A collection of flash fiction (and non-fiction) tales written for the purpose-designed 'Weekend Writein prompts', challenging writers to produce around 500 word stories each time we choose to join the party.
"You and what army? Hey, slowpoke, hey? Garn... you've got Buckley's chance."
Sam grinned evilly. "Betcha come a gutser again, just like last year. Skun yer knees and bloodied yer schnozzle, didn't yer?"
Joe shook his head in disgust, drawing himself up to his ultimate height, which was not so tall, but did make Joe seem taller than Sam. And that was all that mattered. "Dead set, I reckon you've got some kangaroos loose in yer top paddock," and he snorted loudly. "That was then and this is now, yer dumb dingo. Why don'tcha just rack off and make sure your excuse for a racer can even turn its wheels?"
"I've had a gobful of this, yer great galah. As if a feller'd do this much yakka, if it weren't for the prize!" And Sam pursed his lips, and then licked them slowly, thoughtfully. "Two 'best' marbles from each loser. Phew... doesn't get much better than that! Crikey... imagine the collection!" Even Joe stopped in his tracks momentarily, picturing the bounty. Their eyes went dreamy as each saw himself owning the cream of everyone else's crop... Dreamy, but only momentarily.
The wrangling between the boys resumed, each insisting he'd be the winner of the Great Soapbox Derby. In truth, the Great part came from the minds of that group; the Soapbox bit originated in America (no Aussie would admit to that); and the Derby originated from England where it began life as a horse race (and no Aussie would let that get in the way of a good story).
On this day devoted to a world-shattering attempt at a downhill race, there were a wondrous assortment of home-made billycarts. Dads and brothers and mates had been enlisted to help scour the neighbourhood for weeks now, for likely bits and pieces for the all important vehicles.
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The box that made the seat was easy enough. There was always a selection at the grocer's shop, and old man Gubbins was well-known as a good sort - even though his kids were all grown and long gone. Perhaps because of that?
Nobody questioned too carefully where the long guiding lump of timber for the front axle came from, although a few fences in the neighbourhood had suddenly lost the odd palings (and the broken off end was a bit of a giveaway. The various paint jobs, likewise.) The short bits of timber to screw the wheels onto (and the all-important brake) had mostly been found in someone's pile of kindling wood, and the lengths of rope to guide the creations to victory were happily contributed from the baker's stables up the end of the street.
The wheels had been the most troublesome for Sam, but finally a set from an old pram at the dump worked a treat. And although Joe didn't know it, the amazing contribution of four 'almost mint condition' wheels magically donated from his older brother coincided almost exactly with a report of some pilfering from the storeroom down back of the garage on the corner.
Finally it was the moment. The contestants champed at the bit as much as any racehorse in a Derby, making furious revving sounds as they waited for the famous words - 'READY... SET... GO'.
