Messages suspended. No lights anywhere, the entire grid is down. It’s been spitting snow since noon. Late day silver sun from time to time. Fires down by the tracks. Burning the day’s news to keep warm, chase the demons, invite the ever-present phantoms. He begged the moon for forgiveness, took the new year, hurled it as far as possible, wheezing, whirling, stumbling. Shadows along the tracks, flickering as night settles in. Dragging in stumps, thin brush. Patrol cars hesitating, but messages have been suspended, no lights anywhere, the grid is down, the fires are up, headlights hit only the late arrivals, miss the towering projections. It’s too dangerous to leave the car, demons live in the vacant lot, and only the late arrivals have seen the blaze in their eyes, smelled their pungent presence. A flashlight violates the code, tripping down along the rails, windmill arms, a shout, sudden darkness. All the fires are out. It’s quiet down by the tracks when everyone has gone and the night sky crushes the stars. Humming in the burnt grasses, in the soft ash, whispering and murmuring. It’s almost midnight and the moon has just risen.
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Andrea Moorhead
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