Statues line the promenade,
sun bleached and wind worn
tucked between the palms
one or two lay crumbling,
beheaded, missing limbs,
impromptu Venus

On summer nights like these,
the ocean spray blows in
to cover the city like mist
gently drowning our ambition
in seasaltbreeze

Cyan & amethyst
LED streetlights,
empty quads and alleys
where someone is playing
a Haydn Quartet
mixed by way of Moroder,
windows spilling neon
and complacent violin
-the neighborhood a mash
of old brick and new glass
looking for all the world like
something out of
la quartier mécanique

And right here’s my favorite
24hr. detox and Japanese takeout place
the soda fountains all serve
GHB and TAB Clear
(think Crystal Pepsi w/caffeine),
Arizona Ice Tea,
and water that tastes like zinc

From the corner booth
you can just make out
across the street,
through the gently
shifting fronds
a dozen TV-VCR combos
stacked in an immaculate
storefront window all playing
the Twin Peaks pilot on endless loop

While beyond,
the sea stacks sway
and glisten in
the dead summer haze
and together we melt
into A E S T H E T I C


The Grave Robber’s Confession by Mack W. Mani

I’ve seen Will ‘o Wisps
and St. Elmo’s Fire,
mostly them in the Southlands
graveyards near bayous or swamps.

I once saw an entombed woman 
come back to life 
three days after her death,
I had just slipped the ring 
off her finger pale and bony,
when she gasped and rose with a cry.

One summer I lived 
in the catacombs beneath Paris
and for nigh on a month
never once saw the light of the sun,
only pale torchlight 
cast across fields of bones,
wooden chests rotted to their hinges.

I have walked the hall of ashes
and seen the rotting face 
of John the Baptist.

Once in Afghanistan, 
I even spied a ghoul
prowling the trenches near dawn 
picking the corpses 
of both sides equally.

These are my qualifications,
such as they are;
few know as much about death
and the places of the dead 
as grave robber, 
so believe me when I tell you,
there is nothing beyond the grave,
but me.

No voices 
or tunnel of light
just darkness, dust, 
and these two dirty hands,
trying to make a living.


[Wooden Grave by Marker Majel G. Claflin c. 1937]


I kept your book
in the garden
where you’d left it
and watched day by day,
as the elements took it over,
sun bleaching the cover
rain swelling its pages.

From the right angle,
I could just make out
your hand drawn notes,
splayed across a corner of text,
the dog-eared page where
you had stopped reading
that sunny afternoon.

In time,
it settled into the loam
and there beneath the roses
framed and shaded in
hemlock and holly,
the book began to take root.

Before long
it stood as tall
as a sunflower,
sentences folded
into leaves,
spine extending
as a stalk.

And at the peak,
new pages began to form
as petals, stamen, pistol
gently folded origami
words not written when
you read the book.

Abstract and wondrous
prose and poems
from beyond the grave,
death having evolved your speech.

Fragments of memoir,
experience and tragedy
the travelogue of a dream
a journey into the surreal.

…such gifts they make of life here…
…blinding sun fractals bent at odd angles…
…Galore and Gore and Grammar…
…the pretense of time, alive and unending…
…my love my love my love…
…do not seek me here, for I am in the earth…

The thing lasted
almost a year
before succumbing,
despite my best efforts,
to the eternal,
withering, bent, and grey
I found it dead
on New Year’s Day.

I have the transcripts
those I could discern,
interred under glass
in a brightly lit corner
where sometimes
I simply sit and watch
and pretend that I can still
hear you out the window
in the garden below,
living, breathing,
and turning the pages.


What Walks Here, Walks Alone (Audio)

This is a quick reading I did of a previously unpublished poem, set to silent film footage.


Written, performed, and produced by Mack W. Mani

Video: Alice in Wonderland (1903) courtesy of Archive.org

The title is taken from The Haunting of Hill House by Shirley Jackson

The phrase “black chests and high back chairs” was lifted from the poem The Prophet’s Paradise by Robert W. Chambers

Special Thanks:

Jordan Seider & Elizabeth Laws


8 Tips For New/Unpublished Writers

1. Learn to write stories of different lengths/mediums.

Don’t be tied down to every idea as a novel or a screenplay. Some ideas simply work better as flash fiction or as a poem. If you’re not diversifying your output, then you are limiting the impact of your stories.

