Friday Flash Fiction - Dented
Kirra is whizzing down the hill, her upper body curved over the handlebars to maximise speed, hair streaming out like a comet tail from her helmet, hands clenched to stabilise speed wobbles, wheels flying over the smooth solar-paved road. The wind rushes past her, carrying the scent of mango from the trees lining the road and the distant hum of a solar-powered tram. As she descends, the city unfolds, a vibrant tapestry of green gardens, gleaming solar panels, and colourful vertical farms. She laughs out loud, heart racing with the exhilaration of speed. Each twist and turn of the road feels like a dance, a graceful interaction between her and the solarpunk city. The icy cold beers in her backpack press against the small of her back. Nick will be surprised (and glad? Yes, definitely glad) to see her arrive as his shift ends.
Kirra is flying through the air. Her arms flail, looking for stability. Time stretches like a rubber band as she soars through the air, weightlessness juxtaposed with the urgent racing of her thoughts. Her body moves in a fluid arc, the city far below. The vivid landscape blurs into a whirl of colours, and for an instant, she is suspended in a surreal dreamscape of motion and sensation. The rubber band snaps back. She drops her shoulder and rolls. Something cracks. Her head, snug in the web of her mycelium helmet, bounces off the hard road panels.
Kirra is sprawling on the ground. Her body feels heavy, and the warm road seeps through the fabric of her clothing. Surrounding sounds drift in and out: a magpie warbles, a tram swishes by, bicycle bells ring.
She can feel blood trickling down her thigh.
What the fuck just happened?
'Hey, you okay?' The voice is up close, drifting insistently into her consciousness.
Kirra drags her eyes open. A walnut wrinkled face is peering at her, soft and gentle in the bright sun. Her destiny tattoo includes medic, which Kirra supposes is something good in all this.
'Yeah. Yeah, I'm…' She tries to push herself up, but with a stab of pain in her collarbone, realises she isn't okay and sinks back down and closes her eyes. What had happened? Did someone crash into her? There didn't seem to be anyone else lying on the ground in agony.
'I'll call for a stretcher.'
Her rescuer murmurs into her wrist dev. The sun is hot on Kirra's arm, and she tries to cover it with her shirt. Fuck, she could do with one of the beers right now. Where are her bike and bag anyway? Has the beer survived? She turns her head, searching for her bike.
'Try not to move. The ambo will be here soon. Just hang in there, dear. Here, I'll put my sarong over you, can't have you burning up in the sun as well as broken. Oh dear love, what a horrible thing to happen. And it looks like you were off for a lovely, relaxing evening with all that beer. What a pity; now it's rolling and leaking everywhere. I think it was the beer that did you in, fell out your bag – look here, there's a hole in the bottom – and rolled under your wheels. I'll wait til the medics are here, hold your hand as it were, and then I'll see how many I can salvage for you, feed any open cans to the trees. Although the lorikeets look interested in a little drink themselves.' The old woman didn't seem to need to breathe, her words coming out in a rush, rolling over Kirra and pinning her to the ground.
She can’t keep her new job in the kitchen with a broken collarbone. The image of Nick and her working together fades. Dented beer cans, dented dreams.