2012 ChopCult Writing Contest: Call for Entries

[Guest]

Time to fire up the Smith-Corona. It's the 2012 ChopCult Creative Writing Contest.

Everyone has until Febraury 29 to post ONE entry per member on this thread. Neatness, spelling, syntax and intelligent narrative counts, so please use spell check, delete double spaces between words and sentences (these wreak havoc on HTML) and please use elipses ("...") sparingly. These pesky periods also diddle with the HTML in a bad way, and personally drive me nuts. Paragraphs and double-spacing are a far better way to give your stories room to breath between thoughts, IMO.

On February 29 (Leap Year!) yours truly will select his top 5 and post these entries on another thread in which everyone can vote for their favorite.

This popular vote will be open until March 15, at which point the poll will close and 1st and 2nd-place winners will be determined.

The two most popular submissions will receive a substantial prize package that includes a book or two from my personal stash, some rusty old motorcycle parts and at least a couple brand-new ChopCult t-shirts and stickers.

Thanks in advance to everyone who enters this year's ChopCult writing contest. Good luck and have fun!

[Guest]

Like "Fagbook", Chop Cult needs a "Like" button.

[HatchA74]

Hal... You mention not to have double spacing between sentences but that's correct punctuation.

I've got something I wrote almost exactly three years ago, which (half of it) was read out on a national radio station over here. I'd like to enter it, if that's ok but do I need to reduce all the gaps after a full stop (period) to one space?

Thanks,

Steve.

[Guest]

Hal... You mention not to have double spacing between sentences but that's correct punctuation.

Dear Steve,

Double spacing after the "." on a typewriter is correct, but word processing and computers eliminated the need for this mechanical kerning Band-Aid years ago.

Computers prefer single spacing between everything, and typesetter's elipses over multiple "period period period ..." On a Mac the elipses is written by holding down "option" and hitting the colon key (first one to the right of L on the QWERTY keyboard)

Years ago Billdozer gave me a book called "The Macintosh is not a Typewriter," and it changed my life.

Re: Radio story, absolutely share your prose if you wish. I'd love to read it!

Thanks for weighing in, good luck and have fun!

mcGoo

[HatchA74]

Alright then, seems I might be the first one to post my drivvle here

Some history about this piece: Coming up to Valentine's day three years ago I sent a text into a national radio station about how a "first kiss" should be. They read it out on air and it apparently received the biggest response to anything they'd ever had or done on the show. They rang me up, the DJ spoke with me on air and asked me to write a piece to "fill about 90 seconds of air time" and they'd read it out the following week. I wrote a clean segment for them but then continued the story with a raunchy segment.

Anyway, I'll not be held responsible for any reactions that people may have due to reading this crap



The Kiss

She’d been working for the company just four weeks now. From the first day there was tension between them; an unspoken chemistry that simply must be explored - some day.

He knew her name, where she came from and lived now. He knew how old she was and when her birthday is. He knew where she ate for lunch and what she liked to order there most days. He knew all this yet had never spoken to her except to say “hiya” or “how’s things?” in passing.

He knew every curve of her body. The way the clothes she chose to wear accentuated her small but perfectly formed figure. He knew the one lock of hair that, no matter how many different ways she tried, just would not stay tied up with the rest and fell ever so softly down over her eyes.

And so he found himself in the break room with her, stealing time out from the workload for a quick coffee. The television in the background playing some daytime kids’ show; Sesame Street, he thought. But his mind is elsewhere right now. Focused on the incredible beauty beside him, waiting for the water to boil. She reached across him for a cup and a fresh wave of her perfume flooded into his nostrils, almost making him dizzy.

At that moment, she turned to look at him. He felt himself drowning in the blue oceans of her eyes. Her eyes that now, as always, had a wisp of hair across them. She felt the heat and passion in his stare. Before he realised he was doing it, his hand had moved up to her face, fingertips touching her forehead, slowly brushing that stubborn lock of hair to one side, revealing her porcelain-like features in full.

