The speeding car drifted around the corner. Screaming, smoking tires and an over-revved engine disturbed the evening calm. People who were sitting out on their porches looked up to see a shiny red Porsche shoot down the street.

About three seconds later a second car, this one a modest gray BMW, came around the corner in much the same way as the Porsche. The second car didn’t drift as much; it followed the Porsche.

Neighbors looked across their yards at each other, husbands and wives made chuckling, snide comments about crazy people on the streets. As the revving, gear shifting cars faded into the distance they went back to sipping their lemonade or tea or beer or whatever and immediately forgot the brief excitement.

The driver of the Porsche made the turn onto Old Line Road with enough spectacular drama to make Paul Walker and Vin Diesel jealous. Gravel and dust mixed with the whitish smoke coming from all four wheels as the sleek vehicle fish-tailed slightly and sped down the narrow dirt road.

The Beamer was slowly catching up. The dust trail from the Porsche pointed the way for the Beamer and it slowed enough to make the turn onto Old Line without drifting. It zoomed through the dust trail of the Carrera.

Old Line Road follows an abandoned rail bed that used to connect Winslow with Darton and the mainline rail corridor. Winslow, tucked back in the low Central Pennsylvania mountains, had several coal mines that shipped the black rock to Philadelphia and Pittsburgh and other points in between.

When two of the most productive mines fizzled out the remaining operations couldn’t provide the volume to make the spur profitable so the railroad shut it down. That pretty much killed Winslow. Only diehard natives live there now and they’re dwindling fast by attrition. After decades of neglect the old rail line eventually became unsafe and the railroad finally picked up their rails and ties and went home.

The oil stained gravel bed is mostly overgrown now but there are still some places where you can see what it had been. The accompanying road is fairly straight until the old rail line crosses the Onuchko Creek. After crossing a dilapidated wooden trestle bridge the rail trail swings north and begins the long climb up to Winslow, winding around several mountains in its ascent.

Old Line Road turns left at the bridgehead and follows the creek about half a mile through sylvan scenery to a brand new, two lane, concrete and steel span, recently erected with Federal infrastructure improvement money. The road then backtracks down the creek to intersect and follow the old rail line on the other side of the trestle bridge.

Barreling down the old dirt road through darkening shadow, expertly jinking the occasional pothole, the red Porsche was an arrow, or a bullet, or, better, a cigarette boat, with its wake of dust billowing out behind it.

The BMW was eating that dust as it passed an old sign, askew and hanging by one rusted chain from a spar that held it out over the road. You could see “Winslow Hot Springs Hotel and Baths” in burned woodcut letters as the weathered sign twisted in the breeze.

Brake lights flashed at the rear of the red Carrera as it approached the creek and the turnoff. The car stopped. The Beamer was closing the distance between them.

The bridge didn’t look particularly safe but there was a track where a street vehicle could cross. It was blocked at the moment by a barricade made of four perforated sign posts like they use for stop signs, and three horizontally mounted strips of plywood painted with reflective orange and white paint, the word “DANGER” painted prominently across the middle strip in big red letters.

The BMW was now in sight of the Porsche. Suddenly the red car’s wheels began to spin, grinding the gravel underneath, spewing dirt, dust, and smoke. It fish-tailed a little bit then ran the barricade down and bounced onto the trestle bridge.

A section of the bridge collapsed about halfway across and the Porsche did a beautiful swan dive down into the creek some 40 feet below. It crashed onto a huge flat rock in the middle of the stream and exploded with a pyrotechnical display that would make Walker and Diesel’s stunt director jealous.

The Beamer skidded to a stop at the bridge, clouds of dust billowing. The driver removed his sunglasses, his racing gloves,  got out and took in the scene. There was nothing to do but call the police; the car down in the creek was a tangled, wrecked ball of fire, no survivors.

“Crazy friggin son of a bitch,” the driver said as he tapped on his phone.

