Notes from the Future

Earthworms will eat the garbage that the hillbillies left behind, but garbage will be big money then and eating it will be illegal. So the crafty band of earthworm outlaws will outfox the cops by camouflaging themselves as classic hits from the 70s and 80s—make-out rock, mostly. But no one will ever want to make out with you.

For transportation, people will have cars implanted in their rib cages, but cars will be as small as bumblebees—and have stingers and all. Some will adapt to the constant stinging inside their own bodies. Others will not, and their dead eyes will be scooped out to make lenses for kaleidoscopes.

Every day, you will look more like the tired guy in the doughnut commercial—but face-down in an efficiency apartment somewhere outside Saskatchewan, which will then be known as Greenland. When the boyscouts in their canoe float by, they will poke-poke-poke at your blue, bloated gut with their paddles.

Daily living will be easier, especially falling down and chatting with stuffed animals.

The old cowboy will continue to search for his daughter among the Comanches who will have long since converted to nihilism, then to stone. The trail under the cowboy's horse's split, flat hooves will turn to stone. His daughter, hiding behind an orange butte, will go the way of the buffalo, who will have long since converted to alcoholism. We will drink to this. Often. Whenever we remember to. From our soaking wet hospital beds.

There will still be a reason to stay: we are dying. There will still be a reason to go: we are dying.

Jennifer L. Knox

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