She didn’t shy away, actually seemed to follow the movement of his hand, pressing slightly against his fingertips. There were no words. What could BE said at that moment?? He moved towards her, his tall broad frame towering above her slight body, so close now he could feel her hot, sweet breath on his face.

She raised her face to meet him as his lips touched hers - soft and warm - inviting. As he parted his lips, her tongue brushed lightly over them, filling him with a flurry of deliciousness. There was passion behind her kiss. Her wet tongue moving against his own in his mouth. His kiss in return was equally as passionate.

As their lips worked together, electricity flowed through her as he gently ran his fingertips down her neck, the skin so soft and silky to his touch. The nerve endings on the back of his neck erupting and dancing as if being switched on all at once and the feeling working it’s way up to engulf his very thoughts.

Electric. The only word to describe it.

Slowly, the world surrounding them disappeared. Nothing and no-one existed any more. They were transported to another place. A perfect place. Their place. Time did not exist there. If asked, he could not have guessed how long they remained entwined as one.

There was a hunger building up in them both. Their bodies were on fire. No thoughts were spent on where they were, who could walk in, what would happen if they were caught. They were in a moment together and nothing else mattered.

He ran his fingers up the back of her neck, into her hair as she tilted her head backwards revealing her smooth soft throat to which he turned his attention. His soft wet lips, kissing and plucking at the tender skin, sending tingles of pleasure coursing through every fibre of her being.

Her hands clinging onto his shirt as she steadied herself against the counter. He trailed his tongue along her neck, down to her shoulder, slowly peeling away her top to expose the delicate milky skin beneath. Gently, he kissed and nipped at her skin, then continued kissing and licking down her chest, opening her top to free her chest, falling and rising rapidly with every breath she gasped.

She pulled his shirt out of his jeans and drew it swiftly upwards past his head and allowed him to draw his arms free. His own chest now bare, she ran her fingers through the hairs that adorned it, kissing him and licking his nipples, now hard with excitement and anticipation. She wondered what else would be hard.

He slid her top down along her slender arms, unclasped her bra and pulled it forward, her full breasts reflecting the fluorescent lighting so beautifully. He stood for a moment, marvelling at how perfect they were.

As he closed his mouth over one of her nipples, she moaned as she clawed at the back of his head, drawing him to her. He sucked deeply, circling her erect nipple with his tongue, then he blew gently across it, causing goose bumps to break out over her skin. She slapped him lightly but she liked it.

He paid similar attention to her other breast, then knelt down in front of her. He undid her skirt and slipped it down over her round buttocks revealing her lacework panties. As it fell to the floor, she stepped out of it, first one long slender leg, then the other.

Now standing there, legs slightly parted, he covered her body with soft kisses. Her shoulders, breasts, tummy, hips, her thighs so smooth to his lips it felt like kissing sunlight. He kissed her leg all the way down past her knee to her shoe-clad foot and then back up the other leg.

He pulled at her panties with his teeth. Stroking his fingertips up the backs of her legs, from her slim ankles, up past her calves. Softly over the backs of her knees, up the underside of her thighs until he reached her bottom. He slid his fingers up underneath the panties and slowly, very slowly drew them down.

As she stood there, naked but for her shoes, he took a moment to gaze at her loveliness, then he went to work.

He began by kissing her belly, slowly moving down towards her neatly groomed pussy. Her pubic hair trimmed to form what some might call a “runway”. As he ran his tongue along her labia, she raised one of her legs and hooked it around his neck, locking him in place.

He closed his mouth on her pussy and sucked hard as his tongue probed deeply. She was so wet and tasted so sweet. He held onto her tightly and fed on her eagerly, sending spasms of ecstasy shooting through her body. She arched her back against the pleasure she was enduring, writhing in the sublime feelings he was giving her.

He drew his tongue slowly along her clit time and again, building her pleasure up to a staggering level. She sat back on the counter, her legs all but giving way under her. As he sucked and licked again and again, the waves of ecstasy washed over her making her cum over and over again, soaking his face as he made love to her hot pussy with his mouth.


He stood up, her honey dripping from his face. She kissed him hungrily, tasting herself for the first time. She opened up his belt and jeans, thrusting her hands inside his boxer shorts to feel his hard cock, erect and ready for her.






