Yellow, blue, and red jersey-covered cyclists fell off their bikes, and collapsed onto the street as I riddled them with lead; bullets ricocheted off cement — hammering through bike helmets. A cacophony of screams, sobs, and curses resounded in my ears; I flipped off the spectators on the sidewalk as I peddled through a puddle of blood, bones, and brains. There were no rules against mounting a machine gun on your bike; I eyed the finish line. Hissing suffused the air as my bike halted. Self-loathing commenced — I forgot a spare….
Love connecting with writers, would be curious your thoughts on a short story of mine. https://dbtaylor.substack.com/p/hope?r=22o631 No pressure at all. Loved yours, you are a really good writer.
If this is true, please accept my condolences. My mother-in-law died of pancreatic cancer, and it is indeed a horrific, rushing monster of a disease. She was apparently perfectly healthy in October, unable to walk or speak by the following February, and dead by March. She left one of her sons with me, at least and he's a good man.
It is a horrible quick cancer that takes our loved ones away. More horror than a story could handle ,but we have to face it and grieve. I am trying but it still hurts .
Right. Cycle, Take Two. Full cycle, really. Cos it just happened.
Cycle - take two
He came over the hill, checked his speedometer, slowing to the speed limit. He was lost in thought, remembering when he was seventeen and didn’t have his own car.
He spotted the speed camera van in the dark just as he passed it.
Five days later, he got a letter saying he had to pay a fine for speeding. He smiled, noting the fine matched the amount he was getting for his old MG, which was being towed away that afternoon.
Please one more rinse cycle, just a few moments,, Lisa begged as her baby sat entranced by the smooch of different coloured clothes and the slap, slap as the drum tumbled them together.
Her daughter's face was still tear stained though a smile echoed as she watched the washing machine's show.
The microwave pinged announcing the veg mash was ready.
The baby jumped in her recliner.
Her eyes widened.
Her chest filled.
A blood curdling scream filled the kitchen.
Lisa rushed to put her in the high chair for another frenzied feeding cycle.
He’d asked if she wanted to have dinner before or after the phone call.
Almost ten minutes later, he was still waiting for some precise information he could form into an answer to his question.
He’d heard how it was impossible to say when the phone call would come.
He had had it confirmed that the conversation in the phone call might be brief (which he understood to be under 45 minutes) or long (which translated as anything over two hours.
- No - said someone with a look of suffering in their eyes.
It's not possible that it's happened, and that once again the city has been in the news for a murder. The fourth this year. And all in the same family. The Smith family moved here two years ago. Father, son, daughter and grandfather. All dead. All murdered.
Perhaps it was a serial killer on the loose.
- Hum, they look suspicious - reminded the sheriff, referring to the Smiths. The cycle will close one day. When the sheriff finally gets caught.
She beamed at him, and he stared at her. Savouring the moments of the rare meetup, they were so close. It felt like a lifetime ago when they were like this.
They could only stay in the line very briefly. She was under close supervision.
He looked at her, surrounded by the blinding spotlight. He sighed as she’d move on in a few minutes. Finally, they parted. The sun was bright, scorching his face with jealousy.
The earth looked at the moon longingly, wondering when their next meetup would be.
As he cycled to work every day, he cycled through the series of events that had perplexed him. Despite his trying to rearrange everything numerous times he could not work out the issue and complete the circle. His dreams began creeping into real life as he pondered possibility after possibility. Recycling his thought processes left him feeling numb. So much so that he failed to see the red light or the truck driver who kept cycling though his texts looking for the last one his wife sent before her death.
I to go non-fiction with this one. Any time I hear the word "cycle" it reminds me of my favorite professor in undergrad. It was hard to keep to 90 words!
"It's-onata form; it's a cycle," Dr. Russell held his hands up in a chef's kiss posture, using his best (really bad) Italian accent to make the sonata cycle within a symphony memorable to his first year music appreciation students. Forty-plus years later, I remember the lecture.
Dr. Russell quickly became one of my favorite professors and I worked for him in the university music department for several years. While some professors could be stodgy and others intimidating, Dr. Russell exuded warmth and passion for both his art and his students.
