like a bunny I managed to get out the sit command complete with a single tap on the button before I was totally bowled over. MissL slid to a stop and missed me with only scant inches to spare. That sit had actually started about six feet from me and there were skid marks on the ground the entire six feet. MissL grinned up at me, her tail thumbing the ground. Wings just looked perplexed. Considering what I knew about her background and what I had lived through during the past 24 hours, I decided I would pretty much ignore Wings for the rest of the day. Instead of working directly with Wings I would simply re-enforce the rules of yesterday and spend all my time on the other dogs in need of training. At first, Wings ignored me. Then when that got a big, fat nothing from me, she started hanging around. Always moving closer yet poised to run she did her best to gain my attention. Not me, no way, instead I continued my slow stroll around the yard. Every so often I would call a dog to me, praise and release it back to play. As usual well before the hour’s walk was finished I had all the dogs traveling in a swirl around my feet. Wings stayed to the far outer fringe of this swirl, but she was there. She could have chosen to stay totally away and she didn’t. For two more days I treated Wings to the same indifference while giving her plenty of opportunities to see me with the other dogs. On the fourth morning it was time for a change and when I let Wings out of her crate I not only put the ecollar on her but I also attached a 15 foot web line, also known as a longe line, to her flat buckle collar. Now Wings was wearing two collars and dressed for work. This morning she would have to work for me before she would be allowed to run her hour’s worth of laps around the yard. Wings was back to being a very unhappy camper, chin and tip of tail doing their best to meet somewhere under her belly. Since I find kneeling to be far too difficult to do on a regular basis, I sit in a chair instead when I work a dog on the first exercise. Leaving Wings in a kennel run, I worked my way around the yard leaving a chair here and a chair there until I had light weight plastic chairs scattered all over the place. Then and only then did I go back and take Wings out. “Wings, come” and I started tapping the button on the remote. With about every third tap I would repeat the command come. At the same time I was slowly backing away from her until I reached the first of my chairs. Sitting in this chair I continued to call and tap. It must have taken her at least three or four minutes of dashing this way and then that way, only to be brought up short by both a series of taps and the length of the longe line before she ever so slowly approached me. I remained sitting and held out my hand, not saying a word. It took her several false starts before she finally made it to me. Once there I simply gave her a quick and very light stroke on her side and then stood and walked away. It was a full 45 minutes before I had managed to sit in every single chair in the yard. But by the time I got to that last chair, Wings was never taking her eyes off me and better yet the last time I called her she trotted in to me on the first call. I called that good and quit. I quit by simply getting up and walking away. In fact, I went off to work with some of the other dogs and later when Wings happened to wander up to me, without any fuss or fan fair I leaned down and unclipped the longe line. It was almost noon before she decided to take her hour run. The days sped past with my increasing my demands on an almost daily basis. By the end of her second week with me I could call her to me when she was in the middle of one of her runs. It still took several taps on the remote and several calls but she was coming. It was time to take this show on the road, as they say. The first stop was a local tennis court. Not very big, but it would do for a first outing. Getting Wings out of my van I checked both collars, made sure the ecollar as turned on and holding only the end of the longe line, I stepped back and tap, tap, tap, Wings Come, called her out of the van and headed for the tennis court. Once inside with the gate firmly latched I turned her loose. She just stood there, frozen. I took one step and she was off. I mean to tell you that gal launched herself with a speed that just about took my breath away. I let her go. Watching her run the fence line looking for an opening was like watching a patch of mist on the wind. You aren’t sure you even saw it and poof it is gone. I gave Wings time enough to make one full turn of the area and then I started calling her. This is when the ecollar is at its best. You can ‘reach out and tap’ you dog with such economy of motion. No need to chase them. No more need to walk them down. No need to shout, plead, coax or cajole. No need to worry about whether or not you are going to be interesting, just say come and tap. Well, actually in this case, I had to say come, tap, tap, tap, come, tap, tap, tap, come. Over and over I followed that same cadence while Wings proceeded to dash from one side of the court to another. This is where patience and its twin confidence are so necessary, if the dog is going to learn. Finally she came to me. Not just at me and then around me, but actually to me. I gave her one slow, gentle stroke down her side and then turned and walked away. Again, she just stood there frozen only to blast off at top speed. Again, I called her. We continued to repeat the release, run, call, praise, release for a full hour. By that time Wings had stopped her wild dashes and was willing to stay close to me. I called it good and we headed home. This same scenario was to be repeated in different locations a couple times a day from that point on. Slowly, Wings earned more and more freedom. Three days before Wings was to return home I called her owner and suggested he needed to stop by for a lesson. Of course, he couldn’t come until evening and by then Wings was tired from a full day of running by my rules and training. She was quite happy to see him and more than willing to come when he called her. Nice but I wanted much more for the both of them. If Miss Wings was to keep her happy home she was going to have to make a lot more changes. The next day we met at a nearby playing field. No fences here and lots of reason to just take off and run. Wings waited until I called her and then hopped out of my van. As her feet hit the ground you could see her start to light up. All her muscles bunched and she started to launch herself for a very long distance run. “Wings, come.” Tap, tap, tap went the button. The muscles all relaxed and she turned her head and looked up at me. We headed across the parking lot toward her owner. He just stood there with his mouth hanging open. Miss Wings wasn’t running. Miss Wings was walking and walking proud. I think it was then that he also noticed that she had managed to put on some weight. Not much but enough so she no longer looked as if she was being starved. We started the transfer and he learned how to push buttons, how to call and how to praise. Wings ever so slowly started to forget me and pay attention to him. How did it all end up? He developed a taste for jogging and Miss Wings became his jogging companion. With her new found self-control she became much calmer and surer of herself. This change in her made it possible for her to put on some weight and that stopped the neighbor’s abuse complaints. The changes gave Miss Wings a home for life and gave her owner a healthy new hobby. Sometimes when I think back all I can remember about Miss Wings was how she looked I first saw her. She truly was a lean, mean, running machine built for speed. Copyright © 2001 Margot Woods |
