Ficlets

Fergus Gibson ran. He had been running for months, but this time he really ran. Open moorland stretched around him, offering scant cover, not that it would do him any good. His foot tipped into a rut and he fell sideways. Too tired to roll, he landed heavily, scrambled up and staggered on, favouring his left leg. Strong wind pushed him onwards, not quite behind him, gusting savagely and freezing his shirt to his back, it was enemy enough on its own. With any luck, the black clouds it was dragging in from the West would rain soon and rain hard. That would buy him time. Maybe as much as an hour. Don’t look back.

With a squeal and a blur of brown wings, a grouse shot past him. Startled, he missed his footing again and crashed to the ground. As he fell, he caught a glimpse of what had flushed the bird. Not even an hour.