Yup, its a monthly contest open to all. Word limit is 100. Lots of Bikernet swag to be won. Just sign up for the free weekly newsletter by clicking here.
Then email your fiction story in 100 words or less to wayfarer@bikernet.com
WINNERS SO FAR:
1. for the month of May 2023: “Been There Done That” by Steven Sanner
2. for the month of June 2023: “A Hundred” by Chris Dutcher
3. for the month of July 2023: “First Time” by Rhys
4. for the month of August 2023: “Hilary” by Gearhead
5. for the month of September 2023: “Mountain” by Koz Mraz
6. for the month of October 2023: “Long Rides” by Steven Sanner
7. for the month of November 2023: “Layla” by Jeffrey (J J Spain)
8. for the month of December 2023: “Nap Time” by Jeffrey (J J Spain)
* * *
Choices or The Economy of Life
by Bandit
The phone rang early. “Do you want it or not?” The temperamental voice demanded. It involved the sale of a 1945 Knucklehead, my dream ride.
I rolled over and touched the softest ass on the planet. She woke and twisted into my arms naked and wet. Her sapphire eyes blinked and we kissed. “Where are we going for our honeymoon?”
by Steven Sanner
There I was, just sitting on my old ridged Shovel at the red traffic light, just enjoying the day when I got the feeling that I needed to get off the bike and run, and that’s what I did. I bailed off that thing like there was a rattlesnake under my ass. When I did there was a loud crash and I saw what was left of my bike flying through the intersection.
by Wayfarer
I should’ve attended the summer camp for off-road terrain. I was a prick. I could’ve paid attention to the neighbour’s kid showing off his skills. Thought he was a prick. Busted motorcycle, broken ego.
On the beaten track, I got beat. There is no looking back in life. Move onward!
by Bandit
A thug broke into the shop. Rebuilding an old Linkert in the back, I heard a noise and then a scream.
I scrambled towards the retail area, but how was I going to defend myself? I reached for my buck knife, a chrome-moly fork tube, the .38 in the drawer, a yard-long Crescent wrench, the cutoff wheel and or…
The young addict wasn’t interested in the mechanic wielding heavy instruments, just enough cash to buy another high. He turned toward his escape, leaving the young female clerk in a pool of blood. Was I to kill, maim, punish, enable or wait, harm reduction?
Rocking & Rolling
by Steven Sanner
The roar of the crash echoed in my ear as I rolled onto the shoulder of the road, along with the unshakable feeling that I had done this before, I knew I had to keep the momentum of the roll going to get clear. As I put my weight into the roll, the dual rear wheels of the semi passed by my nose.
But the feeling (or was it the knowing) that I had done all this before had me jump to my feet with one motion and I unthinkingly ran TOWARD the commotion. I knew there was something I had to do.
by Chris Dutcher
He hadn’t felt this good in a long time. Five year sentence he’d done forty-three months, seventeen days, five hours and fifty-eight minutes. But who’s counting…
The bike wanted to go a hundred, and he’d let it. The speedo had hovered right around the one-double zero for well over an hour, he must be on fumes.
Backing off the throttle was almost like after-sex. The engine rapped down like the engine brake on a semi, counting through the gears.
Everyone looked away when he pulled up to the pumps, which was fine with him. His face tingled. He laughed.
by Bandit
She called during rush hour in Phoenix. Hot enough to melt asphalt, Mudd straddled his Dyna and slid into traffic.
Had to get to his pregnant girl on time. Only one thing to do, twist his throttle to the stops. Lane splitting still wasn’t legal.
Mudd didn’t care, as he tore between frustrated, honking drivers. Taking out a sideview mirror, he nearly went down. Police sirens blared. Angry motorists cut him off. An accident ahead stopped all movement. He kept his throttle pegged as he darted onto the Highway winding into Scottsdale. He squinted against the glare, braked, screamed, screeched but made it in the nick of time.
* * *
The Bad Deal All Around
by Rhys
Woke up on a warm sunny day for early spring. Prepared for a shop run to check on my ‘49 Pan project: Rigid frame with performance gussets and a Coffin tank mounted high, with brown ribbons over metalflake paint. A girder front end was on order. A wild departure from my first bike, an old rat Triumph Tiger with an Indian blanket for a seat.
The phone rang, bad news. Break-in at the shop, everything down to the paint compressor taken. The builder feared for his life, fled to the west coast. I guessed it was a deal gone bad, perhaps drugs.
The comforting, warm, spring day suddenly turned cloudy and dark.