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| Built for
Speed by Laura Frizzell |
#4 of 14 |
| This is the original version. See the edited runner-up version above. | |
| She was my best friend. I loved
her more than my own life, if truth is to be told. I loved the way she smelled
as I brushed her coppery coat, the way she’d whinny to me from the paddock
when she knew I was coming to see her, the saucy way she tossed her head to
free a stubborn mouthful of hay from the rest of the bale so she could crunch
it up and swallow it. Her bloodlines should have given her the usual boxy look
of the Quarter Horse, the thick jaw, short back, and powerful hindquarters. But
no, her genes had provided her a sleeker, more streamlined look, and there was
no flesh on her which was not made for the purpose of running. She had been
built for speed. Even the wind had trouble keeping pace with her. Speed was her
joy, and speed was what killed her. I blinked back a tear as I continued my reverie, but another splashed onto the leaves at my feet. I bent and picked up a twisted yellow leaf, just like the thousands here where I sat on a fallen log, in the pasture where it had happened. I twisted the leaf by the stem, then brought my left hand over and cupped it. Crunch, just like that, yellow powder in my palm. I brushed my hands together, sprinkling the crushed leaf to be fertilizer for next year’s grass. She loved to run; it was what she was designed to do and she did it very well. When she was a filly, she would race in circles around her mother, gangly legs flying, little fluffy baby-tail held straight out behind her, like the feathers on an arrow. She moved as if she had invisible wings helping her along, and so we called her Flier. As she grew, she never lost that love of speed. Playing with her fellow two-year-olds, she was easily the quickest, and used her agility to her advantage as she nipped one on the hind end and then whirled and was gone before he could turn and counterattack. The next summer, her coat became as shiny as a penny fresh from the mint, and reflected sunlight off the lines of the muscles beneath her skin in dazzling streaks of light. She was placed in my care for training, and we two souls became one. The little white spot in her forehead was about the size of a penny, the only white patch on her body. It was like the Third Eye of the Hindus, the chakra of enlightenment. I loved to hold my hand over that spot, and feel the energy flowing between us. We became the stars of the barrel circuit; no one could match Flier’s sheer love of speed, or her ability to hug each barrel so tightly without brushing my leg against it and knocking it over. On the straightaway, she made it clear that no horse could grab the dirt and leap ahead with the power she was capable of. I was given offers for her first colts, but laughed them off. Flier wasn’t about to retire yet. I stood up and scuffed my feet through the rustling leaves. I looked up to the branches above me, now bare. What possessed them to do it? I wondered. Was the thrill of the hunt worth the life of my beautiful horse? I sat down again as my vision blurred. No one was there to witness it, but I had reconstructed that event in my mind a hundred different ways. The image that stuck was of Flier as we found her in that twisted wire. Agh. I wiped my eyes, rose, and shuffled through the leaves some more. So they had some money, but not enough brains to do anything good with it. They hire a helicopter, and with their high-powered rifles they fly off to get some glory. Something that would prove what big men they were. One of them spots a small herd of deer: some does and a couple of young bucks. They direct the pilot to swoop low. Flier and her two gelding companions were distracted from their grazing as the machine approached. They were used to the visits from their wild cousins of the forest, but this was unusual. A door opens, a slim metal rod pokes out, and a crack rings over the thrum of the engine. The deer scatter, one buck and the does fleeing north, but the other buck leaping away from the herd, toward the horses. After him! one of the men shouts and the pilot swings lower and picks up speed, blades beating loudly and with gathering acceleration. The horses’ instincts take over, and they run. It’s chasing us! Adrenaline flushes, and they run. It’s still coming! Faster! Heart rates jump, and they run. Flier is in the lead, but is distracted by another shot and hits the barbed-wire fence at chest level. The others clear it, and keep running. The top wire snaps, and rakes her chest open in a gash two feet long, five inches into her flesh. She flips forward, front legs caught by the lower wires. Trying to get purchase with her hind legs to free herself, she instead tangles them in the wire, too. The barbs claw and tear at her fine legs like predators, and she thrashes, panicking, terrified. Nostrils flaring, sides heaving, and squealing in pain, she rolls her eyes wildly as she sees the helicopter land in the pasture. The buck has gone down, and now the hunters step out of the helicopter and walk over to it. They hack at its neck until they get the head separated from the body. They only want the trophy, and they leave the carcass for the coyotes to clean up. Laughing and joking, they drag it by the antlers back to the idling helicopter. It can only carry this much cargo, they justify. None of them sees or hears my dying horse, or if they do, don’t care. How much would it have taken for one of them to take that rifle, walk over to her, place the muzzle against that clean white spot on her forehead, and end her misery? More compassion than they were capable of. Cowards. Tears are flowing freely now, and I use both palms to wipe my face dry. Why? I kick my legs out in frustration and pain. Crunch, crunch, just like that, yellow powder under my boots. I sob for a few more minutes, contemplating a world where