The helicopter circles, when it ducks low the windows shake. My dog looks at me wondering if he should flee.
It circles again. A grinding like an airborne lawnmower.
I know if I look out there will be a searchlight. On the streets, there may be police cars. The helicopter threads through the air while I cook dinner. I make sure the doors are locked. I listen to the grinding engine, desperation in the thrum.
I hear the click of my dog’s nails as he seeks his safe zone.
The helicopter continues to shred through darkness until there’s just the chirp of crickets.
Categories: Flash Fiction