Flash Fiction
Gwynne Monahan
Word Count: 261

Nothing Broken

The sign said WALK. I looked left, then right before my feet moved from sidewalk to street asphalt.

Ears caught acceleration. Head turned. Eyes followed as feet kept moving, the bus registering briefly as out of place. My left hand shot out, palm open. Body turned sideways, bracing, ready to defend.

Impact. Driver’s side. Light. Glass. Metal to Rubber. Squeal.

Flesh to glass. Flesh to metal as force exits to wrist. Elbow. Shoulder. Airborne.

Space opens up between my shoes and the asphalt as my eyes look down the length of my body before turning to what I could not yet see, making note of the plants and trees in the median, the curb as it runs parallel to me. Adrenaline fights with relaxation as I sail through the night air, the squealing ringing in my ears.

Right shoulder meets pavement as cloth jacket grinds against gravel, bits of asphalt left from a recent repaving. Hands wrap around my body, squeeze tight, holding it in an embrace, protective, curling up for impact. My hat escapes my head, final force exit, cold touching my ears and hair follicles, an unexpected sensation.

Motion stopped. Equal and opposite force. I instinctively reached for my hat, the bus wheels skidding to a stop at my pinky.

I picked up my hat, placed it back on my head, stood up and hurried the last four steps to the curb. Cars pulling out of the underground garage stopped at the red light, drivers and passengers looking at me, looking at each other. I dusted myself off, looked at my hands, shook both arms and legs.

Nothing broken.