THE DARK SKY
“GRAVEL LIGHT”
Beneath the sweep of the Milky Way, the gravel pit rests silent—a scar carved deep into the earth, glowing faintly under starlight and memory. The rock face stands exposed, its layers stacked like pages of an ancient ledger, each one telling a story of time, toil, and transformation. Once alive with machinery and sweat, now it waits in stillness, a place where industry has quieted and the cosmos has taken over. In the contrast of earth and sky, we see both what we’ve built and what endures beyond us.
“DESERT ECLIPSE”
The sky burned sideways—half sun, half shadow—as if the world couldn’t decide which way to turn. Wind whispered through thorn and stone, and even the scorpions stayed still. Under the eclipse, everything felt ancient and unfinished, like a story waiting to be told or erased.
He hadn’t seen another soul in three days. Just dust, bones, and the slow hiss of heat. He drank sparingly, walked carefully, and waited for a sign that he was still meant to be alive. Then the light shifted—unnatural, unholy—and the dead tree ahead of him lit up like a signal fire.
Maybe it was warning. Maybe it was welcome. Either way, he moved toward it.
“KATRINA’S CHAIR”
Beneath a sky freckled with stars, the old chair stands like a ghost of autumn past—weathered wood leaning against time, surrounded by a bed of crimson leaves. Once, it might have sat on a warm porch, holding quiet conversations and summer afternoons. Now it rests alone in the chill night air, its story fading into starlight while the forest listens in silence.