Incidentally, the Winslow Hot Springs Hotel and Baths has just gone on the market, for sale and cheaper than dirt. Could be a good deal but you probably won’t get there in time.

Note: You may notice Wednesday’s story is missing. I did write a story on Wednesday entitled “Intersection.” However, I managed to forget about posting it. Waaah! My personal challenge is about complete by now as I have 27 stories published on this blog. With Intersection I’ll have 28.

The challenge was to write a story a day for the month of May. I began in April and there are six entries in that month. Early on I decided to give myself the weekends off, there is only so much time in a day!

May has 31 days. I may write three more stories just to be anal about it. Heh!

Chitlin Child    😈 

Deena’s sick again this morning. She’s okay in bed for now so I thought I might as well run down to St. Matthew’s and see if there’s any bread left. Had to call in this morning so I could take care of her, the chemo’s starting to leave a mark. I’ve been through two jobs since she was diagnosed with breast cancer last year. Probably get fired from this one too, maybe get one more absence out of Boss before he finally loses patience.

One last look at Deena, asleep now, and then out, down three flights to Corman St., a nod to old lady Beson as she’s coming up from the mailboxes, and then outside. My overall feeling of confinement, enclosure, eases substantially; it usually does when I get outside. I’m dealing with a lot inside. I should say we’re dealing with a lot, she’s the one who’s sick. We’ll get through it. Still, outside’s a whole other world.

There’s a farmer’s market two blocks over and I head in that direction. The church is over that way too. Sometimes you can get free bread at the market; the local grocery stores drop off their “day old” bread there on Mondays and Thursdays. St. Matthews gets their bread from a franchise bread store. I’m glad they don’t throw it away. I’ve never encountered anything that was stale—maybe past the “sell by” date but perfectly edible nonetheless.

A dumpster full of that kind of food, headed for the landfill or the incinerator or wherever, would be a crime. If you don’t think so then you’ve never been really hungry before and good lucky for you! Most of the people in the world know what I’m talking about. Think about it.

The bread we can scrounge makes a fair part of our diet. Any money I gain from employment goes to the rent and ongoing medical bills. Our food budget is almost non-existent but I did fill out an application for food stamps and the clerk said we’d probably get them. There are other charities, churches, and foodbanks around that help with food, thanks to people who care.

I haven’t discounted the common sense it makes to give food to the poor. Starving people tend to do desperate things. Lots of starving people could be a real problem especially if they’re living next to people that have more than plenty. It’s a pretty old story.

The people I see on the street aren’t on this train of thought, however. They pass by, everyone to his own. We all have things to do, I suppose. We all have good days and bad days, trials and tribulations, glory and 15 minutes of fame. It’s another aspect of being outside that helps me get my own troubles into perspective. It’s uplifting.

So I told my boss about Deena and what we’re going through and he told me he was sorry about our misfortune. He also told me he was responsible for making, packaging, and shipping as many brooms as he can every day. He went on to say that when one worker doesn’t come in it starts a ripple effect through the production line that ultimately impacts the bottom line. Boss said he understands the situation and will bend as far as he can but there are others who can do the job for him without added headaches. Boss is a good guy, he should have fired me months ago.

Got a couple bagels at the market! It’s late to be checking these places, they’re mostly picked over with little but scraps left, but these bagels were there and they’re not too hard.

It’s another block to St. Matthews. A gentle breeze off the lake rustles my hair and a wisp gets in my eye. I remove my ball cap, finger comb my hair, then reseat my cap, stray hairs contained for the moment. I look ahead and see the church door is still open, a good sign. There aren’t any people in line, though, not such a good sign.

When I get there I see that it’s over. Not even a mashed cupcake left. I guess I should have gone sooner but I couldn’t leave Deena huddled over the commode dry heaving like some kind of clogged garden hose.