humanity is capable of such atrocity, where millions die by the commands of a maniacal Nazi leader, where passenger jets are crashed into buildings and where a few men of power have the ability to wipe all life from our planet if they get too happy pushing red buttons. And where a beautiful copper-coloured horse who did nothing but amaze us with her beauty and speed could die such a cruel and senseless death. Eventually, I come to a strange sense of calm. I will never be the same without her, but I am enriched for having known her. I pick up yet another yellow leaf, and look up at the bare branches of the tree that towers above me. On this tree, all the leaves at my feet grew, flourished, took in air and breathed it out, gathered light from the sun and made food from it. They lie on the ground now, but next year the nutrients released by their decay will feed the roots of the tree and the grass that grows all around it. I hold the leaf as high as I can, and the wind takes it from me. It flies away. I let her go. Flier will always be here, in the wind, in the trees, in the grass. One day there will be born some creature which is built for speed, who loves to run, and it will have her soul. And it will be marvelous. |
|
| Built For Speed by Robert James |
#5 of 14 |
| I run down the street, my feet
carrying me, the rushing air blowing my hair back. As I run faster down the street, the lampposts begin to blur. Faster still until the towns and cities become one. Still faster as I leave the Earth, my body gaining flight and ascending into the atmosphere. And faster, as I pass the moon, the stars beckoning to me, calling me to go faster yet. The planets streak past me, the heavens and the universe become one. I move to the point of infinity as my soul joins all things, moving even faster. I am one with everything as I reach the point of ultimate speed. That is, until the teacher slams her yardstick down on my desk, Tearing me from my travels through the cosmos. I restrain my urge to glare at her and return to the class. Once again I shall run among the stars, even if it is only in my dreams. |
|
| Built for Speed by Edward Lyle |
#6 of 14 |
| .....They will come in the night. Always at night, but
they will come. Swooping down soundlessly astride stealthy ultrasonic
inter-dimensional Clydesdales. If you go out tonight, then tonight you will
disappear, tonight, and never will you return again. .....“Rush! Run! Ride!”, The whispering wind will start to howl. “When will we ride for you? When there is no one to hide you?”, the forlorn rain will one day answer. Or so the story will go. For now, though, everything is pretty normal, here in the Wastelands: Built for Speed. I was just drinking, sitting at the bar and saying something to you about the future when, while sitting next to me, suddenly you hear, .....“Wastelands? OH! No...No...No! Honey! These aren’t the real Waissst-LA-AANDS! Sweatbands? What did you say?! I have been to the Wasted-HAMS, dahhr-lin‘! Now they are so dreary, this TIME of yee-arrh! Oh! Things are just finey-finefindfine over in here now! ENN HERE NNNnnnoww?, EN-OH! NO! NO! NO! Shooooo-t. Nothing like them speedway hookers! NO! Uh-uh! Honey! None of them speedway tramps all up in here! This ain’t nothing like the real Wasted-fa-rends! Ride my motor on all the maybe homeway! Baby!” .....A very large and very drunk black drag-queen has hit a stride at holding forth, and she is much too close to you. .....“Waiter! Come here please could you get that person out of here.” you interrupt yourself from saying something back to me about how suddenly the future will get here. “She is making a scene!” you say suddenly and a little too loudly, and now people are looking at you, too. Suddenly you turn away and she, this incredibly beautiful woman is there in front of you and she is in total possession of your senses. Her radiant face and voice seems to be somehow suddenly everywhere. Her eyes flash crystaline gleems off of everything. From everywhere at once she is saying to you, .....“Oh, darling! It is okay. Oh, darling! Right! Don’t worry though?! Right? Right?! Right! Riiiiight. Tonight we are bullet proof, together right! Darling! Right? Darling! Right! Right? Right!”. .....She looks down and through you, locking her hands behind your neck. Now straddling you she burns you with a look of pure, flashing, genuine ecstasy. Putting your arms around her easily, you turn to look up as she devours you with her deeply captivating, lighthoneyblue-colored eyes, and enslaves you with her soft explosions of radiant, pure blonde hair. Her look and hair pours in around and over you. Awash in the sensations your senses rock and reel until she pulls you to her. .....“Yes. Yes. Yes, sure pet. Sure pet. We are just fine. Fine! Fine!”, you say softly into her tresses, and into her soft ear as you pull her by her sleek waist down and toward you smoothly, easily. Your lower jaw shudders a little and you have to somehow quell a weird, deep-down-inside-you shudder. .....“Fine.Fine.Just Fine.”, you again say softly, suddenly gasping. .....“Here” , you hear yourself say as you slip her a small packet that is full of all the cocaine you have. Out of your sight she smiles a little too keenly and takes it from you easily. Raising herself now smoothly and slowly up and around you, kissing your neck and ears. She starts repeating something in a whisper into your ears. Time seems to suddenly stop, and you close your eyes. “Amyamyamyamyamyamyamayamayamayamy. She is softly, sweetly chanting all around you overwhelming you again with the combined sensations. You again suddenly feel a deep and sudden shudder come welling and cresting up from inside of you. Your lower jaw vibrates in its socket when, .....“Mmmmmmmmmmm!”, she kisses you suddenly, deeply and completely. A perfect, deep, wet, kiss. And everyone saw it. Perfect! Amy! Coming over to you somehow and suddenly she is straddling you, kissing you, riding smoothly right in your lap. She kisses you again and that pulls you up and up to her lips, and then suddenly you are exploding, somehow, like a bright crashing, rouge wave. Then she kisses you again. Looking into her eyes you feel yourself begin to fall away from yourself again, down, down, away from her, away, darkly, deeply into the bottomless basin from which those sudden shudders come roaring up from. You feel intense, sudden heat, as your body seems to melt into her. .....Amy continues to kiss your ears and face as you turn to watch in slow motion as what turns out to be an enormous, and drunk, black, dragqueen named Maudine, is being gently escorted out. She goes out of the bar in what seems to be a slow-motion replay and out to the curb. It seems to replay twice. For Maudine, clearly, this has been a bad day. Even by her standards. She wanted empathy when to the folks in THIS wasteland sympathy was going to be a pretty tough sale. She somehow suddenly began weeping loudly as they led her away. .....She began crying out at last for, ”THE KING-DOM to COME”. You can hear her cry out with real emotion. The last phrase “ to - KA-UM” hangs in the air, ringing in the glasses over the bar, blending with the whir of the air conditioning. Like a thousand slamming doors “to KA-UM” seems to echo longer than it normally should, dashing into the darkest corners of you. An echo where an echo doesn’t belong ringing longer than it should ring. The words gong deeply down through and into you, resonating entirely through you, striking together some primal chord. The tones of which somehow cause the spell to break, and in an instant you come rushing back, up and up and into and out of yourself all at once. .....