The Melted Bicycle

by Rod Drake

So I watched my bicycle melt, like it was made out of wax, into a multi-colored puddle on the sidewalk. I would have said I was tripping on LSD or something, but at 10, I didn’t do drugs. Then, I heard laughing, and in the upstairs window of our bedroom, my brother, only 8, but brilliant, leaned out with the heat-ray gun he had apparently finally perfected (he had long worked on it). “That’s for not defending me on the playground yesterday,” he shouted down to me. Instead of getting angry, I sat on the step, wondering how I could use it, and him, to my advantage. “Hey, Mikey,” I called out, “come on down; I’m not mad and bring the gun - I’ve got some ideas.”

6S

Rod Drake writes to live, lives to write, so the relationship works out well.