SHORT FICTION
My father’s bike sat undisturbed in the garage. Its red metal gleamed in the evening light as if it was lonely, begging me to ride it. He didn’t ride it anymore because he hurt his leg in the war and promised it would be mine when I grew into it. However, that would take forever. After properly storing my bike in its proper place in the garage, and stood there staring at dad’s bike. I stepped closer, rubbed my hand along the seat, and gripped the handlebars. I wasn’t tall enough to get my leg over the bar, but my salvation was a milk crate in the corner. I grabbed it, climbed up, and stretched my leg over, pressing my feet against the middle bar until I could reach the seat. I held on to some nearby boxes and let my legs dangle. I could hit and spin the pedal if I arched my foot just right.
Buzz!!!
Buzz!!!
I propped my leg against the boxes to put my hands on the handlebars. My puny arms barely reached, but it was good enough for the garage. I closed my eyes and imagined riding down the alley toward the park. I waved to my friends, who followed on their bikes, pedaling my heart out, speeding away until their screams became whispers; their faces blurred and faded into the horizon. The park was a short distance from the neighborhood, and all the kids rode there. A lake was on the park’s far end with a picnic table. I could prop the bike up there and get off. I had a half loaf of stale bread to feed the ducks as the other riders passed by, giggling and laughing among themselves. Soon, my friends would catch up, and we would feed ducks together and watch the sun dance just above the water. But what happens when it touches the water? Does it burn out like fire? Is this what happens when the night comes?
“Ollie!” called his mother.
“Yes, Mom?” I replied
“Supper,” she replied
“I’ll be right there.”
Mangus Khan 