FFF: Speed

The nose of the machine approaches a tight left hander. He accelerates. The back slides out, but doesn’t come unstuck.

Ahead is rougher terrain, but he’s ready. He thumbs a button. A cloud bellows out from below, hissing. He presses on, showing no mercy to the bumps and folds, gliding over them on a cushion of vapour.

He slows, turns, a full one eighty.

One last run.

Pushing down hard he races back they way he came, finally coming to rest at the starting point.

He hangers the shirt, and rummages in the basket for the next garment to iron.