It’s back! The ever popular Fiction Friday begins again with a new Story on a String. Our last series, Arctic Chill, took us on an existential journey across the world with writers contributing from… across the world! Here’s how it works:
Every Friday the Urchin Movement will post one chapter from a collaborative short story. But, guess what! It’s not just The Urchins writing this time! It’s you, too! Feel like playing along? Keep reading! If you’re into the story, shoot us an UMail letting us know you’d like to write a chapter! Who knows where this story will go? It’s up to you!
Enjoy!
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Road Grit
Chapter One by Bob Hedderman
[Bob, originally from Texas, saw the '70s as a music promoter, the '80s as a marine biologist, and the '90s as a restauranteur. Currently, he resides in New Mexico with a big yellow dog, a white cat, and a garden full of hops. He is also the esteemed father of Urchin Margaret Hedderman.]
The marble-sized piece of gravel ricocheted off Gray’s cheek and bounced across the highway. He winced and rubbed his face as the back draft from the diesel semi-truck blew road grit in his eyes and whipped his ragged hair.
“Joe, I forgot.”
“ What?”
“I forgot whose great idea this was.”
Photo by Margaret Hedderman
It had taken Joe Miller two weeks to convince Gray to go on the great adventure, hitchhiking to Las Vegas. Now three days and 400 miles into the trip, enthusiasm had begun to evaporate in the desert sun. Being hit in the face with a 50 mile per hour piece of gravel was only a minor misery compared to the empty stomachs that accompanied the cold nights spent under highway bridges. They had both begun to stink after the days and endless hours spent watching cars whiz past their pleading outstretched thumbs.
Three rides had gotten them this far which was somewhere between Albuquerque and Gallop. The second driver made them pay up $10.00 for gas when they got into the weathered Ford pickup outside of Amarillo. The money represented 10% of their combined wealth, most of which they kept in their shoes.
They stopped at the convenience store just before Albuquerque and the driver spent the money on a six pack of Colt 45 Malt Liquor. He didn’t offer one to Joe and Gray. By the time they reached the Rio Grande the sixpack was half gone and he was demanding more money. This time he really needed gas.
They had agreed, but instead of paying, they grabbed their bags and ran. Hiding in a video store, they snickered as they watched the driver dumbly scratch his head and search for them.
Now, covered in sweat and grime, Joe and Gray watched the empty road for their next ride. There were more coyotes than cars out here. Then, with what began as a cloud of dust on the horizon and a shimmer in the sunlight, a battered ’57 Chevrolet convertible, sagging on a rear axle, soared past them. How the driver saw their outstretched thumbs was a miracle, but it skidded to a stop and waited for them.
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Chapter 2
