"Bobby Jones" #Fridayflash

When I was fourteen, we was a family of moonshine runners. Daddy loaded the cars up with the crates and off we'd go, smoking cigarettes and trying to keep our hands off the goods, but there was many a night when we'd be hiding from the police and end up all alone with nothing but the 'shine to keep us company. Nights when we sat in dewy grass and traded tales, each bigger than the one before it, til we was sure it was clear to get back out on the road again.

Daddy souped up those black cars and fixed it so the brakelights wouldn't light up, giving the us runners a better advantage to get away since they weren't giving away where we was turning off at.


My brother Bobby knew all those backroads. He had to perch on the edge of his seat to reach the pedals the first year, then he sprouted right up with the rest of us and we couldn't call him lil' Bobby anymore.

The biggest scare I got was when I had to ride along with Bobby (before the growth-spurt even) and we was tearing down them skinny rutted roads like the Devil himself was after us. It was about 2 o'clock in the morning and Bobby was driving back full-throttle. The car was empty thank the Lord, else all those jugs be about broke but then we heard the car before we saw it and there was the law, on our tails trying to get us to stop. We passed a car on the right and there was mud and clipped grass flying through the air and Bobby’d laughed at me and just drove faster.

He revved that old Chevrolet up and we shot down that road like a black muddy bullet. Mailboxes knocked up against my door like bony knuckles and somebody's dog erupted in a fit of barking till the police behind us had to swerve hard to avoid hitting the stupid mutt.

"Moonshine Running"  - Ian Guy 

I had no problems believing that we'd outrun them behind us but sweet baby Jesus, I clung to the seat, then the dash, trying to squirm away from my door when the branches screeched along the sides, and then half the tires dropped down into a rut and I peeked over the windowsill. Bobby grinned over at me and told me not to worry. That fender’d be there when we got back.

And somehow it was.

Bobby grew up to race cars, and me? Well I met a nice dame, we had some kids and I became a house painter. We split ways once we made up our minds, me opting for the safer family route and Bobby taking to the circuit making money driving in circles til he zigged when he should’ve zagged.

He found that he couldn't outrun the Devil for long.

R.I.P. Bobby Jones 1912-1943

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Bobby Jones might be fictional but Icy Sedgwick sure isn't. Go on and visit her work. And thank her for this fine idea of a car chase. - C.C.

Check out Ian Guy's other fine art!