But that’s another story.

[Guest]

I'll be your huckleberry.

THE '51.

The year was 1966 and Al Benedict (not his real name) had never been quite right since the war. The Korean War that is. Al suffered from what folks refered to as war wounds. Now nobody actually knew what those wounds were but throughout my youth I'd heard some whispers and even witnessed some of his unusual behavior. Naturally, speculation, rumors and gossip ran wild.

I'd heard that before he went off to war everybody on that side of town knew Al Benedict and most folks couldn't stand him. He was one of the local hooligans and neighbors always heard yelling and cussing coming from Al's house. But in those days you didn't get involved. Back then people minded their own business. As folks often said, "the Benedict's have always had their hands full with that boy." But the word was that when Al came back from the war he was a changed man. He no longer drank, fought or swore. The Al I'd seen growing up was just a disheveled, crazy guy who scared the daylights out of every kid in the neighborhood and never uttered an intelligible sentence. In fact in recent years he had taken to not speaking at all. He just sat there looking very old and skinny as hell. The only thing he did now was sit on a chair in the front yard and look at his hands. That was even creepier. The younger kids would go by the house now and then and taunt him but he'd back away from them and go inside. He did the same thing to me a couple of times when I went past and all I did was wave. Yep I always thought that Al Benedict was just the town wacko.

One cool day I saw Al in the front yard and I remembered hearing that he'd once had a motorcycle. Suddenly out of my mouth flew the words, "Hey Al. Where's your motorcycle?" He stood up like a shot and for a second looked as if he was gonna run off. Then he looked straight at me and clear as a bell said, "You wanna see it?" Nooooo way I thought as I hauled ass down that road. A week later when I walked by trying to ignore him jumped up and shouted, "YOU WANNA SEE IT?" This time his mother was on the porch and hollered to me saying, "You kids better stop antagonizing my boy! All of you!" Well by the time I got home she'd called my house complaining that I was saying stuff to her son getting him all fired up and crying. When I told my Ma what had happened I got orders to march right back over there to explain and apologize in person.

By the time I got there Al's mother was really pissed and demanded to know what I'd said that was suddenly getting him all upset. When I explained that all I did was ask about his motorcycle her whole mood changed. She was much calmer and asked if I'd please go out back to the garage with Al and look at it. Now there was no way I wanted to be in a confined space with that lunatic but I must admit that curiosity got the best of me so I went. What I saw was absolutely amazing.

Before going into the service in 1952, Al was a Greaser and he used to terrorize the locals on his noisy motorcycle. The neighbors hated him and the cops despised him. Nope, nobody had any use for Al. But when he came home from the war after enduring unimaginable horrors as a POW, all he did were two things. He spent most of the day sitting outside muttering to himself and he spent most of the night wiping down and oiling every single part of an old 1951 Harley-Davidson over and over again. When I say every part I mean if it could be disassembled Al had taken it apart. The entire bike was laid out in the garage like diagrams in a service manual and for the next God knows how long, in a low voice as if talking to himself, he touched and rattled off the names of every single part from that bike one at a time. All the parts had been rubbed so many times they looked brand new. He'd start at the beginning of the line and do each part. When he was finished he'd start all over again. Maybe he couldn't sleep or maybe he was afraid to sleep. I used to wonder if he even knew he was still alive. But then, maybe just being with his parts was what was keeping him alive.

After that day Al just went back to sitting in the yard not even noticing when I'd walk by. Even when I'd stop and say hello or ask about the bike he'd just stare at his hands. Yet when night came he'd be out in the garage doing the cleaning and oiling of everything alone. But every now and then I guess something would click in his head and Al would stand up and say, "You wanna see it?" So I'd go out back so he could call out the names. Truth be told, when he got going I don't even think he knew I was there. He just rambled on.

Al Benedict died in November, 1967 of heart failure brought on by pneumonia and numerous other health complications. He was 33 years old and another casualty of the forgotten war.

About a week after the funeral his mom called our house and asked if I would be willing to come over and pack up all of Al's parts. It was then that the '51 came to me.

