Short Story / Wheels
He pedaled through the alleyways covered in soot. His breathing, heavy yet wistful, seemed to filter through the accumulated grime. His feet pressed roughly against each pedal—down, and up, down, and up again—working through the motions with ease; a mere observer would see an ordinary man trying to ride alongside life, but one with omniscience would know that he had been on his feet all day. This man didn’t, couldn’t, stride when he could push.
“It’s almost eight. Kathy and the kids are expecting me,” he said, to himself of course, as the roaring vehicles didn’t give an inch about the four who prattled with worry around the dinner table wondering when Daddy would be home.
The sun sank and night arose, as it did every night. But instead of a simple transition, the night seemed hasty as it consumed every spark of light left behind. A complete vision of black covered the city. Everything looked the same in the dark. The building graffiti suddenly didn’t look so dismal and out of place. The old shopkeeper, a quiet woman with a gentle demeanor that customers enjoyed, cleaned out her register once again in a patient fashion. Her hands were dented with years of arduous labor, but the crisp green that they enfolded gave her a bed and a roof each night—that was all that mattered. Sure, the bed was nothing but a stiff-as-stone mattress, but it was durable and didn’t creak all that much. And the roof, well, aging with her, served its purpose in shielding her from storms.
So the man rode on, and on, until the stars began to embellish the sky in a spontaneous little way, guiding him onwards to home. He listened to the croaking frogs and chirping insects—‘They’re having a colorful conversation’, he thought, amusing himself, ‘Probably talking about how idiotic people are!’ Humans liked to destroy every “nuisance” as they saw fit. With their towering figures, they could easily end the life of a harmless creature, yet they howled each time, their voices ringing so mercilessly into the earth.
He didn’t make it home that night. Nature seemed to hear his content heart and let him go easily, softly, with a quick tumble off a cliff and not a great deal of pain. Most would flinch at such a death; this simple bike rider pushed through it. His last thoughts were of Kathy and the four at the table drumming their fingers on the kitchen table, yearning for their father to come home. When his head met the earth, he moaned, struggling to remain conscious. A dislocated shoulder, broken knee, and hemorrhage. Then he became very quiet and still. All he could feel was warm air stroking his skin as he waited for death to take him home.
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Well I certainly didn’t expect that ending, and that’s good. You set up a nice dichotomy with the serene nightscape and the violent yet downplayed ending.
The only thing I can offer as criticism is to cut a bit of detail from the shop keeper and put more into the rider. She certainly added to the ambience, but the story is about the rider, and those sentences might be better suited to add to describe more of him and his state of mind.
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This is an incredibly mature effort for a 17-year-old. I have read some really appalling work from some of the 30-somethings on this site. That said, pat yourself on the back for having the good sense to proofread and writing something both coherent and intelligible. I can tell that you carefully consider your sentences, but I suggest you read your work aloud because you have some clumsy word-pairings like “arduous labor.” You want more flow, especially in a piece about a man riding a bike. Also I’d like to see more of the place where he is riding—just a few, crisp details would be enough to snap it into focus. And do the same for the family at home. I’d like to be able to picture their faces. All of these details could easily be slipped in, in a casual way.
January 24, 2006
Deleted User
Aww! I was so sad at the end when the man died. My favorite part was the description of the night, with the stars and the frogs, and the “colorful conversation”! I’ve often wondered if the frogs and crickets are conversing and it delighted me to see someone else think of it, too!
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