One dizzy night I drank too much Jack and ginger and skid and hit a limping fawn. It didn't bleed as much as split open to reveal a diorama: tiny stars drizzled syrupy light upon a yawning girl in bed, her hands resting upon an Ouija Board. Even though it was illegal not to report a dream deer as they were called I couldn't risk speaking to cops with a slur. Lake effect snow crackled with television static and the girl's awakening stirred the woods. Through my squinting vision trees appeared to be patting swelling bellies as the girl circled palms against the board. I rushed to my truck and furiously turned the key but the engine flooded as winds picked up and spun snow around the cab in a chrysalis. I felt drowsy and rested against the window, beating myself up about the metamorphosis that was beginning.
Jeffrey H. MacLachlan also has recent or forthcoming work in New Ohio Review, The Minnesota Review, Skidmore Penthouse, and Clay Bird Review, among others. He wishes there was a Literature Combine. He can be followed on Twitter @jeffmack where you can read jokes about sports and music. He hails from Skaneateles, New York.
What meal is he always hungering for? “Anytime I’m back in New York, whether it would be Brooklyn or the Finger Lakes, I can’t go too long without hitting up Dinosaur BBQ. They have brisket, wings, mac & cheese, and craft brews all under one roof. The fact that you can also watch sports on televisions is pure gravy.”
Back to Issue 4: Hungry Things