The Writer's E-Zine Home

Writers' Village University - F2K: Free Fiction Writing Course - ePress-online
Writers' Village University Membership Information

Fiction Short Story

by Jennifer Brinn

The Speed Trap

Tires screeched, subwoofers thumped, and windows rattled on the otherwise quiet suburban street. Two broad-shouldered cars, outlined in neon and chrome, raced well past the speed limit. Blue-white beams slashed through gaps in curtains as the cars followed one another in tight donuts at the end of the road. Engines roared as the racers launched back up the street. The second car fishtailed through the rose bushes at the end of the driveway of a little blue house.

Henrietta heaved herself off her couch as she heard the bang-bump outside her living room. By the time she reached the window, however, the cars were gone.

"That does it!" Henrietta clutched the silver pentacle hanging from her neck, the semi-precious stones at each point cut into her hand. She stomped over to the ornate oak bookcase that had sagging shelves full of tarot decks, bags of Norse runes, extra candles, and books. She rifled through the titles, knocking several from the shelves onto her feet. "I just planted those bushes last month. Frank, these kids and their speeding has become quite the nuisance."

Her husband looked up from his newspaper. "Are you calling the police this time or should I?"

"What good will that do? The cars are long gone! No, this time I'm going to do something that will get real results."

"What are you going to do now?" He put down his paper as Henrietta pulled out a worn leather-bound book. "You think lighting candles and waving smelly stuff around is going to help? Or are you onto crystals this week?"

Henrietta sniffed. "You have never appreciated my powers."

At midnight, dressed in her flannel bathrobe, Henrietta tiptoed out her front door. She drew a line across the street with sea salt, waved her sage stick, and pointed her athame in all directions. The speed limit was twenty-five; anyone driving faster would be sorry.

She woke early and bounded outside. She straightened her mailbox post, dug out the destroyed bush, and planted its replacement. She unrolled the garden hose and sprinkler as a dandelion-yellow SUV raced down the street. It hit her spell and a tire blew. The vehicle swerved out of control and smashed into her new rose bush. The mailbox bounced off the hood as the SUV skidded to a stop. A harried young woman clutching a cell phone bounded from the vehicle. She flipped the phone shut and gasped at the crash site.

Henrietta hurried over. "Are you all right?"

"I'm going to be late picking up my son from soccer practice. Damn boss wouldn't let me out on time." She scrambled in the back of the truck and pulled out a tire iron and jack. "These were new tires too!"

"Oh dear! Please, let me help you," Henrietta said. They wrestled the spare tire out. "Hey, you wouldn't happen to know any of those kids who go speeding around here at night?"

"You've seen them too? Nearly hit me as I was backing out last week on our way to scouts."

Henrietta felt less bad now. These kids weren't only driving her crazy. Once the soccer mom was on her way, Henrietta dispelled the charm and returned to her books. She replanted roses and ground herbs. Her husband laughed when she told him what had happened.

"Can we at least talk to the neighborhood watch this time?"

"No, we can't. What are they going to do, send out a newsletter? I have a better plan."

The next day, as Henrietta weeded and watered her begonias, she heard a child cry out and a crash full of snapping twigs. She hoped it was only twigs. She ran to the front. A boy, about twelve years old, thrashed and trampled his way out of the rose bush, trampling what was left of it. His helmet sat askew on his head, and his bike lay undamaged in the gutter. Henrietta patched his cuts and scratches, gave him chocolate cookies, and asked him if he knew the kids who sped around at night. He shook his head and winced.

When her husband arrived home from work, she was replanting the rose bushes. He opened his mouth but Henrietta glared at him. He sighed and commented on how expensive disposable rose bushes were.

Henrietta passed the night working on her next spell. She flinched every time a car zoomed by. "This spell will be perfect. Just enough to slow those silly cars."

She crept out at dawn and laid crystals at appropriate points to create a lopsided circle around her section of the street. "We'll see them speed through that!" She headed inside and kissed her husband off to work.

#


Angry voices echoed in her front window. One car, its rear bumper on the ground, sat on top of her rose bush and mailbox. Another showered her lawn with radiator fluid. She'd never seen her grass appear so bright.

Two neighbors argued over whose fault it was. She asked them about the midnight speeders, but they were too angry to discuss it. When her husband came home, she admitted she'd failed.

"I'm done. No more magic. It never helps." She shoved her books in a box. Her husband gave her a hug and a pint of ice cream.

He returned home late the next day. She set his cold dinner on the table and frowned.

"I have good news, Henrietta. The soccer mom talked to the parents of the boy who crashed his bike. They also talked to other folks down the street. The homeowner's association convened an emergency meeting and discovered the speeders' identities. There's talk of speed bumps."

"I told you my magic could get results!"

"One last thing. There's also new rules about where you can plant your rose bushes…"