“Fine! fine. fine.”, you are saying a few times to yourself as Amy somehow flashes and then disappears into the ladies room. .....Amy, that is her name, the name of the strangely, darkly, captivating women who just came to you from somewhere and took you over. Moments ago, you had been saying something to me, a stranger, about how fast the future will get here, when this flaxen, though somehow dark spirit just came down and around and upon you. Her presence flowed thick, strong and warm all around you. Captivating you utterly. Suddenly, you were her. Then the darkly sinister Siania suddenly seemed to materialize from nowhere into the seat next to you, distracting you. Then she is taking out your wallet. Suddenly she is ordering dozens of shots and drinks and shooters. The unexpected math just dazzles your senses. .....“Hey. Wait?” , you think for an instant but then, Amy has melted into you again, kissing you like flowers and honey. You slip just a little deeper, when just as suddenly Amy is gone again with your coke, and you feel and your wallet is back in place, somehow. Suddenly everything is back to normal, except you are drunk and you have a raging boner. .....You are suddenly not sure why you are so aroused and Mia (you think) is saying to you something contradictory about what it was you think you remember you were just saying about the future. Amy is gone again and you are unsure if she was ever really here, you are so lost in her absence. You can’t quite understand what Siamina (second go at her name) is saying. All you hear are some garbled and slurred sounds that you can almost but not quite comprehend. Colored lights appear to start flashing wildly all around you. The music is inexplicably louder and more forceful. .....“Was there music before” you ask yourself from far away. The concept of ‘music’ echoes around inside you seemingly forever when suddenly Amy reappears, and she is glued to you again. It feels perfect. A massive round of drinks of all types appears, a champagne cork pops, and Amy begins to show you a dozen different ways to do a Kamikazee. Suddenly the table is full of laughing people. Men, women, a dwarf? Yes! A dwarf. And a chimpanzee in a top-hat. It all seems normal-- Amy is in your lap and all over you and everyone is laughing smugly, living fast, looking good. .....When I look back to those days in the Wasteland. The days I wasted in the Wasteland, I always see Amy and Sia, and remember the nights at the Club Built For Speed. Those days are gone. And now everybody knows They have come in the night. Always at night, but They have come. Swooping down soundlessly astride, shimmering, stealthy, black, ultrasonic, inter-dimensional Clydesdales. If you go out tonight, then tonight you will disappear; tonight, and never will you return again. .....“Rush! Run! Ride!”, The whispering wind has begun to howl. “When will we ride for you? When there is no one to hide you.”, the forlorn rain has answered. |
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| BUILT FOR SPEED by Robert Goldstein |
#7 of 14 |
| .....Jan examined the horse, not for conformation, for
she would not show it, but race it. She was sure the reason it would be first
at the Keenland sales was due to its lack of form. “Joe, his sire and dam
won one race between them, and further back, none of his ancestors won a race.
I don’t know why they continued to breed this line. Still, he’s a
thoroughbred, and maybe, just maybe, I can get him cheap. The later horses, the
ones whose sires had won major stakes races, whose dams were also winners, and
had both produced winners already, they would go for million, perhaps tens of
millions. I have a few thousand from my dad, and I know he would love it if I
bought a thoroughbred. What do you think he’ll go for?”
.....“Says here the reserve is a grand. If he goes as high as five, someone overpaid for him. What makes you think he can ever be a winner? He doesn’t look it to me.” .....“I just think he’s got the build for it, you know, like a race car, low slung and a powerful engine. He’s built for speed.” .....“Looks built for plowin’ to me.” .....“You train ‘em, and train ‘em to win, Joe. Leave the believin’ to me, damnit.” .....“Our first lot is this colt, sired by Democatet, his dam is Wemburo. First bid must exceed 1,000, increments of 100. 1,000 by the lady in the back. Who’ll bid eleven hundred? .....“Eleven hundred, twelve, twelve, twelve by the lady in the back. Thirteen anyone, thirteen hundred. .....“Thirteen hundred going once, thirteen hundred going twice, SOLD! To the lady in the back for 1200 dollars. Our next lot ...” .....Jan paid for him, registered his name as Forspeed, and Joe took him away to his stables. .....Jan didn’t visit Forspeed more than once a week, watched him develop in jumps. She was always there for the weekly run around the track, getting his time in the mile. .....When Forspeed was two, his hind legs grew longer and the muscles to move them grew apace. .....“See, Joe. Tell me now he isn’t built for speed?” .....“He looks fast, awright, but his time is still over two and a half minutes. He ain’t gonna win the derby at that speed.” .....“I wouldn’t enter him in the derby, Joe. I don’t have the entry fee. I’d just like a win or two locally. Maybe even one on the Santa Anita track. That would be great.” .....A further year brought further development in Forspeed’s form. .....“Well, Jan, I think you picked well. Some people pay millions at Keenland, or Cheltenham, and the horse never starts a race. Forspeed here could win a claiming race or two. His mile time’s down to 2:12, and that ain’t bad for a thousand dolla horse.” .....“Joe, when can we enter him in a race. And if he doesn’t win, can someone claim him as theirs? What’s a claiming race?” .....