[KevMoore]

Very nice story!

[HatchA74]

Very nice story!

Seconded! Nice work, Arby.

[nick5]

Good job guys, I was pulling for you last time we had this contest, Arby.

[Guest]

Thank you kindly.

[ChetPunisher]

Untitled

The line felt good in my hand. The wood that pushes against the water is a good vessel. I pull hard and feel the wind through the sail haul back against the raised tension. The boat leaning into the turn. Water splashes, waking me to the speed of the ship. Looking at the horizon, seeing the dark bluish gray clouds rising towards the sky, rising to greet me. I tack to the north trying to get a better angle, seeing if I can make port without rain or lightning. Knowing full well I will be in the thick of the storm shortly, I stow what I can as I draw the lines in, putting them where I can get to them without a hassle. The longest task is getting the jib securely tied down. The sprinkling starts shortly after I get back to my seat. Water is all around me now. My rain gear below, the weather is warm enough, anyways, the rain feels goods. The first lightning strike falls two hundred yards away, bringing with it the thunder that I have yearned to feel through my soul. A smile appears as the thunder rolls off into the distance. Small chop turns to swells, then to big waves, washing water over the sides. The ship starts to yawn and pitch with the waves. Loosening the lines a little to have more time to react if the wind decides to push from the other way I keep her pointed in the right direction. Wanting neither to fight the winds nor battle the waves to tack into a better position. The quickest way out is straight, maybe with a little zigzagging, but straight. I laugh as I pull the rudder against my side, looking out to the water, electricity and clouds that are welcome guests to my voyage. The ship whips to port throwing me into the side. I struggle back to my seat, put the rudder back in my hand and get things right again. The waves come at me from all directions. I turn the ship starboard seeking the correct heading on the compass. The needle works its way around the dial and I pull the rudder straight. Gaining the correct direction, the wind billows the sail and pulls the boat along. Getting her back up to speed, the worst of the storm behind me, shivering with the cool gusts I settle back and enjoy the weather. I watch the clouds overhead blow quickly by. The lower wisps strike out and fly swiftly below the higher cloud banks. Waves gradually begin their descent into the waters. Still, the thunder bellows and I can hear the sound raise over the land a mile away. The lingering sounds just flow, not wanting to give way to the silence. The wind begins to slow, clouds break apart to let in the remains of the day. The stark contrast of sunlight and gray clouds is breathtaking. Another rumble of thunder and the storm is all but over. I can see the calling lights of the pier, warning of the concrete coast that threatens to destroy unwary boats. Pulling as close to the channel as the wind permits, I quickly lower the main sail and start the aged motor. The rude sound make me shudder, realizing not for the first time that I would rather be in the storm surrounded by thunder, then in the silence broken only by a two-stroke sputtering engine.

[Guest]

Solo

Damn that wind is cold on the face, like razor blades hitting my skin. The crumb filled beard stops it a bit, but it still makes my cheeks hurt and eyes water. I’ve been over these mountains a hundred times and it’s still a shock, probably always will be. But, in a few hours when I’m blasting across the desert headed Eastbound, I’ll be wishing I could feel a breeze or two.

This’ll be my, fuck! Who the hell knows how many trips I’ve made across this country? I might have some idea if that speedo hadn’t quit out on me years ago. But I guess that’s the type of thing that happens when ya get older, shit breaks. Bikes bust, people die and hearts, well, we all know how it goes. Life man, it’s been a trip, but I’m not so sure I’d want to “do it all over again” as some people say. I know I wouldn’t mind one more ride with the Old Lady but she broke that promise. The promise to me that she’d outlast my haggard ass, and now? Well now, I have to face this shit solo. Fortunately, unlike most things, I remember our last ride like it was yesterday. And every day since, I’ve ridden these asphalt roads like she was still right behind me.

