The Old Blog in the Desert

The cowboy lay by the creek, his breath shallow, his body stiffening in the fading light. The sun dipped lower, turning the water to gold. That was what he wanted–wasn’t it? Gold. Westward dreams of it. He planted that dream deep and watched it grow and consume him. It burned him up until he couldn’t stay.

The five hundred dollars he stole on a pair of dice—I made those hands shake, made the roll come right. The bullet that missed his ribs, clean and sharp as a summer wind—that was mine. The way he stumbled drunk beneath the lantern light, clutching the mayor’s girl like a fool, I set his feet to that rhythm, every stumble and every sway.

But the snake? That was his. I made it rattle and gave him the sound. He didn’t listen. Now he’s here, leg swollen, skin cold and pale as the stones by the creek.

“My God,” he whispered, voice cracked and weak.

I leaned down, close enough that he could feel the breath. “No,” I said, soft as the coming night. “That’s me.”

Coyote is everywhere and nowhere. Coyote is in the sagebrush that shivers under the canyon wind, in the gleam of dice that roll too sweetly, the shimmer of gold that calls men down. He’s in the rattle that comes too late, the laugh that rings out when a cowboy spins the wrong girl in his arms.

You don’t see Coyote. You feel him. He’s a pressure, a nudge, a shadow at the firelight’s edge. He is always watching and always grinning. He gave the cowboy the dream, the dice, the luck, and the misstep. He’s the whisper behind the cowboy’s ear when he rolls the dice, the grin in the shadows when the dream eats him alive.

And now, as the cowboy lies there, broken by what he wanted, Coyote is the gold in the creek, the last streak of light in the sky. He’s the voice that comes, smooth and low, when the cowboy says, “My God.”

The cowboy lay by the creek, his breath shallow, his body stiffening in the fading light. The sun dipped lower, turning the water to gold. That was what he wanted–wasn’t it? Gold. Westward dreams of it. He planted that dream deep and watched it grow and consume him. It burned him up until he couldn’t stay.

The five hundred dollars he stole on a pair of dice—I made those hands shake, made the roll come right. The bullet that missed his ribs, clean and sharp as a summer wind—that was mine. The way he stumbled drunk beneath the lantern light, clutching the mayor’s girl like a fool, I set his feet to that rhythm, every stumble and every sway.

But the snake? That was his. I made it rattle and gave him the sound. He didn’t listen. Now he’s here, leg swollen, skin cold and pale as the stones by the creek.

“My God,” he whispered, voice cracked and weak.

I leaned down, close enough that he could feel the breath. “No,” I said, soft as the coming night. “That’s me.”

Coyote is everywhere and nowhere. Coyote is in the sagebrush that shivers under the canyon wind, in the gleam of dice that roll too sweetly, the shimmer of gold that calls men down. He’s in the rattle that comes too late, the laugh that rings out when a cowboy spins the wrong girl in his arms.

You don’t see Coyote. You feel him. He’s a pressure, a nudge, a shadow at the firelight’s edge. He is always watching and always grinning. He gave the cowboy the dream, the dice, the luck, and the misstep. He’s the whisper behind the cowboy’s ear when he rolls the dice, the grin in the shadows when the dream eats him alive.

And now, as the cowboy lies there, broken by what he wanted, Coyote is the gold in the creek, the last streak of light in the sky. He’s the voice that comes, smooth and low, when the cowboy says, “My God.”

In the year of our Lord 1577, the hamlets of Bungay and Blythburgh lay wrapped in a suffocating stillness, the air taut with the charge of a storm yet to break. In both villages, the faithful crowded into their sanctuaries—stone walls meant to shelter the soul but holding the weight of unspoken sins.

The Church of St. Mary in Bungay was thick with incense and whispers, the rasp of Reverend Harrow’s voice rising and falling like the tide. He was a man who cloaked himself in scripture, yet his eyes betrayed him: sharp, hungry, and cunning.

He held dominion over the villagers with velvet cruelty, their confessions twisted into levers of control. Tonight, as he preached about the strength of faith against worldly storms, a tremor ghosted through his tone as if feeling the storm’s claws scratching at the horizon.

In Blythburgh’s Holy Trinity Church, Reverend Blythe commanded his flock with a thunderous fervor. His sermons dripped with fire and judgment, his words sharp as knives wielded against those he deemed unworthy.

