Raising the Fawn

By Garth Paulson

It’s an overcast Sunday in July. The minutes on the clock crawl by slowly, one after the other. The house is empty except for you, and you’re about to leave.

The door opens smoothly, silently. You turn the lock into place and step outside. There is a light dew on the grass and the crisp smell of moisture fills your nostrils. The muted song of a far away bird flutters to your ears as you begin to walk. You don’t have a particular destination, randomly turning in whichever direction the gentle breeze seems to guide you.

Your footsteps fall creating a natural rhythm that soon effortlessly overtakes you. A corner is rounded. You are walking towards a small pond and you can see two children playing by the edge of the water in the distance. The ground slowly starts to dip. A leg is lifted and a foot is brought down with a slightly louder thump. You continue down the hill, barely realizing everything around you seems to be intensifying. A rain drop splashes off your nose.

The walking stops.

You look up to the grey clouds above and suddenly everything erupts. The sky tears open, unleashing fat bombs of water. The world seems to come alive, with everything around you humming and crashing in unison. A glorious harmony reaches your ears and you are nearly overcome.

Then you realize nothing has changed, there isn’t a flurry of activity, you are standing alone in the rain as your surroundings serenade you.

A shiver races down your spine.