Flyers on the Wall | Alyson Tait

1994 became known in South Mesa, Arizona, as “The Black Year.”

I was ten years old that May. My brother was 16, our family dog was nine, and my newly adopted rag-doll cat was six months to the day when school let out. The shrieking intercom bell spoke: summer had officially started. 

The air was dry and suffocating. It didn’t take long for the community pools to fill up with bored kids. Teenagers hung out in front of the mall, and at least one window was open in every apartment. 

Everything was normal until our neighbor’s German Shepherd slipped out the back gate. The first time in all twelve years of the dogs cushy life. His owners stapled flyers to every electricity pole and window in the valley.

A week later, a second flyer appeared on the poles. The paper was pale blue, and the black-and-white picture showed a slinky cat with short fur called “Peanuts.” I remember well because I became convinced they’d pick the name to make crass jokes. No one could tell me different, and the poor cat never showed up to defend himself.

By the time the first winter chill hit, every home within two square miles had suffered the tragedy. It was like a Steven King novel. Especially since ten-year-old me didn’t fully understand the hushed conversations or the implications of what was happening.

I didn’t see someone walking their dog for a long time afterward, and our house never replaced either pet. It was a strange time, like a dream that never resolved entirely, even as the world kept moving.

One night, quite recently, I recalled a fight my mother had with my brother, and there was a lot of fresh dirt in our backyard. But the memory was too hazy, too rooted. Too far gone to argue about. 

Besides, it wasn’t just our house that got hit.

Alyson lives in Maryland where she got married, had her daughter, and began her writing journey. She has appeared in (mac)ro(mic), Wrongdoing magazine, and From the Farther Trees. You can find her on Amazon, and Twitter @rudexvirus1