Behind his pulpit, however, Blythe was a creature of cowardice, his bluster a mask for his smallness. Outside the church, the storm growled low and close, its breath rattling the oaken doors. The congregation shuddered but stayed put, eyes fixed on Blythe and the apocalyptic warnings he spat like venom.

Among both congregations were souls steeped in their darknesses. Faces familiar but rotted hearts, like Margaret the midwife, her hands capable of mercy but practiced in betrayal, carried secrets of broken lives hidden behind her sweet-smelling herbs.

Eleanor, the widow whose tongue sharpened the guillotine of gossip, wove ruin into the fabric of every tale she spread. Edward, a farmer who wielded his power like a cudgel, ground his workers into dust beneath their unyielding fields.

Each was torn from life, exposed for what they were, by the Black Shuck.

The storm broke over Bungay with a ferocity that felt almost alive. Lightning tore across the sky, bathing the church interior in a skeletal glow.

The heavy iron bell swung wildly, clangs drowned by a guttural howl. The doors exploded open, and there it stood—the Black Shuck, its enormous frame outlined in the doorway. Its fur shimmered with wetness, its eyes burning like twin coals pulled from the fires of a forge.

Harrow stumbled mid-sentence, his booming cadence guttering into silence. A single whimper escaped from somewhere in the pews, swallowed immediately by the Black Shuck’s growl.

It stepped into the nave, claws clicking on the stone floor, leaving trails of steam where water hissed from its pelt. The beast’s gaze landed on Harrow, and in that instant, the world seemed to pause. Harrow gasped as if struck, his lips quivering with words that would not come.

“You,” the Shuck’s voice was not a voice but a pressure, a weight in the minds of all who heard it. “Judgment is here.”

Harrow fell to his knees, his righteous cloak tearing from him in invisible strips. In a single bound, the Shuck was upon him. The scream that followed was short, choked, and final.

In Blythburgh, the storm hit with the same savage rage. The air inside Holy Trinity Church felt charged, vibrating with something beyond the storm.

As Blythe paused to draw breath, the church doors splintered inward, the Black Shuck stalking in, rain pooling around its paws. Unlike in Bungay, there was no time for silence.

Screams filled the air, prayers tumbling from lips as Blythe shrieked, “Away, demon!” His hand grasped the heavy cross above the altar, but the Shuck’s gaze pinned him in place.

With a final, terrifying leap, the Shuck’s claws found Blythe’s chest. The blow sent him sprawling, the cross clattering from his hands. He lay unmoving, his sins bleeding into the floorboards as if the storm itself had claimed him.

By dawn, the storm had passed, but the scars left were not merely weathered wood and torn shingles. The villagers of Bungay and Blythburgh emerged to find their churches marked. The Black Shuck’s claw marks etched deep into the doors and walls served as a warning or perhaps a promise.

The tales spread quickly. In some mouths, the Shuck became an avenger, a force sent by heaven to strip away the disguises of the wicked. In others, it was a devil, a beast that had feasted on the flesh of holy men to sow fear. But as weeks turned to months, the stories diverged further.

Young Eliza, who had endured years of Harrow’s predation in Bungay, found her voice. She stood before her neighbors, her small frame unyielding as she told of his abuses. Her courage lit a flame in others, and for the first time in years, the village began to speak openly, unearthing what had long festered.

In Blythburgh, the Shuck’s mark was twisted into an emblem of fear as those with power and sin to hide sowed rumors, branding it as a servant of hell. Fear choked the air like smoke, stifling those who might have spoken out. The corrupt buried their guilt beneath layers of superstition, ensuring the Shuck became not a symbol of justice but a specter to keep villagers silent and subservient.

Yet, in the quiet spaces between whispers lingered the memory of its eyes. They burned not with malice but with the terrible clarity of truth. It was not the Shuck that sowed terror but the reflection of oneself in its gaze—a reflection none could turn away from without trembling.

And somewhere in the shadows, on storm-torn nights when the wind carries the scent of rain and wrath–the Black Shuck still walks.

In the quiet of his front porch, 447 years later, the world still felt small under the sprawling infinity of the night sky. For Jordan, life was simple, its rhythm unbroken by the larger mysteries of existence–until the stars betrayed him.