2. Submit to the right magazines (at the right time).

Take the time to compile a list of magazines and what types of stories they publish. Read what they publish. You are wasting your time and the time of the editor if you are unfamiliar with what the magazine wants.

Make note of their submission periods so you can stay on top who is accepting what types of stories.

Always check to see when the latest issue or post went online, there are lots of defunct magazines that still say they are “open for submissions”.

3. Submit regularly.

Give yourself regular deadlines to have work completed and submitted for either publication or contests. In the end, if you aren’t satisfied with what you’ve done, you don’t have to send it in, but it gives you a goal and a date to complete your project by.

(Don’t pay to enter or for consideration unless you are extremely confident in your work)

4. Do your cover letter right.

Use the editor’s name, if you can find it.

Don’t use a form letter for submissions, even if the magazine uses one for rejections.

Keep your cover letter brief, don’t describe your work, just who you are and that you thought it would be a good fit for their magazine.

Keep your bio professional, it’s okay to express yourself, but don’t try to make a lot of jokes or seem quirky, it comes off as desperate.

Don’t list 1,000 credits, just your most recent/prestigious publications. If you have no credits, keep it simple: Lucy Gordon is a French-Canadian Poet. She currently lives in Melbourne, Australia with her husband Thomas and their cat Judy. 

5. Don’t talk about writing, write.

It has been scientifically proven that talking about projects before they are completed gives one just enough satisfaction to feel like they do not need to complete the task. It’s better to share a finished product than an initial idea. Outside input too early in the creative process can muddle your vision and inhibit you from making something that’s truly your own.

6. Don’t be afraid to branch out.

Pursue your ridiculous ideas! 

In Wonderbook Jeff Vandermeer talks a lot about how important the imagination is in the writing process and emphasizes the importance of “creative play” or simply letting your mind go where it will. Indulge your fantasies and daydreams (and nightdreams for that matter) you never know what seemingly absurd idea will lead you to an amazing, original story.

7. Write everything down.

Make list of your ideas, interesting names you hear, locations, moods, scenes, if something in your daily life strikes you, then make a note of it because you will forget. 

Be organized, know where everything is. Don’t delete what you cut, set it aside for later use. Many times I’ve been inspired by seeing the scraps of two poems next to each other in my “cut document”.

8. Know the rules, so you can break them.

You’re going to do what you want anyway, but it helps to know what you’re pissing on and what you’re praising. Even if you want to write free form, non-rhyming poetry, it’s still helpful to learn about meter. If you never learn proper grammar, all your characters will sound casual and uniform.


REVIEW: The Secret History of Twin Peaks by Mark Frost

With the release of his new novel, Mark Frost brings the mystery, oddity, and myth of the cult TV series to the printed page.

“I’ll see you in 25 years.”

And we shall. Next year, Twin Peaks returns to television. In anticipation of this new season, co-creator Mark Frost has put together a book that’s every bit as strange and mysterious as the television series.

The book is told in an epistolary format, each loose “chapter” made up of various “found” documents collected by a mysterious character known only as The Archivist. Much of the book is this person’s summary and interpretations of the various documents including newspaper clippings, excepts from Dr. Lawrence Jacoby’s book, a short story by Deputy Hawk, transcripts of “classified” government audio recordings, and even pieces of Lewis & Clarke’s lost journals.

Adding another layer to the mystery, these collected documents have been recently “found” at a murder scene, and the FBI’s Gordon Cole (David Lynch in the series) has tasked an agent known only as “TP” with decoding the book and discovering the identity of The Archivist. This agent’s footnotes comprise the final layer of meta-awareness in the book as we join them in trying to riddle out the truth among the deceptions and discern the identity of the book’s author.

The novel mainly details the history of the town prior to the events of the show, as well as significant portions dedicated to various covert government operations involving residents of Twin Peaks and the surrounding woods. These chapters take the reader into the sordid worlds of UFO sightings, rocket science, coverups, and black magic. The brief looks at the town between the end of the series and the upcoming season are few and far between, serving only to whet the appetite. But what is meant to enlighten and what is meant to distract?

