False Prophets & Dead Gods

 I woke to the sound of trumpets. Not music, exactly—something lower, older. Like a brass section buried beneath centuries of Earth, playing through waterlogged lungs. It wasn’t a song so much as a summons, and every dog in the county howled at once, a shrill chorus rising with the dawn mist. I sat up in bed, bare feet touching cold floorboards, and listened. The sound vibrated through the walls, not loud but deep like it was stitched into the wood and the bones beneath it. I could also hear the church bell ringing, but it sounded distant, almost polite compared to the thunder just beyond the sky. They said the Rapture would come like a thief in the night, but… this was a parade. By the time I made it out onto the porch, half the town was already gathered in the street, dressed in their Sunday best, even though it was Thursday. Old Pastor Elijah stood before the chapel, arms spread wide, head tilted to the clouds. His white robe fluttered around him like it had a mind of its own, c...

 They say the field behind St. Agnes listens. I used to laugh at that when I was young, like everyone else who left town and never returned. Thought it was just the kind of tale old women wove into their quilting bees and Wednesday prayer circles. But standing here now—knees in the cracked dirt, the air heavy with heat, and whispering corn stalks—I can’t quite remember why I ever stopped believing. It hasn’t changed. Same rusted fence. Same wooden sign, burned with the words “Speak True.” Same scarecrow with a burlap face and stitched-on smile, arms out like it’s begging for a hug or a crucifixion. I lower my head and whisper. “I want her back,” I say. “Please.” The corn doesn’t rustle. The wind doesn’t blow. But I feel it—like the field inhales. And something deep in the earth… agrees. --- Her name was Anna. My wife. Dead seven months this week. Cancer got her fast—like the good ones always go. I tried to bargain with God then, too. Promised Him everything. Sobriety. Church. The s...