It was late in the fall, and we were making our yearly trek down South to avoid the shit New England winter. Once those leaves start turning we make our last trip of the year across the Kancamangus Highway. We hit those mountain twists and turns, breathing in the fresh, October air and making a few stops along the river for some “us” time. I tried for years to convince her to sell that old dilapidated place we kept on the lake so we could live full time in the warm sunshine of Florida, but she wouldn’t budge. That’s how she was with most things, stubborn. Me? Not so much, there were very few things I gave a rats ass about in this world, my kids, my wife and my bike. She let me keep riding, even after the back surgery and the blown out knees. And after the kids were all grown, all I needed was this bike and that woman. I don’t think she ever realized how much she meant to me, guess that was probably my fault.

It was the beginning of November and we were cruising down old Route 1 headed to Florida to stay with friends. She told me she’d felt worse before and that being out on the open road would do her some good. There’s something to be said about riding through those small, southern towns. There aren’t so many yuppies and you can actually get a decent breakfast without a side order of fucking Cantaloupe. Riding along the miles of trees and farms, smelling the cow shit they spread all over the place. After thirty miles of it you’ve had enough, but the first nose full is almost welcome, almost. If you look real close when you pass by some of these garages on the side of the road, you’ll spot brand new Cadillac’s through the cracked and missing boards they’ve got for walls. It’s funny what some people cherish. We always took our time headed to the Sunshine State, we were both retired so we had no need to get anywhere fast. We’d been going for three days when she said her headaches were coming back, so we took up in a hotel.

We never made it down to Florida that year and I’ve never been back. Without her, it just wouldn’t be the same. It’s been ten years since her passing and I’ve never even been back to the East Coast. After her funeral I spent some time with my kids but all I could see was her face staring back at me. Once I got the call to pick up her ashes I split. I packed her small brown box into my Saddlebags and hit the road. Every single thing I owned was on that bike, all the shit I didn’t need stayed behind. And I’ve been riding ever since. This old bagger and me have been all over the place and now we’re on our way to Iowa to see my grandkids. It’s been nearly a year since I’ve seen them. I miss ‘em tuggin’ on my beard, trying to rub off my tattoos and kissin’ the one for Grammy. The colors are hardly there anymore, it’s kind of a dull and faded, but you can still read her name just fine. And the feelings are still there like the day it was permanently etched into me.

I’m beat, been riding for eight hours now, used to be I could go for eighteen. Guess that’s just another one of life’s little “fuck you’s”. These days I just lay my head down whenever I get tired. No need for a comfortable bed, I’ve got my small, one man tent and roll to keep me off the ground. I find a nice patch of grass, off the beaten path, put up camp and lay it up for the night. Sometimes longer if it’s a decent spot. If it’s a good night I'll dream of her and me, riding along the Eastern Seaboard. Her arms draped around me, her legs by my side and chills down my back as she kisses the nape of my neck. And if it’s a bad night, I'll be waking up tomorrow, alone.

[dirtylittlebilly]