(publication dated 13-June-2023)
* * *
by Kolohe One
“Is that a Panhead motor?” she said. I smiled and nodded yes. “I sure love the old Panheads, the vibration and the ride are like no other motorbike I have ever known.”
Who was I not to share this truth? I motioned an open hand to the pillion and watched her gorgeous face light the night sky with gleeful emotion. We rode down warm canyons to a starlit sandy turnout. Holding her hand, assisting a dismount, I grabbed my bedroll and laid out a comfy spread. Watching her starlight twinkled eyes, I realized such moments are given only once in a lifetime.
First Time
by Rhys
Got wind of a ’63 Triumph for sale. I went over to see it. It was a badly chopped Tiger with peanut tank, apes, and blanket for a seat. I had ridden an old Hadaka 50 before so thought I was cool. Kicked it over the megaphones rang…. I popped the clutch and immediately the front wheel lifted pushing me back and went flying down the street. I hung on for dear life until the front wheel came back to earth and the bike bucked and stalled.
Shaking a bit and sweating I walked the bike back to the owner and said….. I’ll take it.
(publication dated 13-July-2023)
* * *
Life in the Fast Checkout Lane
by J.J. Solari
I asked one of the clerks at walmart if they had a kind of manly sort of scented soap and he said they have one that smells like testicular cancer. I said “Do you have one that smells like unwiped fundament?” He said “Well, excuse me for saying so but I can tell you right now that that would be overkill for you. At least from where I’m standing.”
I said “What do you mean.” He said, beckoning me to follow him “We have one that smells like WD-40. It’s on the hardware aisle. It’s called ‘WD-40.'” I said “You know what? I’m just going to pour a bottle of Hoppe’s No.9 over my head.” He said “I want to start dating you already!!”
(publication dated 16-July-2023)
* * *
For The Hearing Despaired
by Wayfarer
The speed limit signboard hid behind overgrown flora on public land. The no parking signboard, worn-out junk rested in the weeds. The district magistrate crept behind schedule. My lawyer, rusty on traffic violations, ducked. Me? I was screwed…tighter than the bolts on my motorcycle, which was impounded for being on the road!?
I took the stand, hand raised, and swore; cussing instead of the solemn oath. No comic relief. The Sheriff banged on the cuffs as soon as the judge’s gavel hit. Contempt of court, wasting court’s invaluable time, while possession of ‘some balls.’
(publication dated 18-July-2023)
* * *
Free To Shut the F*** Up
by J. J. Solari
ME: “Yeah like I need 9 imbeciles in British Cosplay Dresses to tell me what free speech is.”
HIM: “Well, it’s actually them explaining what free speech is with regard to the Constitution.”
ME: “So the Constitution’s version of free speech is different from what free speech actually is?”
HIM: “You are a rabble rouser and a social detriment”
ME: “Fuck you. Just answer the question.”
HIM: “Fuck YOU.”
(publication dated 21-July-2023)
* * *
Running Late
by Rhys
Got a late start for a 2 plus hour ride to the rally. We hit it pushing the old FL and my ridding partner on a borrowed FX since his old Sportster was down. We were flying down the interstate and coming up on the off ramp. I leaned into the curve and stopped at the stop sign. Looked around no one behind. Pulled over for a few minutes before deciding to backtrack down the grade on the grass and discovered the FX on its side and several feet away my partner and his passenger brushing themselves off. Neither was hurt thanks to the grassy space between ramps but the bike was a little worse for wear. Must’ve hit the shifter thinking it was the brake, old Sporty’s on opposite side. Compression rubber made him lose it.
Since we were only an hour out I raced home and traded my FL for the El Camino and flew back to pick up the broken bike and riders.
Guess I know what we’ll be doing tomorrow.
(publication dated 11-Aug-2023)
* * *
Too Many Dive Bars and Bar Fights
by Bandit
Little Sport threw a scrawny leg over his ‘69 XLCH outside Drifter’s Saloon. He kicked hard, a Tillotson carb set him free from the bullies inside. Fuming he rode through Sundance, Wyoming, like his leather seat caught fire, to a destitute trailer park. In shambles, he tore the screen door off the hinges scrambling inside for a loaded snub-nosed .38.
His crack-whore wife gone, Sport snatched the pistol, revenge blistering his busted lips.
Everything on the line he headed out. “Dad!” His small son ran to his side. “Don’t go,” he held tight to his thigh and looked up with terrified crystal blue eyes…
* * *
[photo 121558]
Flat out for a flathead
by Rhys
Driving by an open garage on my way to the next job. Spotted what appeared to be an old flatty HD. I stopped and approached the person and asked if the bike was for sale. Yes it was. He quoted a price which was workable but being day before payday I didn’t have any cash in my pocket. I told him I’d be right back as I had the cash at home. Raced home grabbed the stash and made my way back. As I pulled up I saw the bike being loaded into a van.