It’s one dirty job using lubricants and all the wrenching. Everyday the same. The walking inspection, wiping, and tightening the steel parts. The wooden boxes groan as they have for thirty years. Now, the next group arrives, anxious for the jolts and stomach churning movements. The euphoria of the descent. Hugging the rails into the turns finishing in a loop de loop the cars screech and come to a bone rattling halt. The cycle, complete. Now the questions asked “Hey mister can we ride again?” Begs the snot nosed kid.
The end of the cycle, or, Where the dirty water goes
There’d always been seasons, like elections and cup finals, summer holidays and winter flu epidemics. We’d always known what to think and say, which flag to wave, which side to support, who to kick in the face. That was before the big, booming voice came out of the sky. Aramaic, an old Rabbi said and interpreted the words.
‘That’s enough already. From now on, you’re on your own.’
Then a great hand reached down and squeezed the sun like a tangerine. Everything went dark, and ever since, things have been…difficult.
Around and around I spin, a victim of personal revolution. It is a pattern settling into a series of rhythms; sequences I can not break. My orbit is breathtaking. It is a circle, a cycle, an unbreakable chain of repeating exploits looping around me until I can no longer fathom them. My wheel of life is spinning out of control, wracked by a concatenation of ill-fated decisions. I know not what will stop this spate of calamities. My journey is an unholy circuit for which there is no final lap.
"Cycling"
Yellow, blue, and red jersey-covered cyclists fell off their bikes, and collapsed onto the street as I riddled them with lead; bullets ricocheted off cement — hammering through bike helmets. A cacophony of screams, sobs, and curses resounded in my ears; I flipped off the spectators on the sidewalk as I peddled through a puddle of blood, bones, and brains. There were no rules against mounting a machine gun on your bike; I eyed the finish line. Hissing suffused the air as my bike halted. Self-loathing commenced — I forgot a spare….
This was so awesome Miguel! 😮💨👏🏽🫶🏽
Hades? Lol. Great stuff short and simple.
Love connecting with writers, would be curious your thoughts on a short story of mine. https://dbtaylor.substack.com/p/hope?r=22o631 No pressure at all. Loved yours, you are a really good writer.
Experience with the cycle of life
Is sometimes more painful then joyous .
I have been away to my sisters memorial service.
I saw her last month and she looked so good and normal !
She is dead now,,taken my pancreatic cancer. Doctors have made many advances in treating cancer but this one is still a killer.
My sister is gone and I am sad.
She has left a son, a simba. And the circle of life continues.
If this is true, please accept my condolences. My mother-in-law died of pancreatic cancer, and it is indeed a horrific, rushing monster of a disease. She was apparently perfectly healthy in October, unable to walk or speak by the following February, and dead by March. She left one of her sons with me, at least and he's a good man.
One one my former students' husband was diagnosed in February and gone by April. Six weeks. I am so sorry for you both. It's insidious.
Thank you,for sharing, ,Stephanie..
It is a horrible quick cancer that takes our loved ones away. More horror than a story could handle ,but we have to face it and grieve. I am trying but it still hurts .
Thank you , Jeannine. Yes ,this did happen.
You're welcome. I am sorry for your loss.
My condolences for your mother- in-law. Wicked, ,horrible disease!
Thank you.
Right. Cycle, Take Two. Full cycle, really. Cos it just happened.
Cycle - take two
He came over the hill, checked his speedometer, slowing to the speed limit. He was lost in thought, remembering when he was seventeen and didn’t have his own car.
He spotted the speed camera van in the dark just as he passed it.
Five days later, he got a letter saying he had to pay a fine for speeding. He smiled, noting the fine matched the amount he was getting for his old MG, which was being towed away that afternoon.
At seventy, he wouldn’t have his own car, again.
Afraid I've overdosed by 3 words and can't work out where to shed them!
=========================================================
Cycle – 90mg
Please one more rinse cycle, just a few moments,, Lisa begged as her baby sat entranced by the smooch of different coloured clothes and the slap, slap as the drum tumbled them together.
Her daughter's face was still tear stained though a smile echoed as she watched the washing machine's show.
The microwave pinged announcing the veg mash was ready.
The baby jumped in her recliner.
Her eyes widened.
Her chest filled.
A blood curdling scream filled the kitchen.
Lisa rushed to put her in the high chair for another frenzied feeding cycle.
Miguel, that was an interesting take on "Cycle". Not sure I can match that :)
None of us can match Miguel ..
