Through the Bristles

The open sliding door revealed a sunken brass drainage grate outside the entrance portico, basking in sharp afternoon glare. Dead center on my trajectory lay a stiff commercial shoe brush embedded in the granite floor. Circumvent? Negative. Axles locked to peak torque. My orange tires gripped the polished brass sill and fired me forward into an explosive dash. Front splitter slammed into the dense nylon bristles—thwack! Fibers bent under raw velocity, buzzing loudly against my undercarriage as my wheels clawed straight across the coarse tufts. I launched off the opposite rim, clearing the brush entirely, and touched down squarely on the sunny brass grate. Overhead glare ignited my body into blinding chartreuse shards across the dark stone. Pathway conquered.