He’d taken this route every year. Nothing like this ever happened before. Guy came out of nowhere.
The reindeer were fatter this year so they blocked his view.
Opening his hip flask, he studied the splatter on the road.
Nobody believed in him anyway. Better go before witnesses turn up.
Joey does not and never did believe in the existence of Santa.
Dozens of rabbits frolicked about in our back yard, blissfully unaware of threat in the lush green grasses.
But soon came a predator, a fox, lean and hungry, and one by one the rabbits vanished.
Yesterday the fox lay in the road, killed by a predator in a passing car.
Catherine Mathews, a retiree of the Foreign Service, spent time in Paris, Rome, Tel Aviv, Athens, Frankfurt, and Istanbul. She has published a memoir and enjoys writing short fiction.
I didn’t swerve to crush the squirrel in the road.
I didn’t round the block and try again.
I remember vividly: the squirrel, lying on his back in the middle of the road, legs flailing, writhing in pain.
I should have killed him. I left him suffering and cannot forget.
Harry Demarest has retired after careers encompassing scientific research, teaching, Computers, the internet, and politics. He is now writing and spending time with his grandchildren. He has published a dozen fifty word stories, and a couple of longer ones.
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.
“I’m an utter failure,” moaned Willy the possum. “If only I had gone to the Interstate with my brother Ben. I could’ve really been somebody!”
Willy flopped down beside a pothole on the back-country road and sighed wretchedly. “Goodbye, Linda.”
Perhaps symbolically, the truck driver didn’t even notice the bump.
Vigafray suggested the title this story was written for. I interpreted it as a play on the classic, erm, play, Death of a Salesman, which I’ve never actually seen or read. Maybe that’s why this story is so depressing and not funny. I don’t know. So sue me. The lack of humor in this story is just another in my long line of failures and uselessnesses. (Heh, there are so many “S”es in “uselessnesses”. Hee hee.)