As Jordan stood on the edge of his porch, gazing up at the constellations he had known since childhood, they seemed to shimmer strangely, a trick of the eye as a shadow rushed him from the dark. Then they twisted, their pattern unraveling into grotesque, writhing shapes.

A chill crept through Jordan as the silence of the night deepened, thickening into something oppressive, like the weight of a thousand unseen eyes. He was suddenly lightheaded and on the verge of collapsing.

A sudden burst of light flooded the space around him, searing and blinding. It was brilliant, radiant, and yet offered no comfort. When it faded, it left him unable to see.

Out of the darkness, a shadow emerged: a massive black dog, its fur darker than the void between the stars. Its eyes glowed with an unnatural, iridescent light, their gaze piercing and unrelenting.

It stopped several paces away, staring at him. Jordan’s instinct was to run, but he couldn’t. His body was frozen, not by fear but by something worse—a force that rooted him to the spot.

St. Michael, the Archangel, descended from the heavens with a blazing sword. His presence felt alien, his perfection too vast and otherworldly to comprehend.

“Something ancient has stirred,” Michael said, his voice resonating as though it emanated from the stars. “A force that predates this world—and it hungers.”

His eyes met Jordan’s, and the weight of his gaze was unbearable. “The Black Shuck and I stand against it, but your fate intertwines with ours. You must help.”

The ground trembled, and above, the stars folded inward, collapsing into a singular, writhing point. A portal tore open in the fabric of reality.

From its gaping maw emerged the entity: an incomprehensible horror. Its writhing forms defied description, its geometries shifting in ways that made Jordan’s stomach churn. Colors that should not exist burned in his vision, and when its gaze fell upon him, his thoughts splintered, reforming into jagged, unrecognizable pieces.

“Look away!” Michael commanded, but Jordan couldn’t.

The Black Shuck growled, stepping closer to the portal, its luminous eyes blazing. Despite the terror, its presence steadied Jordan—just enough to move. But the dread remained, deep and primal, as though consuming his existence.

“Follow me,” Michael said, his sword raised, stepping into the portal. The Black Shuck followed without hesitation, glancing back at Jordan as if to say: You are part of this now.

With trembling resolve, Jordan stepped through.

On the other side of the portal lay a realm that defied all reason. The ground beneath Jordan’s feet pulsed, alive and unsettling, with veins that glowed faintly.

The air reeked of rot, sharp and metallic, while the sky churned with impossible colors that bled into one another. Shadows moved in the corners of Jordan’s vision, flickering and vanishing when he turned to look.

Scattered across the alien landscape were towering monoliths, each etched with symbols that seemed ancient and wrong. Jordan couldn’t understand them, but he felt their meaning—a warning, perhaps, or cries for help lost to time.

Venturing further, guided by Michael and Shuck, a narrative began to unfold. Fragments of forgotten lore hinted at beings older than creation, locked in an eternal, unknowable struggle. This entity was one of them—a prisoner now seeking release.

Reality bent and twisted the further Jordan went. The ground sometimes stretched into the sky, and his companions blurred, their forms flickering between the familiar and the grotesque.

Michael’s radiant light dimmed, faltering with each step, and for the first time, Jordan saw shadows pooling at the feet of the Archangel. The Black Shuck moved closer to him, its growls low and guttural, its form shifting in ways that made Jordan question whether it was an ally—or another extension of the darkness.

The whispers began softly, barely audible. But they grew louder as they pressed onward, filling Jordan’s ears with voices he recognized: the long-dead, the long-lost, all calling his name.

“This place is not real,” Michael said, his voice firm but lacking its earlier certainty. His eyes held something Jordan had not seen before–doubt.

At the center, the entity loomed—a vast, incomprehensible mass of writhing tendrils and endless voids. It stretched across the horizon, its presence suffocating.

Jordan felt it seeing him—not his form, but everything: his memories, fears, his failures. Its voice spoke, not in words but in emotions that crushed his mind with terror, despair, and the weight of eternity.

Michael raised his sword, his light blazing one final time, forcing the shadows back. The Black Shuck howled, launching itself at the tendrils, tearing through them with spectral jaws.

But the entity absorbed their attacks, its mass rippling as it pulled them into its endless void. “End it,” Michael cried, his voice breaking. “You must destroy the heart.”

Jordan looked for the heart, but there was none—only an infinite emptiness staring back at him.

Michael was gone. The Black Shuck lingered.

