The following story was placed 4th in the inaugural Grindstone Literary flash fiction contest
(Only the first three placed stories are published on their website, so I have published the story here, but it DID come fourth. Honest. Ask them if you don't believe me.)
Kismet GT
Barely an inch between the unyielding sweep of contoured steel and himself, a mere scrap of titanium and lycra. He stutters to an ungainly halt and steadies himself, furious fingers fumbling for his phone, obscene invective exhaled to mingle with the choking miasma of the waking city.
He hurriedly snaps the registration, the car now coasting unapologetically twenty metres ahead. Personalised. Adrenaline floods his frame as he recalls newspaper headlines. The stories of near misses on the cycling forums. The worry on Lorna’s face when he announced he was parking the season ticket for good.
Nerves regained, he checks behind him, and pushes off. Maybe it had been him. They had endured another restless night, both of them sleep deprived by the lack of a child to wake them. Three weeks have not even touched the pain.
No. The driver disregarded him. A tubular irrelevance. He imagines turning the corner to see the sculptured curves torturously twisted and smoking, debris scattered on scarred tarmac. He banishes the thought with abject shame. He should not deny a hypothetical child a parent. Hardly their fault their personalised father is a personalised wanker.
He does see the car later that evening. Rear indicators flashing in the inky evening light, its plaintive alarm protesting like a tantruming toddler, sitting on the naughty step of the city council’s parking enforcement lorry. He imagines the blind, uncomprehending panic when its absence is noted. The cold dread of material loss. He smiles, and heads home.
(Only the first three placed stories are published on their website, so I have published the story here, but it DID come fourth. Honest. Ask them if you don't believe me.)
Kismet GT
Barely an inch between the unyielding sweep of contoured steel and himself, a mere scrap of titanium and lycra. He stutters to an ungainly halt and steadies himself, furious fingers fumbling for his phone, obscene invective exhaled to mingle with the choking miasma of the waking city.
He hurriedly snaps the registration, the car now coasting unapologetically twenty metres ahead. Personalised. Adrenaline floods his frame as he recalls newspaper headlines. The stories of near misses on the cycling forums. The worry on Lorna’s face when he announced he was parking the season ticket for good.
Nerves regained, he checks behind him, and pushes off. Maybe it had been him. They had endured another restless night, both of them sleep deprived by the lack of a child to wake them. Three weeks have not even touched the pain.
No. The driver disregarded him. A tubular irrelevance. He imagines turning the corner to see the sculptured curves torturously twisted and smoking, debris scattered on scarred tarmac. He banishes the thought with abject shame. He should not deny a hypothetical child a parent. Hardly their fault their personalised father is a personalised wanker.
He does see the car later that evening. Rear indicators flashing in the inky evening light, its plaintive alarm protesting like a tantruming toddler, sitting on the naughty step of the city council’s parking enforcement lorry. He imagines the blind, uncomprehending panic when its absence is noted. The cold dread of material loss. He smiles, and heads home.