Welcome to Friday Fictioneers. Thanks to our wonderful host, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, and to Jellico’s Stationhouse for the intriguing photo.
The challenge is to write a 100-word story, based on the photo prompt below. My story is semi-autobiographical.
(Personal Fiction: 100 words)
It’s Just Like Riding a Bike
Emily wobbled while her siblings breezed past. Soon, the Rathbone family would return the borrowed bikes to their vacationing owners.
“Eyes ahead. Don’t look back,” said sister Marianne.
Emily sailed by unattended, like a trapeze artist with no net. “I’m doing it!” ThenEmily looked back.
Later, Emily attended a college swimming in bikes. Not since her childhood had she ridden one, but her body remembered and into the sea of pedaling students she went. Sweat dripped from her temples as she approached the hit-or-miss intersection.
Their wheel spokes tangled together and Emily stared into pools of blue.
End notes: As a kid, I didn’t have a bike, but I remember this accelerated week of learning to ride. I had one week to learn how to ride on this borrowed bike. I did it, but I crashed…a lot. Later when I went to a biking college, I was pretty scared to ride a bike again because it had been so long since I had done it! I made up for lost time, riding everyday for a solid 4 years. I still crashed sometimes, but I met some nice people along the way. 🙂
For more stories from the Fictioneers, click here.
Welcome to Friday Fictioneers. How exciting that my photo was chosen for today’s prompt. Thanks, Rochelle, for the honor of selecting my photo and for your dedication to this group.
Personally, I think storage units are strange, fascinating and a bit disturbing. This one gave me the creeps. But, I think generally storage units are places of transition, what we leave behind, can’t fit into our life, or simply don’t need or want. A lot of ideas about having stuff and what it all means came up for me, but it didn’t quite fit into a story and has nothing to do with what I came up with.
In any case, I hope this photo inspired you.
Hiders of the Tin
Marla hid in her storage unit. Like a visit with a sick relative, she never stayed long. Others hid, too. She had heard whispers, had felt their tears on her face. Usually, she left before that happened.
Her familiar brick of boxes was her refuge. She reached for her folding chair in the corner, but not before kicking a beat-up music box.
She picked it and said, “But this isn’t mine.” Quickly, she left to throw it away in a dumpster.
Returning home, she found the music box open on the table. A tiny dancer whirled to a creak of a song.