This is a short story I wrote for a 2SER competition.

I didn't win and have always wanted to know if it is any good or not.

Any comments would be appreciated.

The Lone Cyclist

He cowers in a corner behind a rack of lacy nightgowns. Impotent. His back deformed while her handbag dangles idly by his side. Fingers detained by the last remnants of his will power, attempt to straighten, wanting to purge themselves of the effeminising article.

The clock on the far side of the small room seems never to move, yet still no sign of her leaving the change room.

If only they had a seat in here. Why don’t they have seats?

An empty hand ineffectively searches for a place to rest.

No not in the pocket. They’ll think your touching yourself!

Impatient eyes lust for stimulation, something to read, something to study. The room is filled with lust, its very purpose is stimulation. Forbidden images plaster the walls while illicit pictures adorn the racks, strung to the burgundy satin by thin strands of plastic.

They sing to an unoccupied mind like a Siren calling lost sailors to the shore, yet look upon them at your peril. These images bring with them a curse. Whether real or imagined, it exists.

Dirty old man!

A curtain parts and she calls to him. Dutifully he follows her into the antechamber, which has held her for so long and the parade begins.

Does this one make me look fat?

Does this colour look good on me?

Are you paying attention?

Would you like to see me in this one?

The blood cascades downward from the brain to areas whose sudden demand make it hard to think coherently. Arousal must be pushed aside quickly and ignored. There can be no distractions at a time like this. Every answer must be one hundred and ten percent correct, lest the terrible consequences be unleashed.

There is no multiple choice in this game.

A window provides a welcome opportunity to dream. To remember what it’s like on the outside. The freedom to do what you like, look where you want to look, sit where you want to sit. No questions to answer, no handbags to hold.

A lone Cyclist slowly drifts past his field of view, a guiding hand on the handle bar, the other carefully clinging to a carton of beer.

His mid morning drunkenness and grimy appearance are at first repulsive, yet stir emotions of pity and sadness. Sorrow at the plight of a people and a community who appear unable to pull themselves out of a hole that other people have dug for them.

Their eyes meet briefly.

Poor Bastard.

The metallic squeal of a rusty pedal echoes off the newly painted walls of the early opener. It travels down the empty lane until it mingles with the ever present traffic on the main road.

Even though the sun began its passage across the sky long ago, many of those it illuminates remain dormant.

A carton of beer, a precious morning cargo, makes its final journey.

A pair of blue and white thongs sitting atop the rotating pedals steadily moving the cyclist past disgusted pedestrians, across chaotic intersections and around cars banked up at traffic lights.

The flag of an ancient people contrasts sharply with the green box pressed against it.

Arriving at the top of his well known street, the cyclist delivers his package to a seated mob. The varying states of lucidity range from the sparkling innocence of a four year old child, to the stupor of an elderly woman, still recovering from the inebriated beating she suffered hours earlier.

The carcass of the box is ripped open before the contents are hungrily devoured and dispersed as if a Pride of Lion’s were tearing apart the rib cage of a Gazelle. Fearful commuters saunter by, trying to ignore what goes on in that street.

The discarded remains will later be thrown upon the burning footpath.

The cyclist takes his seat inside the circle of poverty and claims his share of the prize. Swallowing his addiction, he leans against a lonely tree, gazing up at the top of his street, a thousand yard stare, while the Police on Over Watch stare right back at him.

A wry smile broadens across his smooth face as he thinks about the guy he saw trapped inside the lingerie shop a little while ago.

Lighting a borrowed cigarette, he recalls the helplessness in the guy’s face and the look of impotence that inhabited his hunched over body but also the look of pity as their eyes met briefly.

Brother you can keep your pity. You were the one standing in front of a change room holding a handbag.