Excerpt: Untitled Fictional Non-Ficition
In the diffusion of dawn and mind, I see Atlas across the street spring from lawn to lawn. I see him mid-leap, forever hovering over his slight shadow, forever poised to meet the yellowed grass, sun forever brightening his orangish, wood-grained coat. As I step forward to meet the vision, he evaporates before my eyes like a photograph developing backwards. I can suddenly feel my pupils dilate, my vision realized, as I take in the morning minutes that pass on the band-less watch stuck to my name badge. I get into my car. Cyrano, the neighbor’s dog, begins barking. The image of Atlas plays in my mind as I sit there, listening to the engine: I see him burst forth in his landing, using his back legs and tail to leverage his body, zig-zagging, to once again pounce on some dash of sunlight through the neighbor’s tree or a speckled grasshopper. Then he fades again. What next? I think. What happens next. The vision reforms but in slow flip-book animation, some of the pages missing until there’s nothing. Only a failing shadow on the lawn, slowly fading with the dawn.