I didn’t mean any harm. I didn’t even know he was there. I was trying to take a picture of the mountains. The mountains!
The motorbike wobbles. It’s windy here, and the road curves so sharply, but I can’t slow down. I catch glimpses of him: shaggy head, ropy arms, loping through the trees.
Reclusive. Probably mythical. I’d laugh, but…
Bridge ahead. I gun the motor. The sound of the engine kicks up into a higher register. It’s weak, feeble against the weight of the night and the forest.
I hear the heavy footfalls behind me.
Am I fast enough?
Tools of the Trade: The Perpetua Pencil
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