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Ford Barnaby


The rusty old bike

It was a murky morning in the centre of amsterdam. The mist was back, settling in the streets as if she had never left, laying her damp touch upon the cobblestones, her fingers outstretched touching everything the eye could see. Her breath moved around like a flowing ocean in the air. It was almost magical. 

 

The cafe was a small local one. One which not many people knew about and was very private. It stood on the corner of a small and unkept street with bikes stacked up on the side. The canals were regular in this area, they ran through the city like woodlice on logs and so the cafe got most of their goods by boat. 

 

Just next to the cafe was a bike hidden in a bush. It looked neglected and lost as if someone didn’t care enough to take it home and give it a clean. The bush itself was well-kept and taken care of with its leaves all uniform and a perfect circular shape. Unlike the bush the wheels of the bike were not circular. The rims had collapsed and were the shape of a toddler trying to draw a circle. The tire had fallen apart and the rubber was brittle like it had lost its elasticity over all the miles of road it had travelled and all the bumps and ditches it had experienced. The handlebars which were once gripped firmly by a person experiencing their life to the fullest were now weathered and stiff. The glossy finish had faded like the paint on the frame of the bike. The teal blue colour of the bike had been eaten away by the savage and invading rust and now portrayed an old and withered hunk of metal that used to be a person’s pride and joy. 

 

Around the corner a small boy was walking around. He had a small build and was wearing frayed dark brown dress shoes. They seemed rather large on him as if they belonged to an older brother or father. The sole was peeling off the leather and the stitches holding the brogueing together were breaking like brittle hay. His shirt was baby blue but didn't resemble it anymore seeing as it was dirty and baggy around his small shoulders. His billowing trousers were held around his waist with a flimsy piece of shoelace that looked like it was on its last fibre. His dark brown eyes darted from corner to corner and he wore a frown with his eyebrows almost touching each other. He walked with a shyness and kept to the shadows whilst he looked. He scanned the surroundings and suddenly he laid his eyes on something hidden and I realised he was looking for the rusty old bike.


 




Submitted: 11:49 Fri, 22 March 2024 by : Ford Barnaby age : 15