Michelle Nichols Wright

The Hound

The hound came with papers, it’s lineage finer than any blood in our veins, but Daddy wanted something fine, and he remembered the way his grandfather’s blue tick bayed all discordant into the night, not even off its chain, only for show—a damn fine waste is what our Daddy said, and so he brought a hound home and told us to leave it in its cage, but we let it out immediately and followed the baying to the horizon, a solid flat line of sound that ended when the hound found an old red radio, licked it silver, and died. 

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