Close Encounters

Blades whirring beneath my seat, I approached the downward slope. I startled her, and the jerk of her head caught my attention. We looked each other square in the eyes.

Holding her gaze as if it were sent from heaven above, I first pressed the lever to stop the rotation below, and then turned the key to kill the motor.

Four, long, nimble limbs, supporting a body with fading white spots intended to camouflage, darted onto the scene. Now four brown eyes stared unblinking at two hazel.

What to do?

No harm, I said in a whisper voice.

Was it a sign of trust that Mother doe bent her head and plucked a fallen green apple from the grass, chewed, then—with grace—plucked another before leading her fawn down the overgrown path away from me as if I was nothing more than a furry hopper with two long ears?

Who knows?

The story suits my tastes and therefore, it’s the one I’m telling myself.

What kind of stories do you tell?
To others?
To yourself?