He paused, sweaty in his efforts pushing the old car. ‘Damn thing! Oh well, that’s what you get when you own a classic! Classic piece of shit right now.’ At least it was small, thank God for that. He resumed pushing. The car glided down the street, only the squeak of the wire wheels breaking the stillness.
A passerby. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m pushing a car!”
“Do you want some help?”
“I’m sorry, that was rude. I can’t leave my car on the street, it would be gone. I’d love some help.”
Here is the photo prompt for this week’s Friday Fictioneers stories, by Beth Carter… a writer high in the Ozark hills. Wait a minute… did that sound right? Anyway, it is quite a photo, and it won Beth the blue ribbon in the Ozarks Writers League photo contest in February.
As soon as I saw the wire wheel in the corner, I knew what I would write. The photo up top is the only picture I have of my first car… a 1955 MG TF-1500. That is my sister Marja showing off the cars for a car show. It appeared in the Sacramento Union in 1977. My car is the little one. I could not tell you how many times I pushed that car.