The book was initially met with a significant amount of backlash from long time fans of the show, as many small details from the series were seemingly ignored, retconned, or simply thrown out the window entirely. But as clever readers soon discovered there is more to these seeming errors than meets the eye.

More than once in the book it is indicated that the documents presented as “authentic and original” have either been altered or fabricated by parties unknown. The who and why are a matter of debate among fans who are still trying to suss out all of the clues and omissions. One example: throughout the book it is shown that The Archivist’s typewriter has no “1” key, instead they use the capital “I” making the number fifteen look like “I5”. This small quirk carries over into several documents that are supposed to come from different sources, indicating that these have been fabricated.

What is most surprising about the novel however, is how much real life history Frost has weaved into his fiction, from Lewis & Clarke to Jack Parsons and L. Ron Hubbard, he uses real figures from American history and the details surrounding their lives (and deaths) as a background to construct his Secret History of Twin Peaks. Research as you read and you’ll be surprised at how much of the book is based on actual incidents and people.

The only real issue I have with the book is the agent “reading” it. TP’s notes are often unnecessary, they point out things that should be clear to anyone who was paying attention. And while mostly relevant, several chapters seemed overlong and indulged too heavily in the realm of “conspiracy theories” including a lot of information on aliens and the Illuminati. Though exactly how pertinent these sections will be to the mythology of the show remains to be seen, and Mark Frost is keeping those details close to his chest.

I had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Frost at a book signing earlier this month, he was very friendly with all of the fans and gave thoughtful and satisfying answers to their questions. He played selections from the audiobook that (whenever possible) used the voices of actors from the show both old and new. He took ample time to speak with everyone in line for the signing and seemed genuinely gracious at the gifts he was given. When asked about the possibility of a sequel novel, he divulged that there is one in the works whose release will depend on the 2017 series.

As far as the physical book goes, the binding is excellent and the cover is beautiful. It looks great on the shelf, though it seems much longer than it is, much like Mark Z. Danielewski’s The Familiar series, the word count speaks more to the length of the book than the page count. The novel seems sizable, but reads quickly. The pages have full color, including some very cool red/blue photographs of owls, aliens, and BOB.

In the end, the book raises many more questions than it answers, but it wouldn’t be part of Twin Peaks if it didn’t. Fans will likely be reading between the lines and scouring the pages for clues for a very long time. This is an absolute must read for big fans of the show, however casual readers might be thrown off by the large amount of seemingly irrelevant material.

The new season of Twin Peaks premiers on Showtime sometime in the first half of next year.

Short Fiction

The House is Alive

You follow me up the servant’s stair, onto the darkness of the landing. The only light here comes from our headlamps, so dim now, we squint to see, their yellow light ever dimming. We squat in the hallway, beneath a dusty tapestry and you light one of the cigarettes provided by Central, 75% tobacco and 25% Adderall (to sharpen our senses, even as they are dulled). In this way, we are able to navigate the halls and stairs and endless rooms with minds un-compromised.

Protocol dictates that once every hour, we stop and assess our progress, which means checking to see if either of us have lost our minds. The unasked question between us now, what happened to the previous investigation? Were they overwhelmed by this house? Had all their training and meditation left them still unequipped for what resides here? Were there bodies to be found, or had they simply dissolved into the architecture of this place? Of only one thing we are certain.

The house is alive.

That we stick together is of the utmost importance, never leaving each other’s sight. Lest one of us wander down a corridor that a moment later, doesn’t exist or experience some specific phenomena that cannot be corroborated. You ask if I’ve seen anything unusual and I admit that the house seems to be moving slightly, the walls and floors expanding and contracting, as though we were exploring the arteries of some massive creature. To this you only nod, because we both know it could be worse. Much worse.

You try the radio again, in a half-hearted attempt to reach basecamp, a mile away, tucked in the hills behind the estate. But you know we’ve been cutoff from the outside world ever since we mounted the stairs to the second floor, modern technology having no affect in the upper stories.

There are rumors about this place, stories passed down from the natives to the French missionaries, legends of a squat stone building, the color of bone, that existed in this place before time memorial. Myths, like dreams, are easy to laugh at, but hard to ignore in the way they crawl inside you and set up camp.