Dollar short and a minute late.
(publication dated 26-Aug-2023)
* * *
Taking care of busyness
by Steven Sanner
There she lay. She had been there waiting for the touch of his hand for a long time. He had said she was the love of his life, but he hasn’t shown any interest in a long time. His excuses kept piling up, working long hours, too tired from work, family obligations….. a long list that seems to keep growing. He always had other priorities.
Today he finally walked in the door and went over to her, looking ashamed, but there was the gleam of want in his eye. He reached out and ran his hand along her seat, finally remembering what it was for, and said “Old girl, it’s time to get you running again” and he began the long awaited restoration of his beloved ‘63 Panhead.
(publication dated 27-Aug-2023)
* * *
Hilary
by Gearhead
We rode from Northern Cal. The rain came down in buckets. I pulled off under the redwoods in Big Sur. My wife crawled into the back seat of a car. I threw a sleeping bag on the ground under a leaking makeshift lean-to. It didn’t stop raining.
The next morning the fog threatened like a dense cloud of gray paint, and my wife said, “It won’t lift until late afternoon.” We had to ride.
(publication dated 28-Aug-2023)
* * *
Kick…kick…kick
by Rhys
(illustration by Wayfarer)
I walked out of the local watering hole and straddled my ol ’53 EL chop. Bare bones ride, motor, rigid frame. And gas tank.
Usually 2-3 prime kicks then ignition on and 1 or two and she fires. Went through the ritual. Nothing. Tried again….nothing. Kept kicking until dripping in sweat and onlookers chuckling.
Went back inside grabbed another cold one and stepped back outside.
What’s that wire hanging free. Damn it. A few kicks later in the wind.
(publication dated 02-Sep-2023)
* * *
by Wayfarer
(illustration by Wayfarer)
My iron roared in the wind, the sand-strewn road to Las Vegas stretched hot. An extra bandana tied to my left wrist. I got two at Bandit’s Cantina. Hopping like a mad rabbit I struggled to keep up with my pals jamming ahead on V-Twin steeds. My Bandit’s bedroll balanced over my handlebars.
Suddenly, a fresh crimson cloth flashed in front of my eyes, an untied bikini top. A topless stranger hitchhiking, a mirage? My drum brakes screamed.
“Not sure my Bandit’s Bandanas will do the trick,” I noted.
She stared into my eyes, giggled, then climbed on board. I would’ve died if she hadn’t.
(publication dated 16-Sep-2023)
Shallow Grave
by Rhys
Gary finished his Triumph chopper metal flake gold with helmet to match. Out for a shakedown run. Cruising back roads all seemed good, until a truck rounded the bend on the wrong side. Both rider and bike slid off the road.
Gary awoke in the ditch his bike several feet away. In incredible deep pain, a bone protruded through his jeans. He yanked off his helmet and flung it up onto the road hoping a passerby would see it. A car stopped. The driver snatched the lid and left. Did he hear Gary’s screams?
The DWP crew found Gary’s lifeless body a week later.
(publication dated 23-September-2023)
* * *
Mountain
by Koz Mraz
(illustration by Wayfarer)
The mountain where we dance, endless pirouettes, left, right then left again. Freely falling into gravity’s demanding arms then with a twist of the throttle are thrust into the next delicious curve. She lifts the spirit as we ascend, transcend, riding high above the mundane until among the stars we fly.
And the mountain is where we fight. Wrestling against hairpin turns, battling hard against opposing forces, often for our life. Because if the mountain wins…we die.
Mountain is where we face our fears, test inner resolve or chase foolish whims and from atop, the breadth of life’s journey reveals.
(publication dated 24-September-2023)
* * *
by Rhys
(illustration by Wayfarer)
Woke up on Saturday. Rushed to get dressed and gulped down a quick cup of coffee. It was late fall when I had finally picked up my new Road Glide, which I parked in the garage. With anticipation off the charts, I looked over my shiny new steed. Pulled on my 5-Ball leather and then hit the button for the garage door.
Shit, there was a foot of new snow. Damn New England weather.
Went back to bed.
