Todd, the Car, and the Cliff

Todd Miller was six years old and sitting behind the wheel of a fire-engine red convertible. This, he was going to tell his friends, his babysitter. Everybody.

He reached the gas pedal with the toe of his tennis-shoe and with a backhanded wave to his mother he was off. Todd Miller was driving. A car. By himself.

He tried to honk the horn, but there wasn't one. He held the wheel in both hands until he got the feel. Then he held the wheel with one hand and rested his free elbow out the window.

He tried to give it more gas, but the car didn't go any faster. Then for some reason, with a sharp turn coming up ahead, it suddenly did. Much faster.

Something was wrong.

Todd had both hands on the wheel now. He stomped on the brake. The peddle went to the floor. Another curve, this one even sharper. He was picking up speed. There was a cliff right up ahead; a huge, terrible, unavoidable cliff without a guard rail! He pumped the brakes. Nothing happened!

How he made it around that one, Todd didn't know and doubted he ever would.

He kept thinking, “This can't be happening,” but, oh boy, was it!

Then the car for no apparent reason began to slow down. A gentle curve and there was the platform and his mother. He was never so happy to see anyone in his life!

But wait, wait, wait! The car didn't stop!

He couldn't believe it. He looked to his mother who was waving happily. He couldn't believe that either. The first bend again, the second. He was going full speed, and here came the cliff...

“You can do this!” he said to himself. He was far, far too young to die.

300 Words