Fixer Upper

I wanted to punch Alastor and make him shut up. But, I had almost wrestled my prized possession from the garbage bin. One more good yank should do it. With both hands, I grabbed the red metal, braced my feet against the bin and pulled. The garbage bags tore, spewing their contents everywhere as I felt myself flying backward, holding tight to my prize.

I hit the ground, hard, knocking the air from my lungs, before my tricycle landed on me. I heard Alastor laughing, heckling me, calling me a “dumb ass”. He stood, pointing, slapping his leg as he doubled over, braying at me. My lungs filled with air, I gasped and struggled to sit.

Embedded in my palms were pebbles from the gravel alley. I tried to brush them away and realized I had tears in my eyes. Alastor wasn’t going to see me cry. Determined to complete my task, I brushed at the remaining pebbles and wiped my eyes. Standing wasn’t easy, it required kicking and pushing my bike with all the force I could muster.

I looked at my bike. It had been shiny and new when Santa brought it and I couldn’t wait to ride it. Christmas morning, I had stroked the sparkly red streamers attached to the handlebar, letting them slide through my fingers. Now one was missing. My bike looked like it belonged in the garbage. Alastor had broken one back wheel, bent the front rim and scratched the red paint. I wanted to beat Alastor until his face looked like my bike.

Instead, I grabbed the detached wheel and pushed and rolled and dragged my bike to the porch. The gear I needed was already there, waiting. Tank who lived two doors away rode a really big bike, a motorcycle that thundered and shook the pictures on the walls when he went by. Every night when he got home he chained his bike to his front porch, and that is what I planned to do. I threaded the chain through the front tire spokes and around the post, locked the padlock and put the key in my pocket.

My bike wasn’t going anywhere. And it wasn’t because of the chain and padlock. Tears gathered again, but I fought them back. Tank was always working on his bike. Maybe he would help me with mine. I checked the padlock one last time and headed to Tank’s house.


Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

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