Fiction by Ernest Troost
She snatched the moon from the winter sky and buried it in the stubbled field. When she was done, the old lab sniffed the fresh dirt.
She walked back towards the house with the dog at her side, their breath little puffs in the dark. She could smell the wood smoke from her neighbor’s chimney. Fat snowflakes floated slowly down through the light from the corner streetlamp. The night was still, except for the soft jiggling of the dog dragging its leash.
What had he said? “I like it here on the coast. I’m going to stay.”
And then, nothing but the soft wash of white noise, sloshing between relay towers, through transmission lines, across the 3,000 miles between them.
She let the dog in and leaned the shovel against the house. She took one more look up at the December sky and thought, tomorrow night I’ll put out the stars.
Ernest Troost is an Emmy-winning film composer, and Kerrville New Folk winning songwriter. He is also a writer of essays and short stories when he is not composing music.
