The Autumn Fuss
The trees are all waving in the cold, Come see, Come see; they've got blood in their cheeks. The dog will not stop barking at the lake. At the swans on the lake. What am I even looking at? Poor thing's losing its mind over nothing, howling at the green water, the white birds. Maybe it's the contrast that's driving her bonkers.
The horse figures it out first. Horses are good at these things, puzzles, veils, all that. That's probably why they're measured in hands.
The horse says, The trouble is, those aren't swans.
Aren't swans? Of course they're swans.
Swimming in strange, too-fast circles, maybe, but swans all the same. They're swimming so fast, in fact, that the lake's sucking down into a whirlpool, turning black.
They aren't swans, the horse says again. They're spoons.
I squint through all that pouring sun. They swim faster, faster, their white feathers blurring, and you know, I can see it. There. The white flash of light on a metal spoon's neck.
K.C. Mead-Brewer lives in Baltimore, Maryland. Her writing appears in Carve Magazine, Hobart, Fiction Southeast, and elsewhere. For more information, visit kcmeadbrewer.com and follow her @meadwriter.