sand - McFodi
Rustles passed. Birds fluttered. Ahead, a lone bikepacker whidded down a sandy hill, the forest to her back. She came to rest at the base, coiffing her hair for a photograph. Later, picture within her pockets, she picked her way up to the seat, attempting to advance. Nothing. The sand had gripped the wheels in its grainy fingers, cementing the machine in place. She fell. The bicycle didn't. The sand buckled. The grainy void engulfed her machine, bringing her only sustenance with it.
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