Chicago Drive-bye

Chicago Drive-bye
For those of you who don’t know me, I am of the imperious height of 5’5,” and contrary to popular belief, the biggest thing about me, so I’m told, is not my wiener, but rather my mouth. I admit I can be a little verbose, a tad digressive, and when drinking, maybe a little waggish but am very democratic so usually I have something to say. However, and unlike that chick at the other table who obviously was vaccinated with a phonograph needle, I don’t have the urge to just blabber for the sake of blather. Now- just a note on my riding habits in the city. We all know that the motorcycle is made for going through and around tight spaces so in city traffic I will take full advantage of that fact, and, have you know that my maneuvers are an art form and while my pipes are quite resonant and while you are at a stop I will sidle up to you smooth as a school boy sneaking under a skirt, you sense me there but now gone daddy gone, out of your world and way, with ‘nary an inconvenience to your droll work-a-daddy-work-a-mommy day. Maybe I made you smile. Maybe I pissed you off- just like the dude in the black SUV today. It is not my intention to flaunt my finesse in your face, but merely to get from point A to point B as efficiently as possible. And with a smile. And some throttle. Sometimes with a bottle.
So, it’s perfect tee shirt weather today in Chicago, and am homeward bound traveling a mildly trafficked Damen avenue oh so pretty tree lined yuppie avenue.
and hey what’s this? Ten cars crawling at a stop sign. Too fucking long. Zoom a zoom, three seconds over Tokyo and bye bye to traffic. In the groove on the move and you know how sometimes an object can be so big you don’t even notice it, like for example, a big blue Dept. of Streets and San rolling rattling garbage truck? Well kids, it’s me on the right of this large black SUV waiting for Mr. Red to go green and I am sooo mellow now just bopping along to Archie Bell and the Drells doing “Tighten Up” in my head Archie Bell and the Drells IN MY HEAD who not only sing but can dance just as good as they want. Now horn section; bwah da da daaaaa da (tighten up)!
Light turns green throttle gently to pass and go around, now in middle of intersection only now noticing big garbage truck in front of me which would not be a problem had not Mr. Black purposely decided not to let me pass so I throttle up more he speeds up more safe passing distance gone garbage truck blinkers on, snail pace, Mr. Black on my back, pass not completed and I’m squeezed out to be kept behind this black 4 x 4 but it’s all Kool and the Gang with me because at least we are moving. Mr. Blue has made his right turn and Mr. Black who has a firemen license plate is moving at a good pace so no worries mate. Do the tighten up!
Only a couple of minutes has passed and the next intersection is already upon us and I see Mr. Black’s turn signal indicating a right while I choose to go forward and never straight and here we are at the red, side by side like Fred and Ginger. I am gonna groove to the sound of my D and D’s* and not even glace at the dude. My name is Mr. Mellow, I’m going home for jello. I’m a lover not a fighter. I…"hey asshole, didn’t you see that blue city truck?” I turns around with me in my sooo laid back pose; right hand dipped on the throttle, left draped over right, shades dropped down to tip of nose, cool forward slouch, looking straight at this cabrone: “why yes. yes I did. I saw his blinkers too. Why? Was that your girl friend driving?” With the window only partially down (what are you afraid of) I could only see from the shoulders up but he sure looked like a bruiser, maybe in his early 40’s (younger than me) beefy and possibly Irish judging from how quickly his face could turn from Protestant dry white to Catholic merlot red. I love to watch the neck veins explode. Now he’s yelling another insult or two my way and something something about my hat on backwards and a pocket knife, “yeah, I see that knife in your pocket” but my pipes are too loud so I calmly turn the ignition off. My turn. And I’m calm, not yelling back still in my Cool Hand Luke pose and I quote a line from Reservoir Dogs: “Hey little dog. Are you gonna bark all day or are you gonna bite?” “ My bike is off, I ain‘t going anywhere.” Dude looks at me, light turns green, I’m smiling and getting ready to turn on my ignition to hear his last parting words that “I should be arrested.” Yeah and I should be horsewhipped too, but it ain’t gonna be by you and now he’s gone.
So I guess I got lucky again, huh? The turning off of the ignition thing? I dunno, sometimes things just take over, you can’t stop it. In the back of my mind I’m rationalizing here’s a guy works for the city, who could get fired for getting too stupid and besides, wtf is he so agitated about? Anyway, someone got lucky so remember, if ya can’t ride it like ya stole it, then ride it just to piss ‘em off.


*D and D, manufacturer of exhaust pipes

[MotoXcycle]

