The old bicycle in the photo looks well-loved, like there is a long story behind it. I hope I have done justice to it in my 100 words. The bike has obviously travelled through many years. But despite its very visible wear, it is still valued, like an old friend or family member. (Hmmm… there’s a metaphor for my life in there somewhere, but that’s a story for another day.)
As always, I encourage you to read other Friday Fictioneers’ work by clicking the link that appears below my story.
by Jan Brown
Jenny found my old bicycle in the basement. She painted it black. She painted everything black after I died. Her room had black walls. Her lamps had black shades. Her nails had black polish.
She refused to put a new seat on the bike. She said it was a sacrilege to replace any part of her big brother’s bike. Like she believes my soul lives in the rusted metal of the frame, the unraveling leather of the seat, the bald rubber of the tires.
That’s what I thought, too, when I rode the old bike. It used to be Dad’s.