“Easy, Jan, easy girl. If he wins, we move him up in class and no one can buy him away from ya for a few thousand. We’ll start him in a five grand race in two weeks. A claiming race at Oaklawn. See what he can do when he has real competition.” .....Jan had never been so excited in her life. Forspeed was in a maiden-claiming race. His best time was still 2:11, but she had faith he would do even better in competition. .....She watched Joe’s regular jockey mount the horse. “He’s calm, and went where directed without the fuss some of the horses exhibited. You’d think they’d never had a rider on their back!” .....She hustled to the betting windows, and put $100 on Forspeed to win. Then another $100 to show. “If he comes in second, I’ll still win on my bet. If he wins, I’ll get my $100 back, and at seven to one, that makes $800 in all. If I can keep breathing, the excitement is almost too much.” .....She went out to watch the horses being loaded into the starting gate. Forspeed was in the five spot. There were eight horses, none had ever won before, but Foseed was the only novice. .....The gate opened and the horses shot out of it into a pack near the rail. Unprepared, Forspeed was last. But the jockey was urging him on. She could see the jockey talking to the horse. .....Forspeed picked up his ears, sort of nodded and took off. He ran past other horses, and was in fifth place at the first turn. Then he moved up again, and was in third at the final turn. .....As the winning post neared, he gained on the leader. He moved into second at the 16th pole, and passed the leader, going away, to win by four lengths. .....Jan ran down to the winner’s circle, even more excited than before the race, or during. She hadn’t expected her horse to win, but was overjoyed he had. She hugged him, fed him some sugar cubes, and finally heard Joe telling her not to. She stood back, and complimented the jockey. A track official appeared and handed Joe a check, the $5,000 first prize for winning the race. .....“We’ll have to move him up to $25,000 races. He won too easy. Lots of buyers for a good horse, cheap.” .....“Okay, Joe. Whatever you think best. Did you see him run? He didn’t like any of the other horses in front of him. Wow, was that exciting. “ .....“He also ran a personal best of 1:50. That’s a time for the stakes, or even the derby.” .....“What are you talking about, Joe?” .....“He ran fast enough to win the Santa Anita Stakes, or even the derby, the one they run in two months in Kentucky?” .....“No, Joe, my heart couldn’t stand that.” .....“We cin talk about that when you come by the stables Saturday. See you then Jan.” .....Jan went back to the betting window and presented her tickets. .....“That’s $850.00, you have to fill out this form.” .....“Why?” .....“Because any winnings over $600.00 have to be reported to the IRS. We can turn over twenty percent to the IRS as withholding if you like.” .....Jan signed where indicated and agreed to the withholding. .....That Saturday, Jan visited her darling horse. Forspeed was happily munching hay. She gave him a sugar cube, then went in to see Joe. .....“Jan, here’s your winnings from the race, minus the jockey’s percentage, is $4,500. Best first outing I’ve ever seen. I think we should jump up to a $50 thousand weekly stakes. See if he can do the same to real competition.” .....“Whatever you think right Joe. I’m just real happy. Whew! Thank you.” .....Two weeks later, Jan was back at Oaklawn to watch Forspeed run in the day’s feature race. The $50,000 Forest Lawn Stakes. It took all her winnings from the first race for entry fees. .....Once again, she visited the betting window and the odds against Forspeed were 11 to one. She put down $100 to win and another $100 to show. .....She returned to the Southern California sunshine in time to see Forspeed go into the 4th place in the gate. “Twelve horses in this race. Hope he can earn me some money.” .....The gate opened and the horses left at a fast pace. Forspeed knew what to do and was reaching for the front. The jockey held him back until after the first turn, then let him go. He passed horse after horse, and was in second, two lengths behind, at the second turn. Once around the turn, he put on speed, but this was no novice he was trying to catch. The two horses ran as fast as they could, but Forspeed was slowly gaining ground. One length behind, half a length, neck and neck, and then there was the winning post. A sign flashed on the betting board, “Photo.” But the winning time was posted at 1:48 for the mile race. .....Not knowing what that meant, Jan turned to the people around her, “What does photo mean?” .....“The horses were too close. Have to see the photo to determine who won. That Forspeed sure can run.” .....It gladdened Jan’s heart to hear another say something nice about her horse. .....She waited, biting her nails, a habit she had given up at twelve. At last, they flashed the winning numbers. The winner was number 4, by a nose. Forspeed had won again! .....She rushed down to the winner’s circle and received the congratulations of the track official. She again complimented the jockey and had hugs for Forspeed. .....“Jan, you better come over tomorrow. We have to talk about this boy’s future.” .....Jan returned to the ticket window, signed the form, and picked up her $1,260.00. .....The next day, she was at the stables. Joe presented her with a check for $45,000, the prize money, less the jockey’s 10 percent. .....Jan listened, Joe talked, and in the end, Jan agreed. .....Three weeks later, Jan was at Santa Anita Park, for the Santa Anita Derby. .....She performed her ritual, betting two hundred dollars, to win, and to show, then returned to watch the horses be put into the gate. Fifteen horses, and Forspeed was number eight. The odds against Forspeed this day were 37 to one. The other horses were all being groomed for the Triple Crown, and Forspeed was only in his third race. He had not run at all as a two year old. .....The horses left the gate, and Forspeed repeated his performance from the previous race. He started in sixth, and made quick progress passing the other horses. After the far turn, he moved into third, then second. He was unable to make much progress on catching the lead horse, and Jan was screaming at him to move faster. .....Their positions remained unchanged through the near turn and then it was the home stretch. Forspeed inched closer, and kept getting closer to the front of the other horse. With two lengths to go, he nosed ahead, and the fight was over. The other horse fell back and Forspeed only got faster. He won the race. The jockey pulled him up short and walked him back to the winner’s circle. But he wasn’t walking right. He was only using his two hind legs and right foreleg. Joe rushed out to check Forspeed’s leg, and quickly realized a tendon had popped. Forspeed would never run again. Would never even walk on his own. Forspeed was taken away to be destroyed. .....Jan, as owner, had won a major stakes race and won the $200,000 first prize, but Forspeed was dead. .....“You know, Jan, he really was built for speed.” .....“Joe, let me be. I will never buy another horse. FINIS Copyright © 2001 Robert A. Goldstein |
