70
kicktales
FICTION ON A ROLL
[Fable]
BILL AND THE HILL
By Harry Hill. This prolific author, writing under
a pseudonym, is also an ardent musician and Oscar-
winner admirer. He teaches ditch poetry in the
greater Scottsdale, Arizona, area.
The h
Lhe hill didn't look that bad... It meandered down
the mountainside, its blacktop clean and smooth. At
the bottom a long flat stretch of road allowed gen-
erous space for slowing down. No cars wandered up
the winding way because there was nothing at the top.
Bill grabbed his board and strolled leisurely
upwards. Over a month had passed since he last
caught a free ride down a hill. He was ready and
eager to cruise.
Below, his buddies sampled a short ditch which
Bill had already declared not worth the bother. They,
however, were so interested in finding a line that no
one saw him go.
Bill walked only halfway up before stopping.
"Even on a hill this mellow, it's best not to push
it the first time," he thought.
He set his deck casually on the road and took a
slow, deep breath. His 92 durometer street wheels
would do nicely for downhill. He wondered how fast
he would pass his friends.
With a few short pushes Bill began to roll. As his
wheels gained momentum, a breeze brushed his face.
Under a cloudless sky he threw a few long carves
and savored the freedom of the glide.
The road stretched on and Bill tucked down. He
was going to juice as much speed as possible from
its feeble grade. Out of the corner of his eye he viewed
things going by and enjoyed this simple act.
Before long he was moving at quite a quick click.
He shot past his fellow skaters with a smile. To them
he was truly booking, but to him everything moved
by in a slow motion panorama. Bill was out of sight
as quickly as he had appeared, blazing beyond a dip
in the road.
Just about then, when he had reached the point
where he was moving too fast to stop, Bill
remembered he was riding his street machine and
that the trucks were unusually loose for some
unremembered reason.
"That is not a good thing," he thought.
Bill hoped he would soon slow down, but board
and rider flew on, rolling even faster. It was still a
long, long way to the bottom. Throwing a slide at
such velocity was completely out of the question.
He wore no gloves, no helmet, no pads whatsoever-
only a tight grimace upon his lips.
A sense of urgent distress intruded his once calm
mind. He realized he was standing atop a steaming
freight train without any brakes. Roadside vegetation
became a blur and the dotted yellow line turned solid.
People say that at such times, one's life passes
before one's eyes, but all Bill could see was the un-
forgiving road and its rocky shoulder.
His body was a spring stretched taut, his arms rigid
steel, his face chiseled stone. Tears streamed from
the sides of his hollow eyes. The fear of death was
his shadow, nipping at his feet.
His board began a series of violent wobbles. It
shook like a hound emerging from the sea. His feet
tap danced upon quaking grip tape. His deck was
a wild stallion, bucking with untamed vengeance.
The next thing he knew, Bill was flying through
the air in prone position. The cruel and abrasive street
sped by beneath his airborne body. He inched closer
and closer to his appointment with Mr. Wilson.
Then he began skidding across the rough and tum-
ble road. The pavement bit hungrily into his meaty
flesh. Seven layers of skin were but a hearty appetizer
to the road as it ravaged deeper, through mutton and
marrow. The street was getting revenge for all the
times it had not received payment for its service as
a speed medium. It was time to pay the piper, and
he wasn't taking checks.
While Bill slid on, using his own meat and bones
as re-caps, he thought, "My, I'm sliding a long way.
I bet this is going to hurt."
And it did. When his battered body finally ground
to a halt, there was little Bill could do but suffer in
mute misery. Presently his friends approached and
asked him if he was all right.
He muttered a weak, "Yeah, I'm fine," because
it would be too much effort to explain the pain.
Slowly and gently they helped him to his feet. He
clutched his tattered tee tightly to his side. Its once
white poly/cotton blend now shone in glistening road
rash red. In many places his wounds were still
bloodless from shock, and his whole body stung of
slaps and scratches. He wondered if he would ever
again be so unwise as to downhill on a street skate.
"Maybe I'm getting too old to ride at all," he
thought.
"No, I'm just getting too old to fall." O
[Vignette]
BIG AIR
From "The Lost Works of Sam" by Sam from the UK.
Sam was a virtual unknown until a small collection
of his work surfaced in our literary files. His current
whereabouts are unknown.
Burning hot sun glinted on the airplane's body
as it emerged from the clouds on its way to England.
It flew over a small American town and a small
American boy on his small American skateboard
looked up. He lost control of his board and it whip-
ped from underneath him. The boy landed, SMACK,
on his arse.
The plane flew on.
A duck was quite enjoying itself as it flapped
through the American sky, warmed by the sun that
separated the scattered clouds.
The thing appeared so quickly from below that it