Preacher Run
by J J Solari
(unholy illustration by Wayfarer)
Some preacher self-absorbed pile of sanctimonious piety yelled at me, “Do you know what you need to do to be saved???” ….all accusatory. I said, “Yeah: be born after 33AD, cockfuck, which I was. Is that about how you gut it figured?” Apparently it wasn’t. He proceeded to order me to Hell. I said “Will you be there?” He said not a chance. I said “I’m on my way!!” He managed to get even more infuriated. Which, based on his current level of fulminary spittle-spraying, I thought very impressive.
by Steven Sanner
(illustration by Wayfarer)
After over 40 years of her by my side, she is gone. You always hear how tough real bikers are. Seldom will you see them cry. That’s because the wind drys the tears while we ride to clear our heads and handle the emotions. We use the rain, and the water drops in the shower to mingle and mix with the tears that no one sees. We know that the emotions and pain prove we are still alive, and accept the strength that comes from it. I may seem like a tough old emotionless bastard, but excuse me if I have to go for a long lonely ride.
(publication dated 19-October-2023)
* * *
The Dealership
by Bandit, inspired by Freddie Cuba
(illustration by Wayfarer)
Not far from Hasting, Nebraska stood a crumbling brick Harley-Davidson dealership in a town of 18. The owner, a stub of a man, with a shiny bald head ran it without spare parts. Not a motorcyclist but a franchise collector, he scored a Saab dealership and a Fender guitar franchise. Happy to roll in the new models without spares, he made his living.
One day three riders approached, one with a broken clutch lever. “Sorry fellas, no spare parts.”
“How about the lever on that new ‘78 FL?” A tough demanded.
Wild, Free & Alive
by Jeffrey
(illustration by Wayfarer)
I woke up flat on my back in tall golden prairie grass, the sun warmed my face. My right arm felt like it was on fire, my neck hurt like hell, and breathing was difficult. Able to move my fingers and toes, I sat up placing my elbows on my knees. The tires on my Suzuki DR 650 were still spinning, the motor humming quietly. A white tail doe stood near my bike, she shook her head and stumbled off, both of us feeling the effects of the collision. After a few minutes, I straightened the handlebars and rode home.
(publication dated 04-November-2023)
Rolling into Life
by Tony Heller
(illustration by Wayfarer)
During the early spring up-date shakedown run, the rain-fed Kern River roared and sparkled, hugging the twisting two-lane road. Careening over the rocky river bed, the cascading water leapt from boulder to boulder, disappearing darkly in shoreline eddies, then reappearing in turbulent whirlpools. The full moon peeked in and out from behind the clouds playing sneaky games with my night vision, alternately illuminating the oncoming curves, then casting darkly ominous shadows on the next. With every sense on maximum alert for whatever might lay ahead, I rolled it on in full chopper-groove ALIVE as I’d ever felt.
(publication dated 05-November-2023)
* * *
by Wayfarer
(illustration by Wayfarer)
Just a teen, spoon-fed on opinionated news, Jake’s restless energy glistened in his bloodshot eyes. His single mother nursed him with extreme sentiment through streaming news on TV and mobile apps. His friends considered him harmless—good grades, seldom in trouble at school and preferred computers to football.
Mother demanded few rules. Home by 9 pm!
So, tonight, no football practice, no cheerleaders, no stolen beer; tonight’s comments section on his favorite podcaster was a declaration of war.
He rode his scrambler Westward at dawn. Too dark an alley in afternoon. Angry, outnumbered and soon declared DOA.
(publication dated 08-November-2023)
* * *
Layla
by Jeffrey
(illustration by Wayfarer)
My Harley rolled to a stop near the side door of where my girl works. I planted my feet to steady the bike as she jumped off the Fatboy. She kissed me on the cheek and disappeared into the building, it was 8 pm on a Friday.
I hate her job, even though that is where we met. Thinking of her working the pole and picking up dollars makes me ill.
Like a fool, I fell in love. Now I’m on my knees begging her please, won’t she ease my worried mind.
Me and Harley will be back at 2.
(publication dated 15-November-2023)
* * *
Shop before you drop
by Rhys
(illustration by Wayfarer)
Woke up to a warm fall day in New England. Thought it would be fun to ride west into the Berkshires to visit a friend at college a few hours away. Off I went cruising on my old Triumph and enjoying things when in a matter of a mile or two temps dipped way down. Minus gloves and wearing a jean jacket the cold ripped through me. Stopped for gas, scored work gloves to cut the wind and bought several newspapers. I stuffed my jacket down to my crotch. I finally reached my frosty destination. It took a while to shed the chill.
Note to self: Gloves, leather and scarf on next trip.
(publication dated 19-November-2023)
* * *
Thanksgiving Ride
by Rhys
(illustration by Wayfarer)
Fired up the ole Shovel. There was a nip in the air being late November. Pulled on my leather over the hoodie and off I went. Sunny but chilly I rode the favorite back roads I travel when don’t have a particular destination. As the afternoon passed I stopped at a deli and ordered a turkey sandwich.
There’s a price to pay for freedom and being a loner. Good sandwich.
Happy Thanksgiving to all.
(publication dated 25-November-2023)
Cop Out
by Wayfarer
(illustration by Wayfarer)
Man without a plan, rabblerouser without a pause, I set out to ride one last time before winter sets in. Clear skies lighted up, straight, almost empty highway. Next beer at State line I thought.
A siren blasted behind me as my Fatboy touched 120 mph.
“Papers,” officer says. As he searched me for drugs, I noticed his car had bad blinkers. I stared at them and he caught my line of sight. He grunted as if to dare me to mention it.
“Will that be all officer?” I asked.
He retorted, “Limit yourself. Doesn’t have to be Vegas or bust!” and closed his book.
I got the drift and got away.
(publication dated 27-November-2023)
It’s Beginning to Feel A lot Like Christmas
by Gearhead
Rosa spoke little English, but her Mexican dialect could melt a cold man’s heart.
She walked me along the throng of Xmas displays to her booth. Her dark eyes glittered, a crimson smirk crossed her wet lips and she motioned to me. She bumped and ground into my thigh and allowed for our fingers to touch.
The Xmas song filled the festive night air. I was afraid she’d grind the jeans right off of me. Wet to the feel in that low dark place she moaned. I understood her warmth and longing without another word being said.
(publication dated 08-December-2023)
by Jeffrey
(illustration by Wayfarer)
“Your friend passed out.” Sissy, a redhead supermodel bartender at the Buffalo Chip, said to Salas.
Salas, looking at Ronnie, whose face was on the table, a dozen shot glasses surrounded his head said, “You’ve got to be shitting me. We’re staying at the Throttle; he can’t ride for hours.”
“Come with me, I’m on break till 8:00, he can sleep it off at my cabin.” Sissy said.
Salas laid Ronnie on the concrete porch as Sissy entered her one room home.
She reopened the door, her naked body got Sala’s attention. “Want to come in?”
Salas whispered, “I love you, Ronnie.”
(publication dated 09-December-2023)
* * *
911 Call
by Rhys
At work, I received a 911 text from my wife. I tried calling, no answer. I alerted my boss, grabbed my leather and ran to my old Road King. Fired up, I blasted down the road for the 20-mile ride to the house. Weaving in and out of traffic and pushing the limits I flew home.
Sliding to a stop I bolted through the front door. My wife trembling, pointed to the stairway. The puppy, his head sticking between the bannister supports. I scrambled to free the little guy. To show his gratitude he peed.
Riding back, had to laugh. I’ll take those 911 calls anytime.
(publication dated 12-December-2023)
* * *
by Wayfarer
(illustration by Wayfarer)
“For he is a jolly old fool, who gives away his tools…” Jenny teased her hubby who desperately gifted his old parts and tools to anyone who spent time with him.
“I have one motorcycle and I love her and she has no use for heaps of junk piling up in my garage,” Grant explained.
“Well, how about repairing it first?” continued Jenny.
“I did.” He yanked off a canvas tarp to reveal a restored sidecar, “No excuse for you to not ride now honey!”
“You did all this for me?”
“I was talking to the dog!” teased Grant.
(publication dated 15-December-2023)
Merry-up
by Wayfarer
(illustration by Wayfarer)
Treading snow getting your V-Twin by the roadside is a workout I could do without. I had feast and festivities on my mind; skipped lunch to dig into the cooking that awaited me at home. Not a spark of life in sight on Christmas Eve!
As I spied any vehicle or mobile phone signal—whoa, a bunch of kids from the neighborhood came dragging a large towing trolley.
“Where’d you get that thing?”
“Hey, Mr. Pete! ‘Twas lying outside the ol’ junkyard,” chirped one kid.
“Let’s put it to good use fellas, we got to repair and rebuild—not throw and waste this season.”
“Yay” they yelled, helping me get the flat tire towed on a joyous sleigh.
A Last Milestone
by Steven Sanner
(illustration by Wayfarer)
The wind whipped across my face like a thousand cats shredding flesh. I thought of warmer conditions, but the falling 40-degree temps and fading light would not relent. I’m glad I invested in the horsehide coat; I wished for chaps to match.
Then, a warm feeling kindled deep within me, remembering the gratitude expressed by the family of the fallen soldier for having been a riding escort to the gravesite…enough to get me back home. I will be riding again—rain, shine, snow, or freezing temps—to make it to the next patriot Guard mission. It’s the least I could do to give thanks.
(publication dated 19-December-2023)
* * *
