Boots on the Ground in Dark Matter: Bunny Graves Runs the Night
Dark Matter was not a book I planned to write: I had no idea it would even exist until I came to the end of Dark Park, the short novel I thought was the sequel to Dark Factory, then found out that the story still needed to grow: Dark Matter proves it’s always been a trilogy. And Bunny Graves, the most combustible and energetic character in all three books, was there waiting, ready to lace up her boots and tell her fierce and determined, ardent and violent story too.
She could get a Jump or take the train, but she prefers to keep her feet under her, boots on the ground. People always ask How can you walk in those things? but she can run in heels and has, in the rain, on ice, up metal stairs, she can crack bottle glass or stomp a hole through chipboard.
Write what you know, we’ve all heard that. But writing what you don’t know, what you can’t yet see, allowing the story to go exactly where it wants to go, pulls to go, like a beast off the leash chasing down paths that disappear in the distance, paths that seem without end, that might even be dead ends—Why would we choose to do that? What if we get lost, what if the story or novel falls apart, what if something happens that we can’t control or figure out or—Whose book is this, anyway?
—and now the other guests are pointing their clips and watching, the false fire flickers on the ceiling and the walls, the whiskey buzzes in his body, too much whiskey, he almost stumbles on that black unsteady path—
it comes down to trust: Do we trust our story to contain everything it needs, already, even if we can’t see that yet? Do we trust ourselves as writers, to stay alert, responsive, to that idea, that energy that pulls us on, keeps us going into the dark until we get to the end? wherever that end might be?
The more books I write, the more I know that no matter what, I need to trust the story. Because the story, the thing that works through us to be written, to come to life, that uniquely breathing idea: no matter where it goes or what it takes to get there, it’s never, ever been wrong.
. . . not made with power or force, but instead from that rusted chassis and waving weeds, and the roses and bottles on the Factory floor, the fucking at Silver Landings and the fighting at Quest Fest, the silent church in Barcelona and the dancefloor masses and the Beat Shack graduation, all of that is his to work with, make with, to keep it all spinning, eternally moving, all it needed was a breath of air to start.
[All quotes from DARK MATTER.]
DARK MATTER by Kathe Koja
RELEASE DATE: December 2, 2025
GENRE: Speculative Fiction | LGBTQ
BOOK PAGE: Dark Matter – Meerkat Press
SUMMARY:
When the world ends, chaos begins–
–for feral Bunny Graves, playing life like a high-stakes game, where the only way to win is to smash the board to bits–
–for Max Caspar and Charmskool the scholar, chasing ancient myth all the way to the real world–
–and for Ari Regon, caught between dangerous jealousy and passionate love, corporate war and ambition so intense that failure is death, making the party to end all parties, a party that never ends.
Dark times.
Dark dreams.
DARK MATTER
The third and final book in the DARK FACTORY series.
BUY LINKS: Meerkat Press | Bookshop.org | Amazon
GIVEAWAY: $25 Meerkat Press Giftcard
EXCERPT from DARK MATTER by Kathe Koja
ONE
The bed is king-size, the sheets are midnight blue, and all at once Ari wakes—the dream of an empty hallway, miles of scrawled white walls and he runs, chasing laughter, a man’s irresistible laughter—his body wakes him, with a jolt like falling.
Too early to be up but he rises anyway, naked, stretching, heading for the balcony as he shrugs on a robe, takes up his clip and a Babel cigar, pulls that door wide on hot spring sunshine and the tang of sewage, the buzz of delivery trikes in the street below. He yawns, still a little fuzzy from last night—a graduation party for Felix’s latest trio of Beat Shack student DJs, Nia and Hector and Antwan, the pop-up bartender was serving champagne and bitters and everybody wanted to buy him one, everybody wanted to dance and he danced with everybody, with Antwan, he used to run with a boy called Antoine . . . Last night Felix told those students The music comes first, not racking up linkis or gets, or booking fests, who knows how long fests will even last? Do what you need to do to get heard, but remember the music always comes first—and they listened, three nodding heads, his students are in awe of him, worldwide DJ in their own neighborhood; little Hector even dresses like him, simple t-shirts and aviator shades.
Squinting now in the treeless sun, he lights up and draws, the smoke mellow as whiskey in his mouth: these pricey cigars arrived yesterday in a lacquered black humidor with a little note signed by Tom Hae, business partner, would-be wise man, May our every vice enrich us. Right now there are two, no, three unanswered pings from Tom Hae on the clip that shivers and purrs in the slash pocket of his robe—Felix gave him this robe, rough plum silk so dark it looks black, tailored cuffs and sash, he held it up, bemused, Am I the kind of guy who wears something like this? and Well, Felix said, what kind of guy are you? You’re my guy.
