GRAEME GUTTMANN

Two pumps stood against the land, the concrete, relics of the past. I wasn’t sure they’d even dispense gas, but somehow I still had faith that things did what they were supposed to do.

I’d been driving faster than normal, but I slowed down when I got to Nebraska. There was so much land in front of me, it didn’t feel like speed was making a difference.

I could feel a cavity growing in one of my left molars—all I’d eaten was stale candy from convenience stores that only saw a dozen customers a year—just enough to stay alive.

Some stores had other ways of making money—the pumps I pulled up to came with a man fishing something out of cooler. He turned to me; clear plastic bags filled with a deep red that could only be a dead thing. His liver-spotted hands shook as he held the meat, offered it to me.

what do you do with the rest of it—the guts and the antlers?

The deer man paused, considering whether my curiosity was the real thing.

most of the time it just gets thrown away. got no use for leftovers here. can’t have dead things just sitting around.

I watched him walk back to the cooler, saw piles of red bags behind the stained silver door. He could put me in there if he wanted to. No one’s looking for me. He could probably even sell me—this one died young but sometimes that makes them taste better—

GRAEME GUTTMANN is an editor and writer based out of Boston, Massachusetts. He graduated with an MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College in 2023. He works in entertainment media as an editor and film and television critic.