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| BUILT FOR
SPEED by H.J. Lazarus |
#8 of 14 |
| This is the original version. See the winning entry above for the edited version. | |
| ‘Just look at this
baby,’ Nick thought to himself as he ran his hand along the polished
cherry-red surface, absorbing the coolness of the metal through his skin. She
lay waiting for him, like a docile lover, and he couldn’t wait to get his
hands on her. “Nice job guys,” he said gruffly, with a nod of
approval. He always paid top dollar, but in his line of work it was definitely
an investment. ‘Transportation is everything’, had been his motto
throughout his professional life, and he would know. He’d been doing this
for so long he couldn’t remember ever not having done
it. It was a hard, fast life, and a life that was beginning to bear down on him, the years pressing in on his brain. Many of the guys thought that he should hang it up, that he’d better retire now before something goes wrong. Maybe they thought he was losing his edge. He knew he wasn’t as fast as he used to be, but he could still get in and out before anybody knew what was coming. And the rest, well, that’s what this little honey was for. He wouldn’t get a chance to really see what she could do until that night, but in his mind he was already on his way. He would ask and she would give, he would push and she would fly. He could feel the icy wind stinging his eyes, burning his face as he disappeared into the night. For Nick, this was what it was all about; driving so fast the world became a blur, so fast that it didn’t matter where you were going or where you came from, only to get there as fast as you can. The clock was always racing, and he had to beat it, again and again. That was the real challenge. Any of these boys could get in and do the business and get out, that was child’s play. But it was that clock, ticking away, never stopping. That was what made Nick one of a kind. He could beat all the odds. He could defeat time itself. Of course, if something did go wrong, it would go terribly wrong. It would be the end, of everything really. Nick couldn’t imagine ending such a successful career in that way, he had perfected his technique to such a point that he was certain even God himself was impressed and would give him some leeway. To be caught this late in the game would be too much for him to take. Sure there were lots of guys who could take over for him, smooth operators who were full of youth and grace. Guys who still felt that childish thrill as they silently slipped out. But Nick had years of experience, he had mastered the ‘close call’, and could get out of almost any jam. But that was the hitch, there shouldn’t be any jams, not with the stakes this high. A true professional should run everything like clockwork and, unfortunately for Nick, close calls were becoming more and more frequent. He turned back to his reflection in the shiny pool of red, checking out his thickening waist. He was no fool, of course Nick had heard the guys whispering about him, making jokes about the ‘Fat Old Man’, when they thought he was out of earshot. He knew most of it was just envy, each one of them dying to have their chance. But his age and these extra pounds did affect his performance. Lately he could feel himself stiffening up a bit at the joints, and loss of mobility would really be the end of him. Nick shook away these thoughts with a chuckle, ‘They won’t catch me yet,’ he mused, ‘not with this baby waiting to take me away’. Still, each year it took a little more convincing, a little more rationalizing. His wife was always bugging him now, ‘Think of what would happen to me if you got caught,’ she nagged, ‘Is it really worth the risk?” ‘Is it worth the risk?’ he asked himself, that horrible niggling question which had now become his constant companion when he was on the job. He eased his girth behind the controls and felt that surge, that kick, that feeling of complete power. ‘Of course it’s worth the risk,’ he thought to himself, his bright blue eyes shining like they had in his youth. ‘Just this one last time,’ he promised himself, gesturing with a quick nod for the guys to hitch up his team, anxiously pawing at the snow. With everything in place, they finally lowered his heavy sack into the back. “Ready to go, Santa,” said his helper, ticking the last item off the checklist. “Ho Ho Ho! Then what are we waiting for? Let’s fly!” he bellowed, rising up and speeding off into the night. |
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| Built for Speed by Paula Sheehy |
#9 of 14 | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
| Characters:
Miss Fay, older woman about sixty years old, a widow who raised her nephew by
herself. Sarah, a twenty five year old reporter for the LA times newspaper. Michael, Miss Fay’s nephew, the famous racecar driver
Look at him go Sarah, you know he started running before he learned to walk.
I believe it, look at the way he drives that thing around the track it’s incredible.
He’s a winner that boy.
You must be proud to have raised such a fine nephew.
He is a great kid.
Miss Fay we hear that your nephew built his own racecar.
Yes that would be the one he’s driving in right now, (she motions over to the car) the blue one with the lighting bolts on the side right there.
Yes I see, and he must have been sure of it when he named the car built for speed.
Well yes and no, you see there’s a story behind the name.
Really do tell Miss Fay.
My sister died a year after Michael was born and his father couldn’t take it so he brought him to me right after she passed away. He had long legs like his mother and strength like his father he’d run track in high school and win every race. I was so proud of him that one day I went and got a special trophy made just for him and engraved on it I put, built for speed because he got both of the best from his mom and his dad to be the fastest runner in all California.
Wow what an amazing story Miss Fay.
Oh my God! Michaels car is on fire, someone help!
Oh no what are we going to do?
Michael needs help stop him!
Oh thank God he’s ok.
Yes Miss Fay I don’t blame you.
Hello aunt Fay who is your friend?
Oh this is the newspaper reporter I told you about.
Yes I’m a news reporter from the LA times; I’m here to do a report on you and built for speed.
Ya and it looks like built for speed is built for fire a day before the big race.
You got to stop this racing Michael your gonna get yourself killed.
Just like you to worry about me I’ll be just fine besides built for speed will be in perfect condition for tomorrows race.
So you’re going to put that car back together?
No I got another one in my garage.
I don’t understand you built two cars and named them both built for speed.
