Two Flash Fictions
Lately I've been dreaming about the family of deer living in the wooded area near my house. Because of construction on the other side of the tiny forest, the deer come out on the sidewalks. Where they are going, who knows. They head toward a major street and an elementary school. Imagine, three deer casually breaking through traffic toward the Burger King dumpster or exciting children on recess. The deer are mostly friendly and sometimes eat out of our neighbors' garden.
Yesterday, our dog escaped as we brought in groceries and chased after a deer, with me chasing them both. The dog wandered back home on its own, but I ended up sneezing distance from the mother. She ignored me until she couldn't, dropping a low growl in the stranger's backyard where we stood.
In my dreams, the deer have found me in the parking lot of a grocery store. They snag me with invisible antlers and begin to run, me bobbing in joy and terror. Although we travel farther in each dream, I always wake up before we get where we are going.
The realtor assures us the suicide was bloodless, pointing to the clean, empty spot where they found the previous owner. Pills she thinks, or Drano. In that moment in the back room filled with amber light, I realized how dark afternoons can be, how dust in beams can portend fear of life, in all its unyielding senseless objectivity.
About the Author: Chance Dibben is a writer, photographer, and performer living in Lawrence, KS. His writing has appeared in Split Lip, Reality Beach, Horsethief, Yes Poetry, Atlas and Alice, as well as others.