So, Peppermint called for a writing challenge, and I challenged her to a match of Polaroid Fiction. This may become a regular feature, who can tell. Turns out she writes better on a keyboard, I write better longhand (there was a time when I wrote better on a keyboard, but this is another conversation). She accepts the challenge. I email her the pic about which we will write. We agree to 30 minutes. This is 10 minutes longer than which I am accustomed to writing in this fashion, so I take the opportunity to do a little research, different than my usual style, but pretty raw, none the less.

Anyway, here are the results of the experiment. Contrary to tradition, I hold off on posting the photo from which I drew inspiration. Instead, I encourage you to visit Peppermint’s take on things first.

[update] Peppermint dropped out of the blogoshpere recently. 06.05.07

08.21.1903 - Nothing Ever Happens in this Town

Charlie stood with his elbow on my shoulder.

“Nothing ever happens in this town,” he said, and I had to agree with him. Nothing ever did happen. Mom always had our peanut butter sandwiches ready for us in the afternoons. Dad always came home smelling like Benzedrine, rubber, and stale beer. The fish never took the worms from our hooks and the girls always figured out where we hid their dolls.

But today, something had happened.

I was eating my peanut butter sandwich at the table when there was a loud crash outside. Mom rushed out to see what the commotion was and said, “Oh, my Lord Jesus.” Mom never cussed like that, and so Charlie and me knew it must be bad.

Charlie stood up so fast his chair knocked over the plant near the table and I just tried not to let the screen door hit me in the head as I chased him onto the porch.

We stood there for a minute and saw the smoke coming from the cables. The car had jumped the tracks and almost run clean into old man Peter’s living room, where I knew he was listening to the Cleveland Blues on the radio. Moore was pitching a no-hitter in the bottom of the seventh and it was all I could do to tear myself away from the radio to go outside and have a look.

Dad came home from work at Firestone Aircraft just after ten, so I knew he ain’t on that train but I hoped Jessup waren’t on it, ‘cause he was out lookin’ fer work, today, an’ Jesus knows when he might come home.

We ran off the porch to see the wreck. People all hysterical and whatnot, but it seemed like everyone was okay.

Pretty soon, two police cars roll up. There musta been thirty people milling around, what with the conductors and the passengers all out in the road all shook up.

Mamma? She on the phone to Firestone telling them that there was a big crash just before stop 97. Gram came running over from Long Street ‘cause she heard it from Mrs. Tippet there had been a crash.

Well, it took them a long time a pullin’ the car out of Old Man Peters’ yard, but they did it. Turn out, the kids in the neighborhood done threw their shoes up in the cable. Who ever heard of sech a thing? Guess they daddy done made some money down in Texas at the oil fields and they ken ‘ford to throw they shoes aroun’.

Since no one got hurt we set on th’ porch watchin’ all the ruckus. Drinkin’ lemonade. I reckon we’ll git our pitchir’ in the paper tomoor’, seein’ as how Charlie an’ me stood out in the middle o’ th’ road in front of all o’ the people. I jus’ glad Daddy still at the shop with the hose between his teeth. All dusty an’ smelly like, before he stopped at the tavern on South Main on his way home. He usually walked there, but caught the last car home.

But I always thought he might go to the tavern early. ‘Cause sometimes. Sometimes, he came home before dark.

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View the photo that inspired the writing here.

Note on the photo: The back was inscribed in pencil with the following: ” Aug 21 -1903 Accident on [illegible]+[illegible] (34th). North side of car”