As we mount up, I have you help me with my pack. I tell you it’s because of the bulk, (enough supplies to last us a week) but my hands have begun to feel numb ever since we stopped. We keep our eyes open for another staircase or ladder, but there’s nothing, just rooms and anterooms, places for music and bathing, for powder, business, pleasure, rooms for children, suites for guests, quarters for neighbors and servants, pantries and shelves of dusty cans, wine cellars stocked with mildew and grime. No sign of any outside thing, just us, in this house and I can’t help but feel intruder here, a child playing in a mausoleum.

We round a corner and I see two figures, standing at the end of the hall, turned from us. They wear heavy packs, strapped to their bodies. All through my face, I feel the familiar crackle of recognition, and I know, they are us. As we step forward, so do they, and I am afraid that if I turn back, I will see myself turning and beyond that, another and another.
You put your hand on mine, What is it? What do you see?

And the music begins.

A great sweeping orchestra, somewhere in the house, brass and woodwind, the percussion alone could deafen. I turn to see your reaction and by the look on your face, I know you cannot hear it. I open my mouth to explain, when several dust particles settle onto an antique chaise in the parlor, cast off from the ceiling by our vibrations one floor above. The beauty of this connection brings tears to my eyes.

Your grip on my arm tightens and mouth agape, I realize that I’m incapable of explaining to you, in any words, how I can feel so thoroughly throughout the house; a single drip of condensation sliding down a wall of white-yellow stone far down beneath the basements.
You are shaking me, shouting the words you hope will trigger something in my mind, Alabaster, Castaigne, Penrose, Keystone, and I try to tell you that it’s fine, that I’ve reached some kind of understanding with this place.

The research! I say, Think of what we are discovering!

But you just speak the words over and over, following instructions. I become aware of a minute fluctuation in temperature, a half degree or less.

And you are gone.

There is silence, the band has stopped playing, the walls have stopped breathing. I can feel my hands and my face and the weight of my pack. I am inside of a house. It is dark. My headlamp has gone out. I have a thirst beyond reckoning and I know that time has passed, but not how much. I try to take a step, my mind vaguely tracing a route back to the first floor, but discover that I have to sit down, suddenly exhausted.

Cross-legged on the hardwood, I try to remember what happened, where you went. I try to go back to that place, that state of mind. If only I could get back there, then I could simply feel where you were in the house, if you are still here. I am. Sitting on the fourth floor, unable to summon the energy to rise. Here between a broken statue and the library, groping in the dark, silent and agonized, feeling much like a ghost.

Short Fiction

The Farm

If you follow Highway 395 North, the wheat fields give way and rise up to rocky hills, jutting out of the landscape among old timbers. In early summer, the valley writhes in green, growing tall and wild, while briar patches take over sloping ridges along the lake. Old train tracks run along the highway, coming close to the road in some places, before receding back into the woods. There was a time when five or six trains came through a day, but now only one trudges through that landscape and even then, in the dead of night. And only one bus can take you out that far north, United 67 out of Spokane, once a week coming up through Deer Park, Colville, and into Stevens County.

The Young Man sat on the back of the bus, his face turned from the window. He closed his eyes and pressed his head against the glass, listening to the constant drone of the engine. The vibration on the glass shook his head slightly. In time, the bus jostled and he opened his eyes to see his breath fogging the window glass slowly, he blew gently on it and watched the fog disappear. He exhaled on the window again, but this time, raised a finger and drew on the window the shape of a boy. It was a simple drawing, the kind a child would make. Next to it, he began to draw a stick figure dog. He only got halfway, when he stopped, sensing something other than himself.

The woman across the aisle was staring. She had a book, a worn out paperback, her finger between pages. She smiled at him. She looked pretty.

“That’s nice, your drawing.”

“Is it?”

“I think so. Is it supposed to be you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is the dog his?”

“That’s what it looks like.”

She laughed, clean and clear.

“Where are you headed?” He asked her.

“All the way to the end. I’m visiting my sister, she just had a child.”

“Boy or a girl?”

“A girl. Lillian.”


Her smile faded, slightly. “It’s really her blessing…not mine.”

A silence before she spoke again. “Are you visiting family?”

