– You’d swear you’d driven past that rock formation before, but the GPS has stopped working hours ago and there’s no use turning around now. The thermometer crawls upward, and you don’t remember the last gas station you passed. The numbers on the mile markers are random, arbitrary. You wonder if you’re still on Earth.
– Smoke tickles your eyes, your throat. You can smell it, taste it, but can’t see it. The world is on fire, somewhere to the west, and the flames creep closer every year. The locals light fireworks every night of July to prove they’re not afraid.
– Nothing lives in the water. Nothing ever has. Even the brine-flies don’t venture too far from the shoreline. The deeps are still and silent now, but no one talks anymore about the lost planes.
– There’s tracks in the snow that no one can identify. They’re buried by avalanches before they can be documented.
– A billboard along I-15 predicts the apocalypse. By the time you realize what you’ve just read, it’s already changed.
– There’s a monument along the mountain road, but no one will tell you what it’s commemorating. The local history books have been relocated to the archives. You’re not worthy to access the archives.
– The neighbor knows your name, though you’ve never met. You see her walk her children to the park, but they always look like different children than the day before. She leaves a tupperware of soup on your porch in the winter. You don’t know who told her you were sick. You never heard her walk up to the door.
Utah Gothic
Published
Land of Sweetness and Light 