In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

83 Atrocity’s Garden The highway to Flagstaff may be rerouted but the landscape remains the same— neither more nor less than it was. Salt River isn’t for the thirsty. One lowers one’s mouth to the water, and the water retreats to the edge of a desert plateau. The rope breaks, the jug cracks, the canteen rusts and falls apart. The mayor and the sheriff exchange names, but still wear the same uniforms. Sky is always sky. Water water—what we all must drink. No one drinks the mud of the well. No animals come. Those who wander off into the desert find themselves alone. No one will follow. No one sends out search parties after those who stray into those arid stretches, those who are happy to stay there. If we come to a well, we shoot fish there. The waterbag breaks, leaks. A well, a mind, is a terrible thing to waste. The well no one uses 84 becomes home to its own thoughts only, attracts only those whose own wells are stagnant and putrid, guarded only by the wrong dog— some decrepit black Labrador, hip broken, coat dull and scruffy, unrecognized by its owner after all these years, panting and drooling in the heat, the name of some motel down near Phoenix painted on its side. H.J. ...

Share