The Young Man nodded. “Going home.”




“It’s my father he…”

“Is he ill?”

The Young Man looked away. “Yeah…he’s real sick.”

“I’m sorry. It’s brave of you to see him like this, I…know it can be hard.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah.”

“I hope he gets better.”


The woman picked up her book again. “He’s gone.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The boy and his dog. They’re gone.”

The Young Man turned to the window, the figures had faded, leaving only a trace of oil. He looked back at the woman, but she was already turned away, reading again. He lay back in his seat, looking out the large front window of the bus. Trees streaked by and at certain turns, he was able to see, in the distance, dark blue mountains, winding up to the sky. Some were still capped with snow and looking out at those lonely peaks, The Young Man slept.

In the dream, he was running. It was night, the sky flooded with stars. He was small, young, about eight or nine. He was sprinting through fields, the tall grass scratching at his bare skin. Next to him, low, a shadow bounced alongside and he was not afraid. He began to laugh and from just next to him, there came a howling out of the darkness.


Someone was shaking him.


His eyes were clouded. The bus, dim.

“What? What is it?”

“This is your stop.” The Driver looked down at him, wearily. All was quiet.

“Where are we?” He rubbed his eyes. He didn’t feel rested.

“Your stop. End of the line.”

He looked around, The Woman and her book were gone. “There was a woman here,” he said for some reason. The Driver sighed and ran a hand along his jaw. “You and I are the only one’s left. End of the line.” It was late afternoon and through the open door of the bus, a warm breeze was blowing. There was no one on the streets.

The Young Man stood and hobbled off on stiff legs, past The Driver, who only grunted.

Outside, he stretched and it felt good. He walked on the sidewalk until there was none, always to the north. The town was silent as he moved down back alleys and dirt paths. Once, a dog barked nearby, causing him to jump, he looked all around, but could not discern where it had come from and it did not come again.

The Young Man took the old Rockford road, over the narrow stone bridge and out into the fields, where the pavement gave way to a dust dirt road. Large and lonely farm equipment slung water in deep concentric circles, creating little rainbows over the crops.

After a time, at the sight of the great oak tree, he paused, slowed, and eventually stopped. Beyond, at the end of the rough and winding driveway, tucked amongst the old growth, was the home he grew up in. Inside that was a large box made of wood. And within that lay someone he had not seen in many years. Somewhere at the end of that road, lay the body of his father.

“Shit,” he said and forced himself to move on up the driveway.

The house stood as it always had and it was so near to the image The Young Man had built in his mind, he was taken aback. The same low vines hung over the porch, where the rusty swing rocked without any push. The same flowers from his youth grew to either side of the pathway, wild violets that no one could remember planting. The paint was just as peeled as he remembered, in all the same places, that familiar broken, twisted pattern he had traced all those years ago.

By the front porch, in the strip of lawn that ran along the house, he saw a smaller house, painted that same brick color of red, and The Young Man thought of Blue and for a moment believed that, at any moment, the old dog would somehow emerge from the darkness of the little structure and rear his head up, before hobbling over as best he could. But the moment passed and The Young Man mounted the steps.

Before he could decide whether to knock or simply enter, the door opened and his mother emerged. “You’ve been smoking.”


“I wasn’t asking.”

“Alright then, I was.”

“Told you.” They stared at each other for a tense moment, before The Mother’s face broke into a weathered smile, they embraced and she pulled him inside “You best come in.”

The Young Man saw that his mother did not move the same and, following her down the hallway, he was struck by her appearance. He had not known yet that people could become so visibly worn. For the first time, he realized that he was watching someone grow old. She led him into the parlor, then turned, “You got in early. You should sit down.”

He sat his bag down by the cold fireplace. “Been sitting all day.”

“How was the bus?” She began tidying up.


“Were you able to sleep at all?”

“A little.”

“Good. And you were able to get the time off?”

“Of course, no problem.”

“How’s your…friend? Jacob?”

He looked down. “Jared.”

“Jared.” She looked away.

“I don’t know. He’s fine, but…I don’t know.”

“Oh. Are you two not…?” She groped for the right words.


“Sit down, I’ll make some tea.” She turned to go.

“Mom, wait…we should talk.”

“We are talking.”

