A Short Story about cars, death, danger, and what happens when 2 guys decide to take a “Joyride” late one night. Evil awaits them once they turn the key.
Racing in the Street:
A short story about an undefeated street-racing legend that takes on a foe that may or may not be the ghost of James Dean.
Joyride is a short story of mine that has done kind of so-so business. I’m not sure if it is the car angle or the short story angle that is causing it. However, it does have a very positive 4 Star Review so it at least has that much going for it: “I’m not into cars at all, but enjoyed this short horror story about two young men and the “evil” car they take for a ride.”
Anyway, I decided to pair up these two stories for several reasons.
First and foremost, obviously, both stories deal with cars and horror based subjects.
The second reason is because I wanted to publish Racing in the Street, but felt wrong about publishing a 7 page short story. I would have to charge at minimum 99 cents and I just don’t think that’s fair when novels are discounted to the price from time to time.
By putting the two together I can now publish Racing in the Street, and give the audience a bonus to go along with it which is Joyride.
Read some examples below and give me a like, well, if you like.
Joyride: When the door to the house closed, a gust of wind, made by the door, blew a piece of paper off the desk. Underneath this paper was a book with a pentagram on the cover, bright red, like it had been drawn in blood – this symbol glowed as it listened to the boys.
The ritual was almost complete.
Mike walked over to the garage and into the cool darkness.
The lights were out.
Vin was nowhere to be seen.
Mike was just about to reach for the light when Vin jumped out of hiding, banging two pieces together of the loudest thing he could find.
Mike, of course, jumped.
“Vin you dumb son of a bitch! You nearly gave me a heart attack! Don’t you ever do that again!”
Mike put the attention on the car, heartbeat starting to slow. “What do you think?”
Vin surveyed the car that now sat before him.
Through the curtain-less windows, the full moon light fell onto the car like a spotlight, giving it a ghost-like glow. This light made it look meaner, more evil, like it could almost drive itself. It was painted black with a red racing stripe running from hood to trunk, and each tire had white lettering on the side.
Racing in the Street: “Can’t no one beat you, Sandy.”
“You’re the king, man.”
“Any chump against you is going to eat your dust.”
“You burned him good, man.”
So on and so on it went from there. Beers flowed freely, a bonfire erupted, the party was about to begin, and then he showed up.
“You know, you didn’t ask me,” the stranger replied. His voice was like a blast from the past, ghostly and forgotten.
Sandy and the crowd turned to see who had said those words.
Leaning against a 1949 black Mercury was a man who looked just like James Dean. He wore his hair kind of long and wavy. He had on pants rolled up at the ankles, a black leather coat with a white tee shirt underneath it, and a pair of black Chuck Taylor sneakers on his feet. He was smoking a cigarette, and staring off into the warm North Carolina night. His eyes were unblinking, frozen, and focused.
Loosely inspired by this song: