Pedals whirring, wheels spinning, gears changing the bike speed though the lights zigzagging around cars. Heart is pounding, chest heaving, tummy bulging. Rich blue eyes scanning the road his forehead covered in wrinkles sweaty brow dripping. My dad he bikes to work as often as he can.
Cranky knees feeling great going round and round and round his bushy moustache pressed up against his mouth, his white face turning pale. A smile creeped across his face ears twitching. The little bit of white hair that was left on his head shot backwards.
My dad said “whenever I cycle I feel free!”
All I could see was a blur disappearing down the hill.
He was in the kitchen cooking dinner, tummy bulging, eyes blood shot, wrinkles glowing. He was standing there motionless his deep brown eyes twinkled in the moon light, his hair pitch black, his hands were repeatedly chopping the chicken up and down his hands went as fat flew everywhere. He walks steadily and slowly to the pantry. His shirt was tattered and his teeth were stained yellow. He looked tired and old.
“Hurry up,” shouted mum
“Do you want a nice dinner or what?” dad shouted angrily
“Yes but it’s a week night,” mum shouted wisely
“shut up would you its nearly done,” dad grunted
“ok,” mum sighed
The oven beeped