“About Dad.” She said nothing, frozen at the doorway. “Mom?”

“He’s gone.” She looked around for a moment then, as if she might find him somewhere in the room. Then she turned her head sharply and left. If some strength came from speaking the truth, The Young Man did not see it then in her.

He sat and gave furtive glances around the room, his eyes lingering over his father’s trophies. A stuffed turkey, fat and stretched into mock flight hung above the mantle. The head of a deer, its pointed antlers and black-bead eyes collecting dust on the far wall. On the table next to him, a stuffed Pheasant, looking nearly alive. Next to it was a photo of his father and Blue, the bird in his mouth. They both looked so young. They both looked happy and The Young Man wondered if the thought of keeping the old dog around in the parlor, had occurred to his father. But there had been no body.

After a time, his mother returned. The tea was hot and too strong and just perfect. When he was almost finished, he asked about his father.

“You can see him, if you like.” She spoke without looking at him.

“He’s here?”

“For the service tomorrow, like he wanted. They dropped him off this afternoon. He’s in the back.”

“How did it…?”

She shrugged. “We knew it was coming for a while.”


She thought for a moment. “What day is today?”


“Three days…I think. It was in the morning.”

“Have you gotten any sleep since then?”

“Here and there. I haven’t slept without him in…” She took a long drink of her tea.

“Is there anything that needs to be done?”

“It can wait until tomorrow.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner. I wanted to see him before…”

“He would have liked that.”

The Young Man shifted uncomfortably. “You understand, right? That I couldn’t-”

“It doesn’t matter, now.”

“I wanted to-”

“But you didn’t.” She looked him in the eyes now. “He loved you.”

“Did he say that? To you? Because I don’t know if he ever said it to me.”

“You know he loved you.”

“I guess…I guess I just thought he and I would have… time. To work stuff out.”

“You had time.”

“I didn’t want to see him dying.”

“Some of us didn’t have that option.”

“Well, I’m sorry!”

She laughed at that, not a cruel laugh, but one of genuine surprise and he was struck by its honesty. “Well, that’s fine. Fine. But I don’t want your apology…I don’t need it. I love you. You are the last thing on earth that I have, but I don’t need it. It’s been too much already. If you have something to say, something you need to say, say it to him yourself.” She turned to look out of the front window. The Young Man stood up.

“He’s in back?”


“How’s he look?”

“Oh, they fixed him up real nice.”

“I think I’ll go see him.”

“Alright.” She looked up at him, took his hand and squeezed it. “It’s good to have you home.” The Young Man did his best to smile. He let go of her hand and made his way to the back of the house, around every corner recognizing something old and forgotten.

When he finally made it to the oldest part of the house, now little more than a mud room, he stopped and looked in at the clean pine box that lay on the old dining table, the one his grandfather had built. It was open, the lid askew, but still he could not see inside.

Stepping forward, his father came partly into view, and with another he could see his face. A face he had almost forgotten. It was tragic, impossible, and repulsive. It was sad. And taking another step, he noticed the size the coffin had changed, it seemed now too small. Too small for a man’s life. And The Young Man felt like everything his father owned should be put in the box with him. All of his papers and books, his bottle and anger, his trinkets and memories and anything else he had taken and shaped by his own design. .
The Young Man watched his father’s corpse, embalmed and made up to look alive.

He searched for a fond memory of his father, untarnished by later arguments and was surprised when he found one: When he was just a boy, his father would take him onto his lap and The Boy would watch the smoke from his father’s pipe swirling around the room and his father would tell him jokes he was too young to understand, but he would laugh anyway, so that Dad would laugh. And together, with the sound of the radio and his mother sighing at them, they made something that The Young Man did not remember having: A normal childhood. He smiled and though no one could hear him, under his breath he muttered an apology.

He found his mother in the kitchen, hovering over the stove. “What are you making?”

“Dinner.” She pulled out some steak.

“You don’t have to cook tonight.”

She laughed, that same honest bark. “If you wanted to stop me cooking for you, you should have told me twenty years ago.” She smiled and so did he.

“Mom, can I ask you a question?”

She nodded keeping her attention on the stove.

“Do you remember Blue?”

