Monthly Writing Workshop Shorts (#3)

October - Did You See the Deer?

How long had it been? An hour? Maybe two?

Sighing, Isaac Hodge fiddled with the radio.

"Sen. Conneley's tuition-free 'Conneley School,' Henry J. Malloy University, turns 10 this year! In August, the Portersburgh-"

"Authorities are responding to a crash on Route 42, where-"

"Tonight, the Tell-Tale Rook proudly presents 'The Deer'!"

Isaac gave the knob one last twist, then let go. Playful fingers tap-danced along the SUV's wheel as Blondie's "Heart of Glass" muttered out from the cabin speakers. Whatever kept him alert.

Isaac had been driving in what felt like circles. He couldn't recall when the last traces of sunlight had drained below the wild stretch of scenic nowhere. It all bled together through his bleary eyes, except for the moon high above the oaks and pines. A crooked milky sliver smiled down on him, barely guiding the way.

Isaac smirked to himself. After-dark disco party.

DEER X-ING

Headlights reflected off a cautionary yellow diamond with the vector image of a leaping deer. Isaac had spotted dozens of these signs stamped about Fox Run Lakes' winding roads.

Admit it. You're lost. Isn't that the same sign? Where's that motel?

Out of all the places to escape his Downtown Fox Run home and heated sports betting addiction, it had to be here. Not cross-country to San-Rock City. Not to the snowy slopes of Colson Park. Not even to the country's capital of Arbourton. Here, at the national park outside Fox Run limits, where cell service fluctuated as it pleased, and deer ran the neighborhood.

With a sharp yank of the wheel, the SUV screamed to the left.

Screw it! Try this way!

Was it just another road in the maze? Another driver. Another deer sign. More shadowy blotches. But, then, like a beacon in the midnight blue, a welcomed sight appeared.

"G__"

The gas station was a tacky roadside refuge. What remained lit of the fluorescent "GAS" lettering cried out in the dark, begging drivers like Isaac to visit one of its six pumps or the convenience hut tucked under its canopy. Earlier, Isaac had stopped at another station for an icy pick-me-up, but the slushie machine was down. Maybe this one was working? And he could ask for directions after the last attendant's unhelpful attitude. He pulled over and parked by the hut.

Isaac stepped inside the hut. His eyes burned. Bright ceiling lights blinded him for a split-second. The hut was a shoebox, cramped and reeking of candied fumes. Newsy bits crackled over speakers. Coolers on death's door whined in the back. An attendant at the counter leaned against a cigarette wall, texting behind the plexiglass barrier. Isaac spotted the slushie machine along the side wall with magazines, day-old pizza and corn dogs.

"And now, more on the Route 42 crash...learned...two involved..."

A teenage boy rebelliously sat between the machine and warming cabinets. He had matted hair, and mud speckled his navy hoodie and jeans. An H.J.M. keychain adorned the pack next to him. In his hand was a red Solo cup filled high with berry-blue ice. He dug into it with a spoon straw. How did he have one? When Isaac tried, the machine froze on the selection slide.

The boy slurped down a chunk, garbling, "Ish cohl," through his straw.

Isaac stabbed at the touchscreen. Stupid...just...ugh!