Where the Light Flickers by Ryan Burden

It’s not long since the short day ended, slipping almost instantly from twilight into dark, the way it always does in this valley, which is bordered to the north and south by high hills and, to the west, by mountains. Now the only light comes from the windows of scattered houses and the lazy flicker of fireflies floating peacefully above their lawns.

The dog—a ropey ridgeback mutt—has come a long way from his home up in the mountains, looking for a place to die. He’s been traveling since early afternoon, first sliding down beds of shale left by the mining company’s extractions, then weaving through the blasted creek-bed between the empty shells of abandoned trailer homes. Pain pulses between his legs and he knows he doesn’t have much time to find shelter. The path is rough, but he won’t stop out in the open. Instinct tells him to hide.

If he could question it, he might decide this instinct is more than caution. That it’s more about finding a quiet place to think before the very end. Maybe, deep down, he would find something poetic in the way we enter this world in a crowd, but always leave it alone. Maybe these thoughts would thicken, calcifying into tales that he might tell himself, about why the pain feels sharper in the cool air, or why the smell of woodsmoke reminds him of something he never quite lived. About the shape of his shadow on the barn wall, bent and trembling. Maybe he’d imagine he’s not dying.

Whatever tales he might tell, they wouldn’t help. They wouldn’t o!er any comfort. They would only vex. And so, it’s just as well that he cannot tell tales at all.