She paused a moment before answering. “Of course. How could I forget. I see that old dog house every morning.” She pointed out the window with the tip of a knife. “Here, you can help.” The Young Man took the blade from her and took her place at the window, looking out at the shelter. She handed him some potatoes. “You know, every couple years, your Dad would talk about getting another dog, start hunting again. But he never did.”

He began chopping. “What exactly happened to Blue that made him limp like that? I know he was hurt, but…”

The Mother stirred as she spoke. “That dog was never was quite the same after the accident. You were probably too young to remember, but time was your dad and Blue never spent a weekend apart. He loved that dog. No, here, like this.” She took the knife from his hands and quickly cubed the potato. “It’s easier this way.” She handed the knife back and began working on the strips of beef. “Well, one day, he come home, swerving into the driveway, you couldn’t have been three yet, I remember running out with you in my arms. I’d never seen your father so upset.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t remember…maybe that dumb old dog wasn’t listening, or maybe your dad had one too many and saw something that wasn’t there, but he filled that dog’s back leg with buck shot. Only time he ever took an animal to a vet. Drove 40 miles to Colville, had to call Marty Reyes on his day off.” She looked up, “It took thirty-two stitches to patch that hound up. Your dad stayed up with him all night, and him a-howling. They didn’t go out again after that.” The meat sizzled as she lay it in the pan. “It about killed that dog to be left behind. You could hear him howling from Barstow. After that, he became yours.”

“When I turned five Dad made me take care of him.”

“You loved that dog.”

He set down the knife. “What happened to Blue?”

She did not turn. “He died.”

“You told me he was gone, but not how it happened.”

“…you know those old dogs, he had trouble just getting around. I guess one day he just couldn’t keep going.” She poured the vegetables into the pot with a hiss and began to dice a small onion.

“Dad didn’t take him to the vet again?”

“No. Sometimes an animal’s just old. Let’s not talk about death anymore.”

“Did you bury him?”

“Your father took care of it.” She began chopping faster.

“You told me, when I was nine, that you had to take him away. You said there was a farm. Where they take old dogs, one’s that had been hurt.”

She stopped and turned to her son. “I was trying to protect you.”

“I know. But I thought that there really was such a place, for a long time. Wasn’t until middle school I found out that’s what every parent tells their kid when the dog doesn’t come home.”

She turned back to her work. “It’s a nice thought.”

“What did Dad do with him?”

She sighed, then shook her head. “He took him out to the old house and took care of it.”

“The old house?”

“The farmhouse, back over the hill, you used to play out there as a boy.”

“What happened to it?”

“Once the roof started caving in, we stopped you going out there, haven’t seen it in years.”

“You think it’s still there?”

“Part of it, maybe. I’m not sure, it was built back before the war, your great-grandfather and his brothers.”

“Do you know if he buried Blue out there?”


“Alright.” The Young Man turned to the door.

“You’re not going out there.”



“I’ll be back before dinner.”

“Not sure what you expect to find in this light.”

“We shall see what we shall see.”

“That old house’s been sinking into the ground for thirty years. Be careful”

“I will.”

“It’ll be dark soon, you don’t want to be stumbling around out there once it gets dark.”

“I know.”

“Get yourself killed.”

He kissed her on the cheek, “I’ll be back.”

He moved into the backyard, overgrown and untended. He looked for the place where the swing set had been, but could not discern it from the rest of the lawn. An old fence separated the yard from the narrow meadow that led up into densely forested hills. He gave the clothesline a pluck as he ducked underneath, just to hear the familiar note. He opened the gate, and did not bother to latch it shut. Once there was a path over the hill, but it had become lost to the years. Even so, in the fading light, it was not hard going. The forest wrapped around him and he could hear its sounds.

Under the dark canopy, he stumbled at times over stones and roots and sweat began to form on his brow and under his shirt. His breath became labored, but the movement felt good. Once he was surrounded by the forest and the trees drew close to him, he stopped and let out a deep breath. Twigs and leaves crunched underneath his feet and he could feel his heart in his chest. The night will be cool, he thought and he wanted to stay out there.

