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.
The carousel spun, frozen horses galloping within the abandoned funfair.
She clung to her mount, fingers prying flaking paint away. Dreaming of a heartbeat, the rhythm between hooves and breath.
Tears tracked down her face. She missed horses the most, yet like everything they were gone.
Lost to the plague.
Andrew originates from the UK but lately finds himself drinking black coffee and dodging possums in Brisbane.