Cycle - 90 words
He’d asked if she wanted to have dinner before or after the phone call.
Almost ten minutes later, he was still waiting for some precise information he could form into an answer to his question.
He’d heard how it was impossible to say when the phone call would come.
He had had it confirmed that the conversation in the phone call might be brief (which he understood to be under 45 minutes) or long (which translated as anything over two hours.
But he hadn’t heard when she wanted to eat.
That reminds me of conversations with my husband LOL!
My 90 mg of a Cycle
-----------------------
- No - said someone with a look of suffering in their eyes.
It's not possible that it's happened, and that once again the city has been in the news for a murder. The fourth this year. And all in the same family. The Smith family moved here two years ago. Father, son, daughter and grandfather. All dead. All murdered.
Perhaps it was a serial killer on the loose.
- Hum, they look suspicious - reminded the sheriff, referring to the Smiths. The cycle will close one day. When the sheriff finally gets caught.
Microdosing Fiction - 90mg of a Cycle
===
She beamed at him, and he stared at her. Savouring the moments of the rare meetup, they were so close. It felt like a lifetime ago when they were like this.
They could only stay in the line very briefly. She was under close supervision.
He looked at her, surrounded by the blinding spotlight. He sighed as she’d move on in a few minutes. Finally, they parted. The sun was bright, scorching his face with jealousy.
The earth looked at the moon longingly, wondering when their next meetup would be.
As he cycled to work every day, he cycled through the series of events that had perplexed him. Despite his trying to rearrange everything numerous times he could not work out the issue and complete the circle. His dreams began creeping into real life as he pondered possibility after possibility. Recycling his thought processes left him feeling numb. So much so that he failed to see the red light or the truck driver who kept cycling though his texts looking for the last one his wife sent before her death.
PROMPT: CYCLE
THE BIKE
The moment they were given the signal to start, he began pedalling.
Not too fast at first.
Just quick enough to keep up with the others.
But it wasn’t long before he’d significantly increased the pace, fully determined to outdo them all.
Eventually, his leg muscles were working so furiously, his bike was practically smoking.
At which point, the gym instructor stepped in and told him to calm down.
This was a casual Spinning Class, not the Tour De France… 🚲😎🚲
I to go non-fiction with this one. Any time I hear the word "cycle" it reminds me of my favorite professor in undergrad. It was hard to keep to 90 words!
"It's-onata form; it's a cycle," Dr. Russell held his hands up in a chef's kiss posture, using his best (really bad) Italian accent to make the sonata cycle within a symphony memorable to his first year music appreciation students. Forty-plus years later, I remember the lecture.
Dr. Russell quickly became one of my favorite professors and I worked for him in the university music department for several years. While some professors could be stodgy and others intimidating, Dr. Russell exuded warmth and passion for both his art and his students.
https://open.spotify.com/artist/3vx8iBGrCtNEzug7nxcxzk?si=8fe18d4946204ef9
It’s one dirty job using lubricants and all the wrenching. Everyday the same. The walking inspection, wiping, and tightening the steel parts. The wooden boxes groan as they have for thirty years. Now, the next group arrives, anxious for the jolts and stomach churning movements. The euphoria of the descent. Hugging the rails into the turns finishing in a loop de loop the cars screech and come to a bone rattling halt. The cycle, complete. Now the questions asked “Hey mister can we ride again?” Begs the snot nosed kid.
I did it! 90 words!
The end of the cycle, or, Where the dirty water goes
There’d always been seasons, like elections and cup finals, summer holidays and winter flu epidemics. We’d always known what to think and say, which flag to wave, which side to support, who to kick in the face. That was before the big, booming voice came out of the sky. Aramaic, an old Rabbi said and interpreted the words.
‘That’s enough already. From now on, you’re on your own.’
Then a great hand reached down and squeezed the sun like a tangerine. Everything went dark, and ever since, things have been…difficult.
9mg of Cycle
Around and around I spin, a victim of personal revolution. It is a pattern settling into a series of rhythms; sequences I can not break. My orbit is breathtaking. It is a circle, a cycle, an unbreakable chain of repeating exploits looping around me until I can no longer fathom them. My wheel of life is spinning out of control, wracked by a concatenation of ill-fated decisions. I know not what will stop this spate of calamities. My journey is an unholy circuit for which there is no final lap.