“Raining?” Jordan muttered. It seemed far too dry for that.

Jordan woke, lying on the porch on his back. The night sky was clear and serene, as though nothing had happened.

But he knew better. The stars had shifted. They no longer formed the patterns he had known—they watched, silent and patient.

Then he heard a snort, and his face grew wet again. Slowly, he realized it was not rainfall but the licking of a large dog–and constant.

“Menga,” he said, recognizing his neighbor Rich’s Rottweiler.

“You okay, Jordan?” Rich asked.

Jordan rolled halfway over on his left side and sat up. Menga continued to lap at his face.

“Yeah, I think so,” Jordan answered. “I just need to sit here for a second or two.”

Anna, Rich’s wife, asked, “Do you need help getting up?”

“I don’t think so,” he responded.

Rich suddenly hollered, “Menga, stop, sit!”

The dog backed away from Jordan and sat down, looking him in the face. Her tail thudded on the porch behind her.

“Come here, Menga,” Anna called. The dog obeyed and went to her.

Slowly, Jordan got to his knees, using one of the pillars holding the roof as support, gained to his feet. “I’m okay, I’m just a little confused about what happened.”

“Menga got out of the backyard, and she ran you over,” Rich said. “Sorry about that.”

“Well, accidents happen,” Jordan said. “And besides, she’s still a pup, so she doesn’t know her size or strength.”

“Do you need an ambulance?” Rich continued.

“Naw,” Jordan answered, “I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Rich said. “Have a goodnight.”

“You, too,” Jordan said. “And go easy on the dog. She didn’t mean to knock me down.”

As the days passed, the world around Jordan seemed thinner and less substantial. Shadows in his room stretched toward him at night.

He was confused at first when the whispers came, speaking of hunger and the fragility of the barrier he had tried to seal. He had been sure that his experience was only in his mind while unconscious, but now he was uncertain.

The worst part was his reflection. It was not his anymore.

Meanwhile, the neighborhood remained blissfully unaware of the horrors beyond the stars. But Jordan knew they were coming.

He had seen their herald and had felt their gaze. And every time Jordan looked at the night sky, he felt the stars blink, one by one, as if they were counting down, and somewhere nearby, the Black Shock stood waiting.

Sound travels well over rocks and hard-packed earth. That’s why I could hear the guy with the dirty bike. His voice carried through the still air, taunting, “Watch him get his ass stomped by those Mustangs.”

I glanced at the small herd that had formed around me. Each was a beautiful creature, coats shimmering under the Nevada sun. I no longer called them wild. I knew of many turned-out, not wanted or needed.

I moved slowly, quietly, and methodically, snapping photographs of the Mustangs. Their eyes reflected curiosity rather than fear. I wished I could tell them how much I admired them. When I heard the biker’s big mouth again, my anger rose. I imagined reaching across the narrow valley and knocking the teeth from the big mouth.

Would it make a difference? Probably not.

The horses closed in around me, sniffing and curious. It was a delicate dance of trust. Their breath was warm against my skin, their muscles tense yet relaxed. I felt a moment of peace, a connection to something ancient and wild. But the moment the two idiots on the motorbikes fired their engines, the magic shattered. The small herd bolted up the hill to the far side, opposite the bikes.

For a split second, I thought about flipping the bikers the bird. But by the time I turned around, they were already making rooster-tails in the gravel roadway. They wouldn’t understand what they’d disrupted.

Would they even care? I doubted it.

I stood there, the echo of their engines fading, feeling the weight of my solitude. The desert around me was again silent, but the moment was lost now. I had been part of something, and now it was gone. The Mustangs would return, but it would not be the same.

The sun climbed higher in the sky, and I packed up my camera, feeling the loss like a physical ache. As I walked back to my truck, I couldn’t help but think of all the moments in life that slip away before you can hold onto them.

The fragility of trust, the beauty of the wild, the stupidity of men. I looked at the horizon and mumbled, “Maybe someday they’ll understand.” But deep down, I wasn’t sure they ever would.

This old-age business is more troublesome than a rash on a summer day. Yesterday, I made a startling discovery: I need not lift a finger to upset the balance of my body’s delicate sensibilities.

No, all it takes now is the audacity to exist.

As per the usual routine, I did my best impersonation of a human being, slowly rising from the comforting embrace of a good night’s sleep. My feet, still loyal to the cause, touched the carpet with all the grace of a tired elephant.