I take a short detour to the lake. The breeze is lifting choppy little wavelets that splash onto the riprap and gabions of the seawall. They just keep coming, again and again, inexorable. I’m leaning with my arms on the galvanized pipe guardrail, hands together with my fingers interlocked and clutching my bagels just looking out over the water. Time passes. It’s a big lake, nothing but water on the horizon. And those little waves keep coming.

Deena and I are going to be okay. The doctor said she’ll fully recover and she has a very good chance of complete remission. We’re both young and strong and, like I said, we’ll get through it. We’re going to be like those little waves, we’re going to keep on coming. I smile and turn back toward the apartment.

Somebody, or something must be looking out for us. Those bagels are the only thing Deena and I will have to eat today.

They threw the young virgin down at the feet of the High Priest. Defiant, she sprang to her feet only to meet a soldier’s truncheon that knocked her again to the floor. Black dots and stars impaired her vision as she struggled to her hands and knees, her swaying head hanging as she regained her senses.

“Stay down,” a soldier hissed from behind.

The High Priest of the Order of Moul, resplendent in a carnelian silk toga, stood before a throne on a circular dais three steps above the young girl. “You would do well to behave, young lady,” he said, “I’m told you’re a virgin.” He looked over to one of the two guards behind her and said, “She’s been checked, right?” The guard nodded.

The priest looked down, a grim, tight lipped smile on his hawkish face. “Yes, you’d do well to behave,” he said, “I’m going to offer you a wonderful opportunity.”

She raised her head, seeing first his sandaled feet, the thongs looked like woven gold, then the red drape of his toga covering his skeletal frame, then the severe narrow face on his hairless head wearing a ludicrous gold onion dome headpiece. She would have laughed but wasn’t really feeling very funny at the moment. Indeed, she was fairly pissed off. She sat back on her knees, poker faced, and said nothing.

“Nothing to say? Don’t you want to know why you’ve been brought here? What’s your name?” the priest asked.

She glared at him, “drop dead.”

His smile widened, progress—she’s talking, he thought. “What harm will it do to tell me your name?”

The guard prodded her with the butt end of his ceremonial lance. Answer!” he growled.

Sullen, “Wyx.”

The priest grinned, she noticed he had bad teeth. “Ah, Wyx,” he said unctuously, “was that so hard?” Dropping his hands, he gathered his toga and sat back into the ornate golden chair. “You’ve heard of the Gemini Virgins?”

“Sure,” she said, “everybody has. Those are the poor bitches you sacrifice to that god you worship.”

“Moul forgive you,” the priest said, tipping his head slightly and touching his forehead with his thumb and index finger. “The Gemini are twins, my dear,” he said, “one twin is sacrificed to Moul and the other gets to serve our priests and bear our children, a great honor I might add. Female children automatically become Gemini, males become our priests. You probably know that.”

“Why would I want to have any part in your stupid religion?” she snarled.

A benign expression came over the priest. “It’s a good life. We take care of our own quite well. By keeping the Order ‘all in the family,’ so to speak, we’ve managed to maintain dominion over this world for more than a century.”

“Ha! Good for you, eh?” Wyx fairly spit the words at him. “Meanwhile the rest of us pay your ‘tithe’ or starve, right?”

“Oh, you have that wrong,” said the priest, his eyes narrowing, “our followers pay the tithe because they believe!”

“Believe or starve, you mean.”

The priest tried mightily to suppress a yawn, which he hid behind the back of his hand, and sighed, “You will be a Gemini.” He arched his brow and his nostrils flared slightly, “What I need to know right now is which part you will play, a believer and lifetime servant of the Order, or the sacrifice to Moul. Choose!”

“Any religion that forces you to believe on pain of death sucks,” Wyx said, “and can’t possibly be anything good. You suck, your church sucks, everything about you sucks!” She spit at him right before the guard hit her with the club again.

The High Priest of the Order of Moul casually waved, flexing his fingertips with a sweeping motion, “Take her. You know what to do.”