flash fiction by luce wren brandt

The Dog Park

They had stopped bringing their dogs to the park. Public notice decreed the local dogs to be highly susceptible. To what, was not specified, but the city commissioner had spouted general nonsense about suspicious changes in the moon cycle and discoloration of the sky. All things which would normally fill the dog park with the kind of pent up delight one so often craves on an autumn day.

Mona wondered if the concentration on dogs was to distract from a much larger ‘disturbance’ voiced in neighborhood chats, lurking in alleys, and whispered over the deli counter. Mona had felt their presence herself, the rumblings of age old—what exactly. The way she described it was the tug of autumn leaves, torn from their tether, the melancholy of freshness lost amongst damp ground, and an acute heartache at the un-seaming of a season.

She remembered, how they had sat in crisp indigo evening, breath held as frost bloomed around them. He had been bundled up, scarf wrapped around his head, nose pink. He traced the shape of carousal horses on her knee, as she looked on—memorizing every line. Mona shook her head, her forefinger left the arc of a horse on her open palm.

Gertrude found the commissioners notice to be another drab reminder of fearful youth, lamenting about sun exposure, unseasonably warm temperatures, and dairy alternatives. Scoffing at the now dog-less park she shuffled forward, banging her cane at the pigeons. She paused at the corner, entranced by the warm golds in the grasses. They were the tones of sun on freshly tilled soil. Of blaring the Ramones and walking up the dirt road. She remembered the way sun enveloped his languid smile. How they would kick off their shoes at the hill crest, and run with abandon to the creek. What she would give to run again. To leap and stumble along the stones, and let the water take her home.

Jude had a different encounter. Writing in the park Tuesday afternoon, they were distracted by a grayness that seemed to emanate from the ground. A fog perhaps, a thick mist. They pulled their cardigan closer around their shoulders and shuddered slightly. The air in front of them grew opaque, with a faint hint of—cinnamon? Cardamom buns. Hand knit lumpy mittens. A thrifted tweed newsboy hat. Ginkgo leaves pressed neatly into a Mary Oliver collection. Jude closed their notebook, and moved hurriedly through the strange and grasping currents of unrequited love.

Many city residents felt themselves drawn to the park, marveling at the slight temperature drop, the way the grasses moved freely, as if caught under a moving tide. A tangerine glow emanated from the treetops, filling the air with a strange musk. But despite the aesthetic wonders, viewers were overwhelmed by a desire to return to the past, to mourn people and places that no longer filled their lives.

It was apparent that the dogs were not the ones at risk to the adverse effects of the park. In fact, the pall over the community was startling. The once pristine main street was littered with

newspapers and wrappers. Incidents of road rage and bar brawls had spiked. Teens were skipping school, or leaving class early after staring blankly at the wall. People milled around the grocery store, carts empty, eyes distant, feet restless.

The city commissioner, alarmed by the gloom filling the populace, erected an iron gate around the park’s perimeter. He put large sparkly billboards opposite the altered grounds to distract the viewer from the strangeness, and remember good old consumerism! People grumbled, about politicians in this day and age, but they felt an ounce of relief to be kept from the park. They found heartening explanations for any irregularities—it was that dratted global warming, new sprinkler systems, or freshly cut grass. In time, people learned to avoid the site altogether.

But no amount of cheerful ignorance could drown out the questions swimming in the minds and hearts of all who witnessed the—what, exactly? Mona found herself caught in circles of rumination, pondering the other directions her life could have taken. Gertrude slept fitfully, dreaming of the creek, of mobility, and dexterous youth. Jude wandered the square, worn shoes scuffing the gravel and cement. They tripped on a stray bottle, oblivious to the fact that behind them, their shadow stepped neatly around the obtrusion.