He was in the end game. The engine roared with a mighty fire, and every gear was turned up. Up, up, up, he went. Faster, faster, feeling the wind blowing through the helmet and into his hair. The ecstatic jubilation of the clear air rushing through his fingers, through the gloves gripping the handles of the bike. The world was a colorful blur, whizzing past him as his motorcycle only grew louder.
The man believed that he saw trees. Conifers, to be exact, except in his field of vision he could only view them as dark teal creatures, triangulated sticks on shifts of sierra brown. They yawned at the skies and cast a dark blue shadow over the road ahead of him.
This was all that the world amounted to- colors. And oh, how vivid they were! There weren't stars in the sky, but a swirl of luminous pinpricks blending together and spiraling like a helix from up above. They danced and twinkled, forming the shapes of a ballerina with pointed toes. Her dress was stark white with a crown of nestled glimmerings, almost like egg-white tulips seated around her head. She leaped and swirled into an arabesque before descending into a penche.
Yet during the day, it was every color known to man that he found from behind the glass of his visor. The flowers he passed on the mountains, they came in fields of lavender. Miniscule petals, dapples of purples and blues flickering across the horizon, through the damp yellows of the grass. He could tell that this is what they were- flowers in every ranging height.
Oh, and the rocks! The craggy red peaks. Red, of all colors! They weren't simply rust colored, but golden in complexion! Some had dark purple streaks running through them like scars etched into the surface, but others were coated in moss and ferns that coated the barren hills in lushness.
He could remember the days, the weeks that he'd spent crossing the peaks and valleys. The same feeling of peace that guided him through the winding pathways. It had directed him through life, pushing him, making him strive to feel the same sense of pure joy over and over and over. It was an addiction, but a beautiful one.
The man had experienced this over and over, seen everything in this whole world, it seemed. There was nothing but his bike and nature around him. Tranquility.
Yet all of this would be gone. For he crossed the finish line, and the crowd began to cheer.
YOU ARE READING
2018 Writing Scrapbook
Short StoryI have already filled my previous writing scrapbook consisting of poetry and short stories from past years. This is a collection of all of my short stories and poetry written over the course of 2018. Contents: 1. Lanterns in the Sky (Sci-Fi) 2. The...
