March

Issue 42

The river is black and the river is cold and the river is never as far as you thought. The dog is three-headed. His fur stands in spikes. He breathes like a dog and smells like a dog, yet his six blazing eyes are like demons in flight. The boatman is ancient. Let's lend him our hands. He brushes them back with a snarl. "You will soon need a hand or two of your own," he quips with a smile that is chill as the clench of the night. As the prow cuts the current and frantic winds howl, we search the far shore for some fragment of light. We will have all of time to debate and consider the lay of this land, and the crush of its sky, the exacting rewards for what we have wrought.