I then turned my head—an action as innocent as a kitten’s yawn.

And yet, no sooner had I dared a glance at the alarm clock than I became acquainted with a pain so sharp on the right side of my neck that I’d swear like a rusty hinge that finally had enough. Now, in my youth, I had to twist and turn, contort my neck like a circus performer to earn such exquisite agony.

But today—it seems my body has given up any pretense of civility. I need only open my eyes to enter the kingdom of discomfort, and that blessed torment stays with me into this moment.

Lord knows I didn’t sign up for this when I signed on for the years. If I had, I’d have demanded a refund before I jumped from that speeding train.

When the aliens landed in my backyard, I was midway through a nap on the sunny patch by the window. The sudden green glow pouring through my cat door was not exactly ideal.

Neither was the saucer the size of a kiddie pool hovering over my begonias. “Great,” I thought, flicking my tail. “Another Tuesday ruined.”

A beam of light swept across the yard like it was searching for a lost wallet. It finally landed on me, and a metallic voice boomed from the ship. “Are you the leader of this… uh, territory?”

I stretched, nonchalant. “Not me,” I said, lazily pointing a paw at the doghouse. “He’s in charge.”

The beam redirected to the mutt, who was snoring loudly. A moment later, the dog woke up, saw the light, and the genius assumed it was snack time. Tongue hanging out and tail wagging like a ceiling fan, he floated into the spaceship without a second thought.

“Good luck!” I called after him, curling back into my nap spot. I figured I’d never see the lophead again.

Three days later, the saucer was back. They lowered the dog onto the lawn. It had that smug look–the one after managing to eat something forbidden–like an alien equivalent of garbage.

The ship’s voice spoke, sounding exhausted. “You’re not worth conquering. And please… keep him away from the control panels.”

The saucer zipped off into the night sky, leaving me with a slightly gassy mutt and an unexpected delivery problem. Whatever the dog told them spooked the whole galaxy.

Now, the State Department sends us crates of milk bones every Friday—”For planetary security,” they say.

I let the dog think he’s a hero, and as long as he keeps his intergalactic connections to himself, I’m okay with it.

Plus, I get first dibs on the boxes. Who knew humans made bacon-flavored ones?

I spent the night in the hills east of home, an exile under the sky where the landscape is disfigured and ancient and the air thick, with the weight of forgotten histories.

It felt like I had wandered into the past, away from the hum of modern life, where my only companions were the ghosts of those who came before. I found a series of petroglyphs etched into the stone, whispers from those lost to time, and an ancient hovel that offered shelter.

I made it my refuge for the night. As the sun set, I built a small fire, the flickering light a fragile comfort against the encroaching darkness.

Dinner was sparse—a can of beans and some instant coffee. The flavors mingled with the smoke and the chill of the night. I ate slowly, savoring each bite as if it were a feast.

The solitude, punctuated by the crackling of the fire and the distant, eerie howls of the wind, was my only companion. Each sound amplified the vast emptiness around me, making the Nevada night feel even darker.

As I sat there, staring into the dancing flames, I felt the weight of the silence pressing down on me, a reminder of the isolation and the fragile existence I clung to in this barren landscape. I could not help but think, Is this what life has come to? A solitary figure clinging to the edge of the world, seeking meaning in the barren landscape of Nevada. The firelight cast long shadows, and I imagined them as the remnants of a life I once knew, now distorted and unreachable.

I was awakened at dawn by the sound of a lone longhorn, its call a haunting echo through the still air. The sun, just beginning to rise, cast a pale light across the rugged terrain.

I cooked the same meager fare for breakfast as the night before—beans and coffee. The taste was no different, but it carried a strange, bitter clarity in the light of the day.

As I sat there, cradling the warm tin between my hands, I let my mind drift into a waking dream. What if this was all that was left?

A world stripped bare by war and tyranny, leaving only a few of us to wander through its ruins. I imagined myself as one of the last survivors, a relic of a time when freedom was a given, not a distant memory.

The petroglyphs became a code to decipher, the hovel a last bastion of safety in a land of shadows.

In the barren expanse, my reality blurred with imagination. The boundaries between past and present, fact and fiction, dissolved like the morning mist.

