The wheels, the chain, stop turning as the bike comes to a halt, marking the dirt.
A new petrol station. Huh.
The old trees turn to face him, empathetic, and he looks forward.
He’s seen everything here. The chain goes taut, the wheels turn.
© Hunter Haigh 2021
This flash fiction piece was written at the Lunchtimes are lit! workshop at Raine Square, run by Night Parrot Press and WritingWA.
Hunter Haigh is 16 and has been writing for many years. His works mainly include flash fiction and short stories. Aside from writing, he is a jazz vocalist and an avid composer of Western Art music.