This morning Felix was up and out early, filling the steam kettle, zipping the gym bag, while he rolled over into the warmth Felix left behind in bed, the smells of vetiver lotion and eucalyptus cold spray, the special scent of Felix’s skin, then fell back to sleep, to dream—he dreams a lot these days, nights, threshold dreams of that unseen man and those long hallways, of empty dandelion fields under black sky dazzle, of bones and bricks and shit and buildings half-built or half-destroyed where parties rage under slippery silk banners and branches sing in the wind, sing till they snap—waking again and again to this apartment, this building that reminds him of the building he grew up in, the same low-rise street trees and slow commuter trains, though way more lux and with new window shields and red smart fences, last week the grid shivered and those fences went down, the weed boutique across the street got instantly robbed, the gourmet deli tagged with rubber spray paint, FUKKIN EAT ME!!! in angry pink.
At first this apartment felt like a haven: Where’s that, our place? Felix asked him that before, Felix is constantly annoyed by New York but at ease here in a way he will never be, never was in that long-ago family apartment, or even his own industrial loft in the Factory days, the only place that ever felt like home to him was the Factory itself. Now the lease is coming due, and Felix wants, has been wanting, to settle somewhere, settle down, yet still he stalls, balks, why? Felix is his home, but his own center is something apart, Ari’s a maker, give him anything, anything at all—
—like the aftertaste of last night’s cocktails, and his own face glimpsed bluish and distorted on a doorside security screen, Sergey’s footage of their wedding and the gold-trimmed saint cards Ava tucks into his bag, Angel Rafael and Holy Mother Mary, bodyguard Alonzo’s waistband pistol and the empty bottle of Vismalux rolling on the Jump car’s floor, the ice storms that killed Meghan’s orchids and the mud that buries Indigo Studio, the walled-off professionals on Argot and the art strays and true believers on Kerosene and the ruthless gossip mobs on Dive, the false calm of News Immediate and the doom screamers on Dayly, all telling him, showing him the same thing—that things end, change, break, amaze—everything operating in the spin that he no longer hunts or rides but lives inside, alert, aware, surviving—
—and he draws again, blows a pair of wavering smoke rings, then checks a new ping, a man’s bare and gleaming ass, a flirty line of eyes, DJ Boyz Boyz @ Tuesday Club wsg Valhalla!! and 2nitez research let u know how it goez, from Antwan, Antwan with the purple hair and thigh-slashed jeans, last night Antwan asked him a million business questions, leaning in close to ask them—
—as “Hey,” from the balcony door, Felix in a cut-off NEVERDAYS t-shirt and workout pants, tossing down his bag, “I waved at you, didn’t you see me?” stepping out as Ari drops the clip back into his pocket, Felix’s hand sliding past the robe’s deep shawl collar to stroke his chest, his nipples and “You’re too hot,” Felix says. “Come on inside—”
—to lean against the cluttered kitchen island and kiss, breath of smoke, fresh sweat and sharp chlorine and “You smell like the gym,” Ari says.
“You smell like bed,” Felix says, tugging open the sash as Ari slides down Felix’s shades, vintage and gold, Felix is smiling—
—then the door chime goes, three beats and the recognition tone, a voice, a woman’s—“Bunny—” and “It’s your girlfriend,” Ari says; he slides the shades back up. “Did she follow you home?”
“I don’t know why you do this—”
“I’m going to grab a shower.”
“Ari, come on. She’s only going to be here a minute, she’s dropping something off—She already thinks you don’t like her—”
“Why does she think of me at all,” closing the bathroom door, clicking on the whirring filter fan but still he hears her enter, Bunny, Bunny Graves, her sharp bootheels, her seemingly friendly chat—“Alonzo said you had a great session this morning, Thomas is glad you can use his Sportshalle pass. Did Ari get the cigars Thomas sent?”—but he knows who really sent those cigars, and he knows she knows that, he dials the shower higher, he pictures her red relentless smile.
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Kathe Koja’s books include The Cipher, Skin, straydog, Buddha Boy, Velocities: Stories, Under the Poppy, and the Dark Factory trilogy, Dark Factory, Dark Park, and Dark Matter. Her work has won awards, including the Stoker, the Shirley Jackson Award, and the ASPCA’s Henry Bergh Award. She also creates and produces live and online experiences that bring the story directly to you. Find her at kathekoja.com and on IG, FB and Bluesky.