Each moment was proof of resilience, the quiet strength required to endure when everything else had fallen away. The loneliness was palpable, a constant companion in the emptiness of the Nevada hills.

As I packed my belongings and prepared to leave, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was leaving part of myself behind, a ghost among the stones and whispers. The road back was long and unmarked, the silence broken only by the crunch of gravel beneath my boots.

As the hovel disappeared behind me, I glanced back, feeling the weight of its desolation. I knew I would return, drawn by the solitude and the echoes of a world that once was.

But for now, I walked on, one foot in front of the other, chasing the promise of another sunrise.

Missy had always thought she understood her father-in-law. Burdick was a straightforward man–brusque, stubborn, and unfiltered.

He didn’t say things. He threw them into the air, daring someone to catch them.

Tonight, though, something about his tone felt different.

“You think you’ve got a dirty mind?” Burdick said, his eyes glinting over the rim of his glass. The faint smell of whiskey curled between them like smoke from an extinguished fire. “Not as dirty as mine.”

Missy arched an eyebrow. “Wanna bet?”

She wasn’t sure why she’d said it—perhaps it was the challenge in his voice, the audacity of it. Maybe it was the simmering resentment she’d carried since her husband, Darren, had started staying later and later at the office, leaving her to navigate dinners and holidays with his father as her only company. Or perhaps it was just the whiskey in her glass, the warmth that blunted the edges of her better judgment.

“Yeah?” Burdick leaned forward, his grin wolfish. “You ever thought about it?”

Her heart skittered against her ribs. “About what?”

“You and me.”

Missy laughed—a brittle sound that broke too quickly. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

But her face betrayed her. A blush rose like a tide, unstoppable and all-consuming, flooding her cheeks with heat.

She looked away, her pulse hammering in her ears. She felt trapped in the silence that followed, the weight of her unspoken thoughts pressing against her chest.

“So maybe you have thought about it.” Burdick’s voice softened, but there was no mistaking the undertone of satisfaction.

Missy didn’t respond. She couldn’t.

Instead, she stood, her chair scraping against the floor, and began collecting the plates from the table. Her hand trembled as she reached for Burdick’s empty glass, but his hand covered hers just as she was about to take it.

“Missy,” he said quietly, his voice pulling her gaze back to him.

She met his eyes and saw something unexpected—vulnerability, even regret. The challenge had vanished, replaced by something softer, more human.

It was the first time she’d wondered if Burdick’s provocations were armor, a way to shield himself from the loneliness that had settled into his life like a second skin.

Missy pulled her hand free. “You’re right,” she said, her voice steady. “We don’t.”

And then she left the room.

Later that night, lying alone in the bed she once shared with Darren, she stared at the ceiling and replayed the moment. There was something achingly familiar in Burdick’s eyes—something reflecting her desire to feel seen and wanted. But it didn’t make it right.

Sometimes, Missy thought, the lines we don’t cross are the ones that save us.

Nevada’s always been a place for folks who like their odds as wild as their whiskey—and I’ll tell you, they’ve kept it that way since before they even had the state line drawn. Back in ’62, when it was just a dust-swept territory and hadn’t quite set its sights on statehood, you’d think there was something in the water—or maybe the dust—that made everyone around Virginia City a born gambler. And since casinos hadn’t yet staked their claim in the sagebrush, folks would wager on anything that moved and plenty of things that didn’t.

Now, on a Saturday just as bright as gold, a perfectly routine keg delivery was twisted into a legendary showdown that’s still talked about with all the reverence of a church sermon and all the dignity of a barroom brawl. Leo Hechinger was a man you couldn’t miss—built like a barrow with legs and an accent so thick it practically had elbows.

He had a habit every May of throwing a keg party up on his deck on B Street, inviting his mining buddies to toss in their half-dimes to cover “expenses.” A fine tradition, you might say, where Leo and the boys would toast the end of winter with such vigor winter would stay down.

So, there they were, sunshine beaming, spirits bubbling, all leaning against fences and posts, waiting for that keg. And sure enough, along it came, hauled in by a gangly kid, maybe sixteen and as sturdy as a scarecrow after a bad windstorm.

That boy sized up the keg, took a deep breath, and leaned over to pull it out of the wagon like he was trying to haul a tree trunk from a creekbed. The crowd watched him, spellbound, like they were seeing a giraffe tiptoe or a mule walk backward.

