Photo Prompt: Bicycle Man

This odd man riding his bicycle in a dash of a blur (or a blur of a dash) captured several people’s imagination in different ways, so we decided to publish a selection of stories.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. A frantic bicycle bell clanged as its rider sliced through the crowded sidewalk avoiding the pedestrians in jerky swerving turns. Helmetless with trench coat flapping like a pelican, the man’s determined face focused on the path ahead of him.  “He’s practically naked,” grimaced an elderly woman who had nearly been accessorized by tire tracks.  He was pant-less with brown dress shoes.  Although a bit of a hazard myself having stopped to gawk at the fleeting figure on the bike, I smiled to see the bike come to a screeching halt in front of Wong’s Dry Cleaners.
—Niki Kessinger Substitute Teacher, Former English Teacher, Member of weekly writers’ group Wednesday Afternoon Writers, wife, mother of two.

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Every morning, a sad voice on the phone. She was just 43, one caller says. It was cancer that did it. Another admits: single round in the mouth. Quick. And messy, too. Life on the obituaries desk. How do you do it? A friend asks. Dealing with death all day? Swilling from a brown-glass bottle at lunch, I’ll say with a laugh, although somewhat honestly. As an obituary writer, I learned long before Garp did that we are all terminal cases.
Which is why when I ride my bicycle to work, weaving between buses, I never wear a helmet.
—T. Rees Shapiro is an obituary writer at The Washington Post. In real life, he is a careful bicycle rider.

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Harry missed the sound playing cards made in the spokes of his bicycle wheel. Weaving in and out of mail boxes and empty recycling bins as a child, pretending to be chasing the Dukes of Hazard and waiting until the last street light flickered on before heading home the long way around. Still a blur he raced through the crowd to the CBC building; late for another meeting to pitch his tv pilot. People jostled each other on the crowded sidewalk and stepped aside thinking he was so green minded on his wife’s old bicycle. Harry knew otherwise.
—Leigh Anne Fraser is a writer, artist and photographer living in Southern Ontario Canada. Her work has been on display in the UK, Brazil, Toronto and London. When she has a spare moment, she writes.

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Sarah was pregnant so this was a really bad time to take up with my T.A. It was Tuesday and I’d been giving it serious thought for a week. My brain already guilty of the deed; my body reluctant. A car with a stalled battery, that really wanted to leave the garage but couldn’t. Home after days spent spouting off to undergrads only to face Sarah’s teetering hormones and an overflowing recycling bin. Anything but sexy. My sole confident, Burt, acting as my moral compass over sweating pints. Pointing out my courduroy jacket and asking wasn’t that cliche enough.
—Andrea Daniels reads in bookstores until glared at, can never seem to finish a jar of peanut butter, and enjoys folding still warm laundry.

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