Ficlets

I mounted the vespa in as close to motorcycle style as I could manage. Kick-start.

“Bruummm-cough-sputter,” said the vespa.

I replied with a heavy stomp on the starter pedal. The vespa just re-iterated his original point.

I growled and got off, leaning it against the curb and looking around.

Vending machine building. Supposedly a rest-stop, but with no parking spaces. A positively martian landscape of red dust, scraggly weeds and distant mountains. Griddle black highway and its attendant shimmering mirages. The yellow lines matched the vespa.

Damn hot. Nobody around, but I’d already stripped down way past my comfort level in the ladies’ room, and stood there barefoot in guy’s boxers and a thin and sweat-soaked tee.

I suppose I looked ridiculous, especially with oversized goggles pushed up on my forehead and a helmet stuffed full of discarded clothes dangling in hand.

I sighed and slumped to the curb, only to spring up again with a stifled yelp. Burned arse.

Hell, I can yelp if nobody’s there, right?