He wandered off the beaten path into a holler between two hills, a place lost to time. This area was once a roadway through the mountains where moonshiners tested the power of their vehicles to deliver their white lightning, steering clear of sheriff's deputies patrolling the roads.
Those country boys could drive like professionals, maneuvering the hairpin turns and drop-offs into the hollers below. He could picture them hootin' and hollerin' as their souped-up engines outran the sheriff's cruisers, which were no match for what was under the hood of a country boy's vehicle.
Tucked away on farms and in crude workshops, the shine runners were no country bumpkins when it came to building engines that defied the odds, using homemade parts and a knack for squeezing out as much horsepower as possible. However, these engines often came with problems that could lead to catastrophic failures. If they were lucky, the driver might escape unharmed, but it would mean heading back to the drawing board.
Once an engine was tested, it underwent numerous additional tests, learning from mistakes and eventually being refined and perfected. It was then ready for a run with a load of shine hidden away under the floorboards or in other parts of the vehicle, hoping it wouldn’t be found if the sheriff managed to stop them.
He could close his eyes and hear the roar of a shine runner taking the hairpin curves and narrow road to the eventual destination, where the shine would be transferred into a waiting truck on the main road that would take it to its buyers. Some runs didn't end well; drivers would sometimes run off the narrow road and barrel down the hill into the holler lost forever in the weeds and brush below.
As he continued his walk, lost in his thoughts, he spotted something out of the corner of his eye—a rusted-out old farm truck in the holler below. The tires were flat and rotting, and the body was little more than a pile of rusted metal. Curious for a better look, he carefully climbed down the hill until he stood close enough to peer inside. Broken glass jars, he imagined, once held the shine; now they were empty, like the fallen soldiers who lost the battle.
He cleared away the brush and vines to reveal an engine that appeared to be a hodgepodge of various parts. Some he recognized, while others were obviously handmade by some country boys who knew all about speed and design. Standing there, he let his imagination run wild, picturing how fast the truck might have gone.
He walked further, hoping to come across another shine vehicle, but as daylight began to fade, he decided to head back to the present. Now, all one had to do was stop at a bar and order their drink of choice. If you were lucky, the bartender would ask if you’d like a sip of the white lightning he kept hidden behind the bar. How could you say no?
With the radio playing country songs and old-timers gathered for a game of checkers, you would sip the shine, feeling your throat close up and your stomach ablaze. Yet through the pain came a strange sense of peace as you regained your composure. When the bartender offered you another shot, you politely declined, and a few old-timers had a good laugh at your expense.
His days of shine were now just a memory, a story to tell his grandkids. As for him, a cold bottle of beer would be just fine.
— Mike, 2025
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