by Jarrid Deaton
The police report said the accident happened around three in the morning. The toxicology results had him at being just past drunk as hell along with those pills floating in the alcohol that swished through his system. He must have blacked out and let his hands slip from the steering wheel. The jeep left the road going about sixty-five and crashed into the rocky hillside that borders the river before flipping on its top and spinning sparks in the middle of the road. Crushed glass bottles from the backseat sent cicadas, beetles, flies, mantids, antlions, messes of frayed translucent wings and cracked shells, sliding across the asphalt and mixing with oil and the other fluids of the jeep. The cops shined their lights on the road, dead bugs glistened with black wetness, and no matter how weird it looked to them, it all meant one simple thing: single vehicle fatality accident.
Jarrid Deaton lives and writes in eastern Kentucky. He received his MFA in Writing from Spalding University. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Zygote in my Coffee, The Cut-Thru Review, The Beat, and elsewhere.