rhapsodic thoughts

lil red bike boi

this is a short story writing in 40 minutes for a club i'm in, i was kinda proud of it.

warning: kinda rough! tried out writing a character that annoyed me and had some flaws. eek.

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the prompt is: Your main character suffers from a condition that gives them periodic blackouts for seemingly no reason. The only thing they can seem to remember from before each blackout is a bike. A red bike with a white basket and muddy tires. One day, they see that very bike leaning up against their house but this time, they don't blackout.

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Things that make me uncomfortable:
My weekly blackouts.
The possibility of riding a bike.
Cars.

Things that give me comfort:
Journaling.
Walking places.
Airplanes.

I like to gaze out of windows or into them, if I'm out in town. However, I hate anything hasty. Anything quick. I'd like to describe myself as a bird, free flying and independent. Everyone I know around me is so square, however. They'd rather want to get somewhere in seconds. They see the world in black and white, not grey.

Every second we have and take in this world is equal. Why can't everyone just treasure them all equally? Sure some you might be at a wedding or in others you can be taking a test. Alas, the seconds, minutes, and hours they take are all equal. 60 seconds in a minute, 60 minutes in an hour. Never less, never more.

I'd like to think I won't see concrete in two sec-

That hurt.

Understatement, that burns. Great.

The summer heat has encompassed me by through my face and it's broken skin that burns red in anger. My hands are fine. My arms could be better. My face? Utterly trashed. Glasses? Demolished.

Of course, it would have to happen now on my daily hour walk home. At least it wasn't like last weeks during my karate class. That was horrifying. Fortunately, now barely anyone is around. I got out of the major city about twenty minutes ago, and now I'm surrounded by trees, a few cars, and dog walkers. Am I the only one who loves when little people have big dogs or big people have teeny-tiny dogs? Just me?

Now all that I can think about is that bike. I close my eyes and I see it's sturdy wheels, the rusted handle, and rubber seat. It looks pristine, too perfect really. I think I only ever saw this bike once before, in the window of a vintage shop. It looked extremely out of place, as if someone bought it and then gave it up the same day.

I hated that bike. I remember telling Melody that a month ago.

Melody, lovely friend of mine, a chirpy bird in fact. She can always find a way to get me to laugh while I cringe at her high pitched voice. What can I say, we're family friends. Somehow she's sixteen but still sounds like a cartoon character. It's darling.

She was able to steal the newspaper boy, or girl as I like to point out, job right behind my back when we were eight. It's the exact reason why I hate bikes so much. I never had a reason to learn how to ride one. If I would've gotten the job, I would've taught myself.

Now she rides her bike everywhere. It's been this old navy blue one for years now. I've thrown eggs at it before. She cleaned the yoke off it the next day. I threw eggs at it again give or take three more times.

For some reason I haven't seen her around though. Maybe she lost the job. Good riddance, I'll finally stop letting my eight year old jealousy boil my insides. I'll stop journaling about how much she gets on my nerves and how much I just wish her mom, Nancy, would stop making us hang out.

Finally, I got to my street, if you could call it that I mean. It was a house in a corner, an intersection between two streets. I had to wait a record time of thirty minutes to cross since cars decided to use it. Upsetting, truly.

It was starting to get a little damp too. Small droplets of rain fell onto my exposed head, my skin now smeared by the sky's tears, or at least that's what I liked to call it. That's why I hated rain. It was crying, right? That's why it would let down water. It's even screaming too, that's the thunder.

My eyes caught sight of a shiny object in the distance, but I tried to not pay attention to it. It was probably another one of my dads pipes. He also had a few delivered once a week. A plumber could never have enough pipes, he always said.

I couldn't help myself from focusing my attention of the object though, because it was not a shiny grey, but alas a red. It was, the bike. Dad must've actually lost his marbles. Wait- Dad- I mean Melody. I haven't seen her in a month..

No black out though, funny now that I'm seeing it once again in person.

I whip my head to the side, not sure if she's hiding behind one of our two small bushes. I mean perhaps, she's tried before. I refuse to play another stupid game of hide and seek.

I can't comprehend why she would get this bike for me. Honestly, I hated it even more now that I could see it up close. It looked so modern, I'd just slip off it's perfect, pristine silver. It contrasted heavily against the discolored yellow garage door it was laid against.

This was it, she really wanted to see me furious.

Fine, so be it. I'll learn to bike.

I'll do it to spite you, Melody. That's why you gave me this, right? To spite me.

Throwing my backpack on the floor, I got rid of all the weight on my shoulders. I decided that would be the only way, to only be powered by jealousy and anger. Sensible thinking: out. This has to be easy, little five year old do it.

I got onto the perfect bike, letting my short legs dangle on either side. I grabbed onto the handle and tried to balance myself. As the bike began to trickle down my driveway slowly, my feet found their place on the pedals. This was lightwork.

My speed was increasing as much as the smug smile growed. So this is what I've been missing out on. This could be like my ground airplane, I sure felt like I was flying.

Then, I began to lose control of the bike, my smug smile now a creased frown. My eyes darted around my surroundings frantically as I tried to get onto a house's lawn. In the distance, a pitch black car was heading my way. It'd be in my area in just a few seconds, I could tell.

Even though my wheel was perched on the edge of the lawn, I did not have enough power to get the bike to go up, no matter how much I willed it to.

And just like that, another blackout came, but this one had no end.

No red bike. No white newspaper boy basket. No muddy tires.

It was just pitch black.