A deer in the kitchen sink

by David J. Tate

It started when I thought I saw a muntjac deer in the kitchen sink.

Or maybe it was when I woke to witness a blank of nothingness instead of my bedroom.

The deer rapidly reformed into a purple tree stump.

Thinking back there have been strange events for some time.

Boris Johnson, smartly groomed, told the truth.

A pretty dark-haired lady was striding onto the train I was departing, and ten minutes later, as I arrived home by car, was casually walking past my house.

I was speaking on the phone to a work colleague based in India as he walked, floated, past my bedroom window.

The Ocado delivery driver was also the postman, my barber seemed to be serving in the local supermarket and my doctor was my dentist.

The moon disappeared for a few minutes and the sky turned into a momentary yellow throbbing fuzz.

My next-door neighbour’s dog became a cat for a day, and then reverted to its original canine identity as its owner meowed with relief.

I put this all down to tiredness, a lack of sleep, depression. Well, that’s what a giant rabbit suggested.

My girlfriend said I should see a doctor and then she disappeared to reappear the next day as an actor in Line of Duty.

My dentist told me I needed an operation, while my podiatrist advised new sunglasses.

The doctor told me that a scan had shown I have a brain tumour.

I have no recollection of having a scan.

David J. Tate lives in a small village in Hampshire, UK, and is a retired career civil servant. He has signed a contract for his first novel
, just finished a second, beginning a third, and writing short stories in between.

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