And sure as shooting, the bets started flying—could the kid even get the keg to budge, or would he end up wrestling it like a calf to the ground? After much huffing and grunting, physics won, and that keg toppled out of the wagon with a mighty thud, much to the delight of half the crowd and the wallet-ache of the other.

Just then, Leo strolled over, patted the kid on the shoulder like a proud uncle, and, with a wink at the crowd, hoisted the keg onto his shoulder as if it were a sack of potatoes. He strutted it right up his deck steps.

Someone in the crowd—likely three pints in—hollered, “Leo! Betcha could carry that keg clear up to the summit of Sun Mountain!”

You have to understand that Leo was a man who’d sooner skip supper than back down from a dare, especially one that involved money. He set the keg down, squared his shoulders to the crowd, and said, “Well, I can’t say if I could or if I couldn’t—but I’d be willing to find out.”

At that, the crowd buzzed to life like a stirred-up beehive, and in no time, money was changing hands faster than poker chips at a flush. People were pouring in from as far as Hangtown to see if Leo Hechinger, all five-foot-eight of him, could carry that keg over a thousand feet to the top of Sun Mountain. They picked two men to serve as his escort, one from each side, to be sure he either made it up or rolled back down—no halfway bets allowed.

Come the following Saturday, and there was Leo, all 145 pounds of him, squaring off with a keg that weighed close to 100. He gave it a good swing over his shoulder and started up that mountain with the crowd cheering, hooting, and hollering him on every step.

If you’ve ever seen a bear try to dance, you’ve got a fair picture of what Leo looked like lugging that keg. He shifted it to his hip, hauled it on his back, then over one shoulder, in whatever way he could manage, but he kept moving.

Curse by curse, Leo climbed. And sure enough, by sheer grit and maybe the prospect of a good payout, he got that keg to the summit without letting it hit the dirt. People were floored—it was about the most ridiculous thing they’d ever seen, yet they were grinning as proud as if they’d made the climb themselves.

But here’s the kicker–Leo already knew he could make it to the top. He’d done it once before in the dead of night to see if he could.

It was a dark and stormy night in the small town of Virginia City. The wind howled through the trees, and the moon cast eerie shadows on the ground. The townsfolk were on edge following rumors of a werewolf lurking in the woods.

Denny, the local handyman, was heading home from a late-night job, having heard the stories but did not believe in such nonsense. Further down the deserted street, he heard a low growl from the bushes.

“Who’s there?” Denny called out, his voice trembling slightly. The growl grew louder, and he saw glowing eyes staring at him from the darkness.

Denny’s heart raced as he fumbled for his flashlight. He shone the beam into the bushes, and the creature stepped into the light. It was furry and had a menacing look on its face.

“Is that…the werewolf?” Denny muttered to himself.

The creature let go with a menacing howl, and Denny stepped back, his mind racing with fear.

He turned and ran, his footsteps echoing through the empty streets. He burst into the local saloon, where a few townsfolk gathered.

“There’s a werewolf outside!” Denny shouted, his eyes wide with terror.

The townsfolk exchanged nervous glances.

Old Lady Jenkins, who was known for her tall tales, spoke up. “I told you all! The werewolf is real!”

Sheriff Mike, a no-nonsense man with a thick mustache, stood up. “Alright, everyone, stay calm. Let’s go check it out.”

The group cautiously moved outside, armed with flashlights and makeshift weapons. They followed Denny to the spot where he had seen the creature.

“There it is!” Denny pointed, his hand shaking. The creature was still there, its eyes glowing in the darkness.

Sheriff Mike stepped forward, his flashlight trained on the creature. As he got closer, he let out a hearty laugh.

“Denny, that’s no werewolf. That’s a chihuahua!”

Then Mrs. Thompson appeared from around the corner. “Oh, there you are, Mr. Snuggles! I’ve been looking for you everywhere!”

JL might’ve been the walrus,
but me,
I’m the groundhog.
same damn day,
every damn time,
waking to the grind of a clock
that doesn’t care I’m tired.

the weather moves,
but I don’t.
months slap the calendar,
but it’s all the same—
cigarettes and cracked mugs,
shadows stretched thin
over yesterday’s junk.

the grave’s outback,
dirt piled neat,
quiet,
patient.
one day, I’ll skip the show,
leave my shadow behind,
and the earth will
swallow me whole,
like it always meant to.