By the time he reached the top, he was breathing heavily. Looking down the way he had come, if he shifted his head, could make out, through the trees, dim light coming from his house. Down the other side there was nothing. He frowned, it should have been there. He scanned amongst the shadows, but could make out nothing distinct in the twilight. He squinted and wiped his brow, and taking a step forward, the world began to spin. The Young Man put an arm out to catch himself and he bent over by an old pine tree and vomited, until his stomach was empty. He closed his eyes and took several, deep breaths. It would be alright. He would catch his breath and find his way home, he would-

A dog barked, somewhere close by.

His eyes snapped open and he turned. There were lights at the bottom of the hill. Warm, soft, golden light and at first, he thought he had gotten turned around and was looking down at his own home, but no. This house was smaller, closer, right at the foot of the hill. He took a step towards it and then another, moving down the slope carefully.

The house was built in a large clearing and had a wide yard, its grass cut short. The shades were drawn in the house, but the lights were on in every room. It seemed very old, but the paint had not peeled and no part was in disrepair. As he got closer, he was able to make out other buildings in the clearing, a stable and stie, a chicken coop, and far off next to the woods, a shed with double doors. He heard horses whinnying and there were a group of chickens scratching about in their pen. He saw no people.

The Young Man stayed in the trees, staring. He knew this was the old farmhouse and as he took one step towards it, onto the lawn, he heard the bark again, closer. He looked around and even in the fading light, he recognized Blue, coming around the corner of the stable. The dog stopped for a moment when he first saw him, his tail suspended, before giving another bark, this one different, excited. Then the animal bounded towards him, and leaping, knocking The Young Man to the ground. He laughed as Blue licked his face, his tail wagging.

“Okay! Okay, boy! Down! Down!” And the smile did not fade from his lips as he sat up, and the dog moved to his side, panting. “What happened to you boy?” The dog just looked at him happily and put a paw onto his lap, letting it rest there. He scratched the dog behind the ears and shook it’s fur, bringing Blue’s head close to his, the dog smelled like a summer night, dirty and wild and free.

He had lost weight, The Young Man remembered him pudgy and limp, his back leg gnarled and scarred. But now, Blue bounced around him like he’d never seen. He gave the dog’s back leg a scratch, and he lapped at his neck.

“God, I missed you boy.” He stood and the dog jumped up around him, and with a bark, they began to run around the far side of the yard, lost in discovery. He cackled and shouted, Blue yelped and growled as they wrestled each other to the ground. And when he came up from the grass with a stick, the dog chased after him as he ran in wider and wider circles, before letting the stick fly out to the far side of the yard and Blue took off to retrieve it.

And for a few minutes The Young Man felt like a boy again and could see the brightest things in his life as impermeable and untouchable. The dog too, returning with the stick, seemed aware of the moment and it’s particular magic.

Both were breathing heavily, having a very good time, when a bell rang from the house. Both of them looked up at the same time and then to each other. A man emerged onto the back porch of the house, about 30 yards away and shouted.

“Come and get it!”

Other dogs were running up to the porch and Blue was beside himself, it was dinner time. The dog moved to race to the porch, only getting a few steps, before turning back to The Young Man, who had not moved. The dog looked up at him quizzically, then to the others.

The Young Man sighed at the dog. He could see the silhouette of a man, tall and broad, looking out into the yard, towards them. The small pack of dogs who had gathered around the porch were snatching at their bowls. He and the dog looked at each other. The Man’s voice came again.

“Blue! Come on now!”

The dog looked up at him sadly.

“It’s okay, boy. You can go.”

Blue held the gaze, perhaps asking if The Young Man was sure, whether or not he could follow.

“I love you boy.”

The dog gave a low whine in return and then a high bark, before spinning around and dashing off to the porch. The Young Man watched the dog become swallowed up in his pack. He looked up at The Man, who was still staring out towards him. The Man put a hand up to block the light of the porch, as if to see better and he even took a step forward. For a second, The Man on the porch looked just like his father, or perhaps some version of him…or maybe it was just a trick of the light. After a moment, The Man dropped his hand and turned back to the dogs. The Young Man watched for a few seconds more, before retreating back into the woods. At the top of the hill he gave one last glance down at the homestead.


He walked home quickly, stumbling down the hill. Above him, the stars reached out, pinpoints of light, touching him coldly. And inside, The Young Man felt almost whole.