Part One

Labor Day Ride
By Frank L. Stein

Jack loved driving his motocross bike. It was a Suzuki RM 125 which he had bought off of guy who had bought it brand new and drove it about four times before he decided to sell it. Jack had worked hard to save up enough to buy his first motocross bike and this one was pretty much brand new.
Jack loved that bike.
The town where Jack lived was a mixture of brand new suburban developments and old farms and fields so there were plenty of spaces to go riding. A large farm bordered Jack`s backyard, there was an apple orchard, a few old barns, and around five different fields where the farmer grew corn, tomatoes , pumpkins and various other vegetables. Jack avoided going on the farmer`s property. He had heard rumours of the farmer peppering trespassers with buckshot.
There were plenty of other places to ride which were easily accessible from his house.
On this day, a warm sunny day, Labour day to be exact, Jack decided to go to one of his favourite places, a huge field where he and a few of his friends had built a big jump on the top of a small hill. There was a long straightaway, then a very mild curve you could take full out in top gear, up the small hill and off the big jump. There was plenty of landing room after the jump so you could be in the air for a long time and still have lots of room to land. After landing you could leave on a path or turn around and jump again.
Jack loved that feeling of flying through the air. It was like time slowed down and everything went quiet when his wheels left the ground. Reality, time and sound only returned to normal when the wheels slammed into the ground again.
After doing the jump over and over for quite a while Jack noticed there was a police car parked on the street that ran parallel to the field. The police in this town were always chasing Jack and friends. People would complain about the loud motocross bikes and would call the police. The police would try to stop Jack and his friends but they never had much luck-there were too many fields and tightly wooded areas dotted with swamps that were perfect for dirt biking but not accessible by cars or trucks.
Jack flew over the jump a few more times and then took the path that led away from the jump and towards his house. Out of the corner of his eye Jack could see the police car moving.
Halfway down the path Jack decided to turn around and try the jump again. He went over the jump a few more times and then continued down the path.
The path ended at a street and you had to drive on the side of the road to get to the next path. In this part of town the streets didn`t have any sidewalks, it was usually gravel, then a ditch. When Jack came out of the path and onto the gravel he saw the police car again. They must`ve been waiting there for him and had decided to leave since Jack didn`t appear when they thought he should.
They were heading in the opposite direction. Jack hit the gas and drove down the street towards the next path, front wheel in the air and running a stop sign in the process. It wasn`t that Jack was trying to piss the cops off on purpose, he always drove like that. It was fun.
Jack got onto the next path that led to his street. It was quite a long path through a small forest with a bit of mud to go through. At the very end of the path there was a little jump that put you onto the street. The path was at a ninety degree angle to the street so you had to go off of it turning so you could drive parallel to the street. It was also really important to look out for cars coming as well.
Just before Jack went off the little jump he could see a police car barrelling towards him. It was really close. Jack landed the bike and the police car banged into his leg with it`s front bumper, trying to knock him down. Jack absorbed the impact and hit the gas. Jack was in full panic mode now. Someone was trying to kill him. The police car managed to stay beside Jack and swerved into Jack again. The impact wasn`t hard enough to knock Jack down, he just absorbed the hit again and managed to stay on the bike. At the end of one particular driveway the owner had placed two large boulders. The boulders were approaching fast. The police car smacked into Jack one more time just before Jack ran into the boulders and then the police officer slammed on the brakes, he was sure Jack would crash now.
Jack hit the boulders with the gas pinned and the engine screaming way past it`s redline. The bike was thrown up in the air all crossed up at different odd angles.
For some unexplainable reason Jack did not crash. He hit the ground with the throttle pinned.
At the end of this street was an old path that no one had used for a few years and now was quite overgrown.
It was hard to tell there was even a path there.
Jack slammed into the vegetation at full speed, if there was pain from the branches hitting his hands the signal never got to his brain-there was too much adrenaline controlling every action now.
He was now on the farmer`s property near Jack`s home. There was a network of paths that led to a wide flat trail that the farmer used to get his tractor to his fields. It was bordered by large trees and deep in the farmer`s property. Luckily for Jack this trail led right up to his backyard. He was almost home free.
Jack drove up onto the tractor trail and turned off his bike. He was shaking from the whole ordeal.
As he pushed his bike down the trail he began to slowly calm down. It almost felt like he could breathe again.
Then he heard a noise behind him, it sounded like twigs snapping and dried leaves being crushed.
Jack turned around and a police car was right behind him!
Jack ran with the bike, jumped on it and started it all in one motion. He was so close to home but there was no going home now.
Jack wailed through the farmers field, past the elementary school and then came out in a more developed part of the town where most of the fields were now gone. He was in full panic mode now and had nowhere to go. He was just going nowhere as fast as possible.
All of a sudden Jack remembered a story his friend Norm had told him about how he had escaped the police by going to Bill`s house, opening his garage door, driving the bike in and closing the door. Norm ended up leaving the bike there for a few days and had walked home with the cops driving past him frantically looking for the renegade dirt biker.
Jack thought this was a brilliant idea. He screamed through parks and down streets to get Bill`s house as fast as possible.
He got to his friend Bill`s house, opened the garage door and hastily pushed his bike inside, closing the garage door behind him as soon and as fast as possible.
Bill was shooting pool when he heard the garage door opening and closing. ``That`s odd`` he thought to himself. ``Who`s opening and closing the garage door?``
When Bill walked into the garage he saw Jack there with his bike taking his helmet off. Jack looked visibly upset.
``What`s going on Jack, don`t you knock anymore?`` Bill asked slightly annoyed.
``The cops are chasing me-they tried to kill me!`` Jack shouted as quietly as possible.
``Oh jeez, well come in then, just leave the bike here.``
Bill had been chased on his dirt bike as well and knew what it felt like.
Bill had been playing pool and Jack grabbed a pool cue and attempted a few futile shots, he was still too freaked out about his ordeal.
Then the commotion began. Almost every police car in town, about 10 or 12 were on my friend Bill`s street. Bill lived on a very quiet suburban street where kids played street hockey outside almost all year round. At the end of the street there was one of the last remaining fields in that area.
Bill`s father came downstairs. He had heard the motocross bike screaming and then the garage door opening and closing. When he saw the cop frenzy outside he knew something was up.
``What`s going on here!`` Yelled Bill`s dad as he came stomping downstairs.
He took one look at Jack with his motocross boots, pants, jersey and the scared rabbit look on his face and knew instantaneously that Jack was the reason there was a million cops on his quiet street.
``They`re after you!`` Bill`s dad bellowed angrily.
``Get out of my house now!`` he demanded.
Jack tried to reason with him. ``They hit me with their car, they tried to kill me!``
``GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!`` Bill`s dad commanded.
Jack was sure his goose was cooked now.
He put his helmet back on while his friend opened the garage door.
``Sorry about that Jack.`` his friend said sadly.
``It`s OK Bill, it`s not your fault.`` Jack replied.
Jack pushed his bike out of the garage and onto the street.
At first he looked to the field as a direction. The field had about twenty police officers in it, they were all walking around looking for Jack. They thought he had laid his bike down in the tall grass in an attempt to hide.
Luckily for Jack the other way was toward home and that was completely clear.

