Flight

The chevy Luv flew down the highway in a bloody red streak. Inside, amid the blare of rock music, Marty flicked growing ashes from his Lucky Strike into an overflowing ashtray. A few candy wrappers and the radio's tuning knob lay in the discarded heap of cigarette butts. As he rounded a corner in the road, static interrupted Mellencamp's "Hurt So Good." Pines towered over the power lines outside, blocking the radio signal.

Robin flew down the highway, swerved from the road and back, aware of her pursuer. "Love isn't like this, baby." She turned her head to gauge the distance between them. "You're gaining on me." Her flirting had gotten her into this chase, but she was determined not to be caught. Pines zipped past her as she increased her speed. Looking forward again, she saw a red truck round the corner. Smiling to herself, she swerved straight into its path. Her lover, hot of her tail, followed.

Suddenly two birds swooped down in front of Marty's truck. The first narrowly escaped; the second thunked loudly on the windshield. A beak and a few feathers lay embedded in the left wiper. The rest scattered to the exhaust fumes behind.
The trees began to clear and the radio reestablished itself. Marty took a drag off his Lucky Strike. "Freakin' birds," he muttered.

-Rachel Johnson, 1995