022 — Day One! | Talon Z. Gray

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Day One!

I am deeply disappointed.

I trekked all the way from the Ocean to the Pinnacle of Placeholder
—a blistering week’s journey, one way.

My paws are cracked.
My fur, matted with frost.

I traded my last sun-torn bills for this pilgrimage, but I didn’t care—
this was his coronation day.

I spent two nights in the Ivory Den.
Not an ordinary den, mind you.
Not an ordinary dog.

The Royal Suite, fully stocked with mud pits, shallow puddles, and feather-pillowed nests.

Because this isn’t just any ruler.
And I am not an average canine.

This is the Golden King.

I’ve gathered every relic scattered across the mountainside:
a single ski pole, one cracked pair of goggles,
a fast-food wrapper, a plastic bottle,
a bag with a crown-shaped logo.

Each year I arrange them higher, closer to the Cliffside—
seeking harmonic resonance,
praying the offering will finally reach him.

Every year the mountain swallows them.

But this year—it feels different.

(The dog holds up the ski pole, light glinting off its battered shaft.)

This is the purest devotion on the mountain.

I gave everything because this was the day.

Day One.

(The dog leans forward, revealing the empty chairlift they sit in.
They tap the ski pole on the metal bar for emphasis.)

And yet… Ting-ting-ting.
The coronation never came.

Why?

(The chairlift creaks and sways in the wind.)

Listen. The air whispers: “Too cold.”

It doesn’t feel frozen to me.

The Throne of the Unseen needs no audience.

Hear that creak?
(The dog tilts an ear.)

The metal speaks its own tongue.
That’s the answer.

The numbers are woven into the woodland patterns,
folded deep within the Mountain Complex.

They said the water is tainted.
But I feel fine.

Squeak, squeak—
Yes, your Majesty! Of course.
Yodel-ley-hee-hoo!

Squeak, squeak—

(The dog stiffens, listening intently as the chairlift groans.)

We must issue a decree at once.

Your wisdom is as boundless as the sky.
Yodel-ley-hee-hoo! Yodel-ley-hee-hoo!

(At attention.)

What was that?

A herald muttered of “threats at the border,”
voices sharp and heavy with strange vowels.

But no. I refuse to believe it.

I will stay here, even if the Pinnacle freezes solid.
Even if the Golden King never appears.

I have all their relics.

I’ll donate my remaining scraps—
for when he returns,
whether in four cycles, or nine, or 365 days,
he will make all things whole again.

Shelter for our elders?
The drought in the Lowlands?
My dreams?

All unknown. All arranged to expire.

The only affordable shelter lies on a deadly river.
My dreams: dispensable tinder for firestarters.
Never cared for.

Unnecessary for effectiveness.

Today is the day.

(The dog presses two paws together and bows their head.
The chairlift sways gently. The wind calms.)

(The dog rises, stretching into a fragile, praying posture.)

We celebrate Day One!

Thank you, Golden King, for taking everything.
Apricot patch. Peach cobbler. Fuzzy navel.
I am honored to give more.

We bark.
We howl upon thee.

(The dog tilts its head, then lifts its muzzle.
An instinctive, aching howl escapes.)

Hoooooooooooowl!

A massive sheet of snow cracks and tumbles from the peak—
a thundering avalanche.

“Look! Our siren has triggered a reaction!
We are signals!”

(The mountain groans as snow surges downward,
devouring trees like twigs.)

“See the power? The immense energy?
This is not destruction—
it’s a parade of existence!”

Hoooooooooooowl!

(Another slab breaks free, feeding the avalanche.)

“Look at it!
The mountain itself roars to announce the Golden King’s arrival!”

This is everything we were waiting for.

(The dog gazes at the cascading snow, eyes glassy.)

“Is this not beautiful?
I think our work is done here.”

We sit at the top of the world, wondering:
Are we safe in such thin air?

Maybe next year.

So long.

(The dog leaps from the chairlift
and vanishes into the night.)