The Earth Spins



The faded sign floats like a fog in the trees. Antioch Southern Baptist Church in peeled blue lettering two miles south of Chigger Brown Hill. The haggard steeple calls to those who weave through the cemetery-fed copse. A worn animal trail shared by the rare visitor. Open at dawn, painted on the door, no cash, no reading. You pull the door, it drags the earth; you open another dimension. Incense burns your nose, a dizzy of smoke fills your head, shaded by the hall’s purple and green glass. The earth spins. “Can you tell me my future?” you ask. “Come inside, what’s your question?” The earth spins. You pull the door, it drags the earth; you open another dimension. “Can you tell me my future?” you ask. “Come inside, what’s your question?” The earth spins. You pull the door, it drags the earth; you open another dimension. “Can you tell me my future?” you ask.

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