A world inside a bike
An imaginative composed by Isabella (Year 10; a student in the Writer’s Collective Cross Campus Elective)
Dawn struck in a whiff of dust, dust that dragged off of the dirt road and into the murky English air. The delicately inscribed carriage took off without even a merciful glare, and tiny Victoria was alone all over again.
But this time was different. This time, while her father and stepmother were off on a whirlwind adventure, tasting spices never tasted before, riding elephants, or who knows, maybe even dragons, tiny Victoria was going to change the world. Because this time, she awkwardly balanced in her teeny tiny hands the most wonderful thing she had ever owned. A bicycle.
Clearly, as anybody could tell, the plain old bicycle was made for somebody much older, much taller, and somebody with a much better sense of balance. But really, come off it you old hag, let the little girl have some joy in her life. It is the only real gift her father has ever gotten her.
So, as you do, if you are a weird little Victorian girl, you sneak out with said bicycle, and attempt to ride it at the crack of Dawn. And of course, fail, and instead plummet to the ground and cry until your poor old governess has to drag you back to bed. (Not before you force her to read you that book on Norse myths that make no sense.) Maybe it was the pretty goddesses, maybe it was the virtuous adventures, or maybe it was the stories about the great big salty sea, but there laid in those nonsensical stories a supposed stencil for her own future. Something about those myths made it so easy to see yourself in the strange characters, and to crave the same adventure. And now she had a way to do it herself! That plain old bike. If only she could actually ride it.
But- prevalence is key! Somebody wise probably said that once. Naturally, our tiny Victoria wasn’t going to lose to a bike.
Another wise person probably once said, “don’t let your possessions possess you.” Well, clearly, nobody ever told Victoria this. She was going to learn to ride this bike even if it killed her. Because legends don’t make themselves! She wanted to make her own myths. But, also then, maybe then, finally, if she were good enough, if she were strong and tall and could ride a bicycle like she were a bird in the sky, her father would stay. He would finally stay, and instead of the governess reading her bedtime stories, her father would. And instead of the tutor teaching her about the whole big wide world, her father would. Or-! Or maybe he could even take her on his travels! And all their lives they could see the world together. But that was just childish hope, wasn’t it?
Victoria turned her back to the world, she wasn’t tiny Victoria anymore. She stood with the bike in her firm grip, her posture straight and true. Her father still hadn’t returned, years and years later. She hadn’t been good enough for him? No, He hadn’t been good enough for her. Just as she did all those years ago, when she dreamed dreams that were so real she could almost touch them,
She hoisted herself onto the very same bike, at the crack of Dawn, but this time without a single falter, bound for London’s ports and the salted blue sea, still riding that plain old bicycle. This time, she wouldn’t have to read shiny stories to taste the waves.
