Man and Machine.

John swore loudly and slammed his hands down on the steering wheel. The white Citroen 2CV, rusted at the edges and wearing a fine coat of reddish dust, shuddered its last breath. John turned the key in the ignition, over and over, but to no avail. The little car was kaput. No more trips to the shops, no more promenades through the countryside or journeys to the pier. He got out and sighed, slamming the door behind him. Opening the bonnet, he realised he knew precious little about cars and would be unable to help the situation by fiddling around. He gave the car up for dead.

He was about a 25 minute walk from the next village. He would push his car into the woods a little, and set off to find a telephone. The car slid (with a little difficulty), off the road, and he was on his way. He can't have walked more than 100 metres when the first of two things happened. The Citroen lost its grip on the soil (perhaps the handbrake gave way, perhaps the ground did) and rolled down the hill where, after gaining quite some speed, it collided with a birch tree and was brought to a halt, its bonnet wrapped round its trunk like a boxing glove holding a broomstick.

The second thing that happened was that John was hit by a Ford pick-up truck, pushing 80 down the country lane, and killed instantly. And the driver dragged John into the woods and drove off, even faster than before.

Some people who go missing get missed. Those people get searched for. Others don't. They don't. John was 67, retired, friendless, unmarried, a single child long orphaned. No one came for him. So there, in the woods, his flesh melted away in one thousand rainfalls, his bones picked white by the creatures of the forest floor.

Meanwhile, the Citroen, once lifeless, was now full of life. Green mosses grew up its sides like algae on a boat's hull. Ivy wound round its wheels and saplings pushed up through its leather seats. Mice nested in its glove compartments. And in spring, flowers pushed their bright faces through its windows.