The car is just a piece of tin, but the name will live forever. |
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| Built For Speed by ladyreck |
#10 of 14 |
| It all started around Christmas
time, When friends and family unite. All the children were gathered around, Drinking chocolate after playing on the snow covered ground. “Sit my children a story you shall here, Tis a great story, not one to fear. It’s been passed down through ages from children to children, And the laughter and joy is never ending.” “But I have my own way of the telling, Oh no, wait I think my cake is burning I can smell it. Just one moment, here have some fruit, And there are other treats for you.” “Now is everyone ready? Here’s another treat , It’s peanut butter fudge, now take a seat.” They all sat down before the fire, And after I added a log the flames burnt higher. “Tis dark now, the blue sky’s turned gray, It begins to snow, will be at least a foot by Christmas Day. Santa was preparing his sleigh for flight, When he was given such an awful fright.” “He noticed that the right rudder was broke, And he crinkled his nose, as he thought of this practical joke. Sometimes his elves were just a wee bit impish, Especially after he made them eat their spinach.” “But the truth rested before his very eyes, As he gazed at the snow in the sky. They had to be punished, but which one, or all? No time to worry now, good thing his sleigh man was on call.” “He picked up his cell phone and Dialed 222, In Santa Land that’s what they do. He heard leave a message at the sound of the beep, Oh no, he had gotten the answering machine.” “Where had he gone,” Santa thought,” Where could he be?” He should be there on the night before Christmas Eve. He paced back and forth through the snow, And then of all things, a fierce wind began to blow.” “Things weren’t looking to go for Santa this eve, But the good thing about Santa, he always believed. Good things would happen he was sure, Snow blew in his eyes causing his vision to blur.” “He fell against the sleigh and bruised his right arm, “That’s it,” He thought,” I’m going in to get warm. On his way to his house, he slipped and fell once more, And was ever so thankful when he reached his door.” “The house was quite now, where was Mrs. Claus? The lights were all out, then he heard applause. The lights come on and before his very eyes, Santa Clause had a big surprise.” “There was Mrs. Clause and his sleigh man too, His elves, his reindeer and most everyone he knew. But the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, Was a new sleigh that had been built for speed.” |
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| BUILT FOR SPEED..... by dice elm |
#11 of 14 |
| Okay - I know I can do this!
It’s just a little jump. Mom says not to, but she never let’s me do
anything fun. With my new Rosebud Flexible Flyer, I will become one of the
worlds’ champion sled riders! Note to self: Write the Flexible Flyer Company and ask them to re-think the name of their sled. Maybe something more manly like, Lightening or Flame. Anything that reflects that their sleds are built for speed and not a flower. As I pull on my racing gloves and adjust my goggles higher, so I can breathe, I take a deep breathe of the crisp snowy day. The snow is packed with a light powder on top and the sky is blue. I check out the slope with its hump in the middle, and think to myself that this will give me enough speed to go soaring in the air, and make the ride truly awesome. The bump is actually a huge rock. I piled snow in front of it and packed it down to form a ramp. All the other kids are wimps and steered around this rock, but I saw it as a challenge and could not resist. “ Ladies and Gentlemen, Derek is cleared for take-off. His flight plan includes, being catapulted to an opposing altitude of 500 feet in the air, where he’ll be experiencing some turbulence, before finally setting down. Will he win the Gold? We shall see.” I figured all the angles, and came up with my plan. The ramp I built, will separate the boy from the man. Taking careful aim, I point my flyer down. Walk back ten paces, then run with a bound. Landing in the middle of my sled, I swoosh towards my goal. Where this ride will end up, only the finish line will show. The wind whistles in my ears, my eyes water, and everything starts to blur. I’m going so fast that; things are not where they once were. Yessss! Ahead is my ramp of snow. How high I’ll fly, only the birds will know. Next thing I remember is seeing blue. I’m on my back, Oh say it’s not true! Rosebud’s beside me, Heart breaking to see. The runner is bent; the steering handle has a crack, I feel like a turtle, trapped on my back. Yes folks, I still maintain, the Flexible Flyer’s built for speed, But as to flying, I sadly must concede. |
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| BUILT FOR SPEED by Winona Johnson |
#12 of 14 |
| Morning came slow today. It
seemed to me that the waves were pushing back the sun and the cold air was
holding on to the darkness before the dawn. Right before it finally got light enough to really see, when the world was still a gray place, some sea birds flew past me. They flew low, tempting the waves so that they could steal some fish. The birds reminded me of prehistoric flying beasts, and the fish could have been some of our relatives who just hadn’t crawled out of the primordial soup yet. Then the sun finally won its fight with the waves, and several thousand shells appeared on the sand, reflecting the sunlight like the bounty of some sunken pirate ship that had washed ashore. The though of pirates made me think of Tevin, when he was young. He loved to pretend he was a pirate. I remember the time he made the cat walk the plank into our swimming pool. Tevin loved it. The cat didn’t like it so much. Neither did mom. Tevin did a lot of things that left mom not exactly pleased. The building process went well. When everything was finished, he had a well-built, streamlined, beautifully painted soapbox car that was definitely good looking. It was really a shame he didn’t have a derby to enter it in, but that didn’t stop him from wanting to try it out. Our house was built on the top of a hill. It was a long, steep hill. It was a hill that our pastor’s house was built at the bottom of. On the day of the great test drive the pastor was out in his yard raking leaves, and all of our family was in the front yard, waiting respectfully, as Tevin suited up with the proper helmet and padding. Then he was off down that hill. