The hose barely displaced the red gunk clinging to the bumper. Liz adjusted the nozzle, her hands shaking.
The car was a mess, bonnet crumpled, lights smashed.
Just a deer, leaping out of the shadows.
The fact that it had a childlike face was merely a trick of the night.
Andrew writes flash fiction and drinks black coffee. Find out
what else he gets up to by following @imageronin.