Time

The chronometre, checked twice before leaving, exact, despite the cold weather outside. The motorcycle, freshly painted, in the garage, silvery and flashy, latest design. The other motorcycle, the only one that had a name, old, rusty, available for one trip.
Everything ticking right, the watches, the pendulum, the clocks from a newer generation, all made just for measuring the regular roar of the engine...
Time was there, trapped inside the motorcycle, as if it turned into a clock, swallowing the hours, even the seconds. The road was nothing more than an excuse for the time to pass, flowing back and forth, ending in the same place where it started to be.
Taking a look at the nudes on a wallpaper, he, the great big motorcycle owner, notticed something strange: although they were supposed to be uncovered, thay seemed somewhat dressed, wth nothing interested to show. So was his life, slow-paced, except for the times he rode that old junk he'd still like to call a motorbike.
He jumped on it, as if it was his first time, with no attitude, only with a shyness that left him tired, sick and disgusted with himself. Old as he was, the motorbike was equally old, reminding him that he has just a little time left.
On the road, he quit thinking. He had to act fast, automatically, between those cars. He needed a forest for himself, with no roads, nothing around moving, to make him aware his motorbike couldn't show time accurately. But, even if he felt fast and young, was he really more than th old man, riding, like little kids ride a stick, something...?
Down, on the alley, something ran faster, laughing, with no time to stop. It was time, eating away all the seconds, then, all the hours... leaving behind nothing more to lose.

Highway Blues

The next stop, that, it was there, lying ahead, no wonder, it could be the final one, the unavoidable trap, where the unexperienced could vanish or, worse, get crushed by all the others, fitter for that, well-equipped. Motorcyclists were not enough for the broad, straight and soft highway, rising in front, JFC (stands for: Just for Cars), high-class, leading to somewhere indefinite. Cars, on the other hand, no matter how sick and tired they were, had fulltime access to it, may they drivers have been for the long run, or novices, that didn't knew how to save the space given to them.
He, uncrowned king of the road, his jean jacket-second skin, never to be on that dream track, had both curse and fatal odds to fight now. On his Harley, knight without armor, still, on a horse made of steel, he was ready (or maybe he wanted to make sure he was, even if he couldn't have ever been more insecure). A roar of his engine blasted his turn-back thoughts, finally, no other noise than the one made by the cars protruded his ears.
Wrapped in smoke, he was ahead of all; blues in his ears, blue sky above, in the end, a loud crash, then complete blackout. Over and over, a sound of blues...

Scenariu absurd

Deasupra norilor, era tăcere. Sub nori-zgomot de motoare. Ea-pe motocicleta albastră, cu jante de aluminiu (asta pentru că nu avusese bani să-şi ia jante de crom). Ţinea piciorul pe frână, de parcă s-ar fi temut să pornească. Alături, el, pe o Yamaha roşie, o sorbea pe ea din ochi.
Ea îşi punea peste pletele blonde o cască, asortată la culoarea motocicletei. Îşi punea şi el casca lui.
Niciodată nu porneau din pole position. De data asta, ea accelerase şi trecuse înaintea lui. El, concentrat, cu gesturi măsurate, urmărea să nu facă nicio greşeală pe pistă. Ea era preocupată doar de viteză, nu se gândea niciodată la tehnică.
El rămăsese mult în urma ei. Un alt motociclist încercă s-o depăşească. Ea acceleră mai tare, pierdu direcţia şi intră într-un parapet.
Se trezi la spital. Se ridică din pat, zbură prin fereastra închisă, apoi se risipi, ca un abur.
Deasupra norilor, apăru un chip de femeie, care fu repede şters de vânt.