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a non-motorized vehicle move so fast before. The only problem was that his well-built soapbox car wasn’t quite so well built. Before he reached the bottom of the hill, his steering wheel and 3 of the tires had fallen off. When it finally stopped moving, he jumped out of the soapbox car, and gave it a hefty kick while yelling out “You Goddamn piece of shit.” I’ve never seen our pastor turn such a bright shade of red since that day. Tevin was 10 at the time. Then when he turned 16, Dad got him a dirt bike. He is a lucky man that that wasn’t the last present he ever got Tevin, for two reasons. Reason one was mom. Dad had to sleep on the sofa for a month after he bought the bike. I thought they were going to get a divorce because of it. Reason two was Tevin. He loved the bike, and proceeded to race it from day one. He had only had it two weeks before he wrecked it for the first time. Then he was arrested for racing it on a public street. It was almost a year later before Mom let him on it again. I always thought Tevin was destined for great things. The boy was built for speed. I was sure he’d grow up to have a fast job; Nascar racing maybe, or flying a jet plane. Tevin would have been 21 today. You’re probably thinking he ended up killing himself, right. I mean, wrecking dirt bikes can be dangerous to your health. Or maybe you think he started racing cars? Well, he did try to race with the van once, but no damage was done there. Tevin had cancer. We never knew. He never knew. At least, not until it was too late. It started with a bruise. He bumped his leg on the coffee table, and it bruised. The bruise didn’t go away, it got bigger, but Tevin didn’t tell us. Then he lost his appetite. He didn’t eat much the last few month of his life. We could tell he was loosing weight, but he didn’t act like he was sick. I thought maybe he was on drugs, but I didn’t say anything. Then the nosebleeds started. One day it bled for almost an hour. That’s when we went to the hospital. By then it was too late. I miss Tevin a lot, but it gets better every year. This year I’m throwing him a private birthday party on the beach. I’ll pretend to be a pirate, all in memory of him. Sometimes I think Tevin was a special person that was meant to live fast and die young. Sometimes I wouldn’t have it any other way. |
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| Built For Speed By MrWrLeft |
#13 of 14 |
| Nick seemed to be born for
distance running: skinny and light boned he had long legs and large lung
capacity. His running form was as if made for an Adidas commercial: long
stride, no side-to-side jerk, almost no vertical movements, deceiving
smoothness, it was more like floating above the ground, and a discouraging
speed at the final stretch. He was known simply as
Nick-Adidas. This year Nick beat everybody during the winter meet. He quietly sat behind the leaders, in fifth position until the final loop. Then with two hundred yards till the finish line he kicked. And Kick he did… Everybody said it looked as if he switched gears. This was the last day before the biggest summer track meet for boys 13-14 years of age. “In winter you surprised everyone,” his coach said, studying Nick. “Nobody knew your face. This time, everybody is watching you. There are a lot of up and comers. You know what you have to do to win?” – his coach asked half inquisitively. You’ll have to run your fastest time ever”. “Yes,” Nick answered. “I have to break 4:30”. His coach nodded and they stood silent for a while. “Do you feel you can do it?” “Yes”, Nick said studying his shoes. “Fair enough… What do you want to do today, rest or run?” “Probably run.” “Ok. Suit yourself. Just don’t overdo it.” “Yes coach.” It was not late yet. Sun was still showing part of its red retina on the Western part of the sky. Nick could clearly see faces of people who sat on the benches of the amphitheater. He put his track shoes on - Adidas of course - he was true to his nickname, and started running loops. His soul was also floating along with his body as random amoeboid. Nick tried not to think about tomorrow’s run. The thought made him a little sick. He preferred thinking about Lasse Viren - “the flying Finn” and his 10k run in Munich when he beat the World Record. Before he knew it he transcended to Munich, 1972 the 10K final. Nick ran the first 6k as David Badford. Then when he started fading, Nick moved towards the leaders; Emil Putemonse, Lasse Viren and Steve Prefontaine and was following them till the end of the run. After running four loops, Nick noticed a girl sitting on the bench in the middle row on the right side of the finish line. She was looking, even staring at him. Nick didn't know her name, but he knew who she was. The thought of her looking at him was pleasant. Nick forced himself not to run faster - he did not want to look as a show off, but his soul instantly left Munich and surrounded her body. At that very moment Nick stepped off the running track into the adjacent trench. His left leg twisted and Nick collapsed, feeling a sharp pain in his ankle. He immediately came back from his romantic venture and faced the grim reality. Nick lifted himself up and tried to step on his left foot. He could not. It was too painful. Nicked hopped on his right foot towards the bench, sat down and carefully took off his shoe. The ankle had begun to swell. “Shit!” - he thought. “Why now? These words kept playing in his head the way his first sport CD player skipped. “Why now?” Entire night Nick’s mother was changing the ice packs. The next morning, Nick and his coach went to see the Meet doctor. “That’s a bad sprain, son” - the doctor mumbled looking at his leg, “you better take it easy for a couple of weeks”. The coach, masking disappointment said, “You understand that you might never have another chance to win like the one you’re missing today.” Nick nodded and kept his eyes down. The coach clenched his teeth together so that fibrils of his jaw muscle became evident, and turned away. Nick sat on the bench and watched the competition progress. He realized with bitterness that he missed his chance to reach his current absolute potential. Something that Viren did in Munich and something that Prefontaine could never do because he died in the car accident. His thought transcend to the conviction that at a certain point in time, people would stop making records. They would never run a mile faster or even close to 2:40 because it was simply physically impossible. Especially the second heat, where Nick should have run. On one hand when it came to his distance - one mile, it became really unbearable to watch the competition. Yet on the other hand the idea of a speed limit as if totally overwhelmed him. Who would be the person who is born for that perfect humanly possible speed? Could this be him five-eight years from now? Could it be God created him to accomplish this task for a one-mile distance? What would happen when a human race would achieve its final record? People would stop running, jumping, swimming and throwing because they would know they’d never have another record? They would have this current world champions who they’d know still be no match to the champions of the past. Will there be a time of nothing else to achieve, nowhere to grow? Nick could not find the answer to this question. He started praying. It’s not that he couldn’t exactly pinpoint what he was praying about. He just felt the need to pray at that moment. Nick felt strange duality of perception as if he was there sitting on the bench of the stadium and being somewhere else at the same time. That happened with him before in the early childhood and sometimes during the race. It was real and surreal at the same time. While his attention was chained to the running track, his soul was searching for something it could not find within the confines of a 3-D reality. It penetrated the subspace shell, leaving the “hardware” and “firmware” – his body and mind sitting on the bench of the stadium thus registering Nick’s presence with his astral projection. Nick started elevating through the heavens. At first his movement was easy: two, three, four counted Nick. With each next subspace though, the rise slowed down, because the surrounding media became denser and denser. Nick finally stopped its vertical movement on the sixth heaven. Here, even parallel floating was difficult. Nick was stumbling over all the prophe | |