In the witching hour a fog settles heavy over everything
It pushes down on the roof and the grass and the tree and
It pushes down on you
You awake up later and you wake up late,
But you got up and dressed and left for work?
And yet you are in you bed and you are late
The headlights illuminates the swirls of fog
Speed knowing you shouldn't but you've got work
You pray you make it without incident
All the way there the road is hidden
All the way there it stretches on and on and on
All the way there your GPS says 30 minutes
The corn rustles angrily ears alert, eyes watching
You hope it stays rooted in the fields where it belongs
Your insurance doesn't cover things in the corn
The sounds of roadwork overtake you distorted in the fog
As you drive by you see them damp and rotted and groaning
This gives a whole new meaning to the term skeleton crew
The not deer dart across the lanes leaving the stench of dread
You wonder idlily if they are unafraid of the corn or of the corn
You know that either way they are getting far to close
On the edge of the fogbank sits a car you know you have seen at work
Empty on the side of the road yet so full of or perhaps so devoid of potentials
You look straight ahead and try to ignore it lest your truck wind up the same
Out of the fog the sun shines and you arrive at work on time
The cold lingers in your bones but it lingers in everyone's bones
YOU ARE READING
Midwestern Gothics
ParanormalA collection of short stories I've come up with because it's just like that here.