Red Sand-- Sci-fi February

Freedom

Red lights blink on the handles I grasp.

Not good.

Break out of prison, steal a jetpack. Great plan.

Jetpack screaming: LOW BATTERY -- at 4000 feet?

Bad plan.

Landing is difficult, like a goose to a pond. Dive, float... MAYDAY. I mentally flap some wings.

I crash into the sand.

Red sand, sparkling in the sunlight. I'm in a desert. Rippled red sand, stretching for miles.

My captors boom overhead, two streaks through the deep blue.

Missed me.

I stand, dusting specks off myself, my hair, some off my tongue.

What does red sand taste like?

Freedom.

And 'lost'.