(Flash Fiction) Early Morning

It’s early. Early-morning-early. Deafening-bird-song early. And it’s time.

My woman and I are locked in a battle of wills. She’s saying: It’s bloody early, you woke me up. But I just give her my big, brown puppy-dog eyes and she tells me I’m adorable and I know she’ll let me go.

You see, I have to share this stretch of road with a Class A Dickhead. While the rest of the country are stuck in their cabins, rarely venturing out these days, this prize idiot in his souped-up tricycle likes to practice his motocross, full throttle before dawn on our road on his way to “work”.

Yeah, “work”.

To make matters worse, I’ve caught him chatting up my woman at the gate more than once. The last time, I was hiding behind the hedge listening to his shite until my eyeballs ached from rolling. There he was, in the middle of this sales pitch:

“It’s loike, the most physically demanding sport in the world. So, y’know, loike, anytime you want to watch some elite athletes duke it out, loike-”

At this point I had to run at him, telling him and his stupid haircut to Fuck Off and he was all:

“Hey buddy, calm down, I’m just, loike, well… hey, see ya around, yeah?” as he hopped onto his crappy two-wheeler and zoomed off in a cloud of dust and fumes.

But I digress.

My woman said she’d give me two minutes. That’ll be cutting it fine. Out here on the road, head cocked to one side, the commencing roar of engine cracks the calm and I sprint; breath puffing out like bursts of cloud. Hair streaming, nostrils flaring, hear the acceleration.




The engine is a thundering growl, louder by the second. I crouch.


He rounds the corner and I leap. The bike leaps. Saliva spray sparkles in the silver shadow. We eyeball each other mid-air. He’s mouthing something as he sails through the air, the destination of his flattening curve: the ditch.

There’s a grating percussion of brambles and nettles and metal but I don’t wait, I can hear the hoarse, annoyed whisper of my woman.

“Mutley!” She tries to whistle. She’s an awful eejit, but I still love her. “Where are you, bold dog? Mutley!”

I dash along the road, tongue joyously flapping and cannonball into her waiting arms.