[MotoXcycle]

Part Two

Jack kick started the bike and roared off. All of the police officers turned their heads as they saw the bike speed away from them.
At the end of Bill`s street there was a huge drop-off and then a farmer`s field, Jack flew off the drop-off, raced across the farmer`s field slammed into the deep ditch that was in his way, across a small field and then drove into his backyard. At last he was home safe.
His dad, and probably a good part of the people in town, had heard the screaming motocross bike and the multitude of sirens wailing.
``What going on?`` Jack`s dad asked angrily.
``They tried to kill me.`` Jack answered.
``Put your bike at the side of the house.`` Jack`s dad advised.
Jack lay his bike down at the side of the house and threw a tarp over it.
Then he took off his gear except for his pants and boots.
Then without any forethought he picked up a rake and started to rake the grass his dad had just cut.
All of a sudden a police car emerged on that farmer`s trail that led to his backyard. The police car was a few feet from Jack`s fence. Luckily for Jack the fence and grape vines that were growing on it obscured some of the police officer`s view so he could not see Jack`s pants or boots. All the police officer could see is some kid with no shirt holding a rake.
Jack looked at them with fake questioning look.
Slowly the police car backed up. Soon it was out of sight.
The chase was over.
He learned later that almost the whole town had seen the police cars zooming around with their sirens wailing, that neighbourhood kids had given police false directions and that the CB radio people had even been involved.
Jack never drove that bike in that town again, he ended up selling it and buying one that was a different
color. He also changed his equipment so he couldn`t be recognized. From then on Jack tried to stay off the streets and drove quietly when he was close to people`s houses.
Jack was never chased by the police on his dirt bike again. Then he got a street bike, and pulled over whenever he saw those flashing lights. Well, most of the time anyways.