Bitesize fiction. The hitchhiker

We had to drive across the country recently to get to a sporting event.

We were both rather tired and it was the last leg of the trip. It had already rained and the sun was just barely peeking from behind the clouds.

I was driving and the cement on the road had seen better days but I had also seen worse roads than that one.

All of a sudden, we see a hitchhiker.

"Where to, friend?" I ask him as he gets on.

"Oh, jast diawn the road at the manastery." He had the lilty accent of the locals. Very picturesque.

"Very well. Just tell us where to stop."

He seemed unused to the car trip and gripped the side of his seat a bit shakily. I decided to drive slower for his sake.

"Are you ok? Sorry if my driving is too fast."

"No, it is fine. Viry camfy in yer car." He wiped his brow. "Oh. The manastery."

I stop and, sure enough, there was our camp right across the street.

"Thenk yee. How mich do I pay?"

"Nothing at all, this is also our stop." I smiled and my husband offered to help him down but our hitchhiker refused.

"Thank yee, thank yee. I am fine. Ghid day."

We watched him leave, obviously happy to be walking on his own again. Perhaps he just didn't go by car that often...

He definitely doesn't go by car that often.

Bitesize fiction. The great migration

It is like a forest, a mathematically correct forest, with threes in rows and columns, piercing the burnt evening sky like soldiers.

They stand still, quiet. They loom over the ground, their canopies tightly gathered around the metal trunks. They seem dignified and stern, refusing to ruffle even with the wind.

The lights appear, one by one, weaving a tight black net over the metal trees like spiders drawing in towards their prey. Menacing, glowing evil, sure of their victory.

Then the trees breathe sharply, all in unison, the white branches lifting and dropping back down with a thud.

A second of silence.

One of the trees extends a second trunk to the ground, spreads two gigantic white fabric branches into a pair of wings, lifts a sharp beak to the web above and bites sharply into it. The lights break helplessly, the web is viciously torn.

The other trees also lift their beaks towards the clouds, clamping loudly, deafeningly.

The first tree that had moved flaps its wings and lifts off the ground through the hole in the net, followed by its siblings. All the while, they keep clamping their beaks like a flock of storks, three meters tall and made of steel and fabric. But who says you shouldn't fly if you are made of steel and fabric?