On Sunday afternoon at Sand Point Magnuson Park, a man holding a plastic bag walked his dog through an empty parking lot. At 3:35 p.m., a scattering of dirty-looking birds flew westward over the roof of Hangar 27, where Northwest Bookfest took place the last two years of its existence (and where it would have taken place this weekend, if it had happened), and then the chaotic formation loped back and landed on the roof. The clouds in the far distance appeared heavy and frozen, the small birds on the roof stood statue-still, and a small plane lifted into the air from a field somewhere in-between.

There frankly wouldn't be a whole lot more going on here if Bookfest were taking place--at least, according to what could have been predicted from the festival's rapidly dwindling attendance over the last few years. (Citing declines in attendance and financial resources, Bookfest's board voted this year to suspend all operations and cancel the 2004 festival.) Where last year there hung giant signs and banners, there were now blank walls and tall windows speckled with bird shit. Where last year there stood a large tent just outside the hangar, for events expected to draw larger crowds (like last year's interview with Jonathan Raban), there was now a fallen traffic cone. Where last year there were tons of cars and vans and trucks in the north parking lot, there were now four small cars and a minivan.

Turns out the cars and the minivan didn't belong to anyone here in any official capacity. I slipped into the huge hangar, previously crammed with stages and booths and lights and bunting and books and people and food, and found, inside, a vast concrete emptiness, three fire extinguishers, some discarded fast-food wrappers, and six high school students. The teenagers were gathered around a pile of papers they had just set on fire. As soon as they registered my presence, two guys wearing costume sport coats fled, and a girl with dark hair began to pour red wine from a glass back into the bottle, and another guy threw a small metal file cabinet onto the fire to smother it. "We're filming a movie. We just finished," someone explained nervously. "School project," someone else said. "No one's ever here." I asked what their movie was about. "Hamlet. I don't know," said another guy. "It's not mine. It's theirs." The fire-starter said, "Hey, look," and pointed into the air. Ashes from the fire were floating down through the light. It looked bizarre and peaceful, like indoor snow. Someone zipped the camera into its case and it occurred to me that what I had just walked in on was probably more interesting than anything else that's ever taken place here.

In less time than it took to have that thought, the teenagers were gone. The last of them, as he was going, said, "Just make sure you close the door when you leave."

frizzelle@thestranger.com