“What is it supposed to be?” he asked.

I could see the disappointment on his face.

I felt the old fury rising. My selfish son.

I struggled  to keep my voice calm.

“It’s a bicycle, John.”

“It looks weird. The wheels don’t turn. And what’s with the seat?”

“It’s a work of art. Your aunt created it. She left it to you in her will.”

“I never even met her.”

“She wanted you to have it. She was famous, you know. Your aunt.”

His eyes took on a different cast.

He picked up the sculpture, studying it for a signature.


Friday Fictioneers


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  1. Lynn Love

    There’s a real sadness to this, an inability to appreciate the real worth of something. Nicely written Josh

  2. Liz Young

    I am helping Mum sort her things out in preparation for moving into my brother’s home. She wants my kids to have some of them, but not everything would be valued by the next generation.

  3. goroyboy

    Learned a new word for greed. Thank you.
    The curse of the bicycle.
    Riding the bike will take the passenger the a destination based on their sin..

Don't just stand there.