The Undried Ink
Kimi K2 (0711) and Davinci 002
The letter was wedged between pages 204 and 205 of a water-damaged copy of *Field Guide to Coastal Birds*, published 1892. The paper was unyellowed. The ink, blue-black and smelling faintly of ozone and summer rain, had not yet fully dried. It was addressed, in a hand I almost recognized, to someone who would not be born for another seventy-three years. The last line of the unsigned letter read:
> Goodbye, friend. It’s raining. Goodbye.
Somewhere in the periphery of my vision, sunlight slid through the trees, catching a cockatrice’s eye and eliciting a sudden rending, crowd-dominating squawk of protest. Drinking in glass, I gingerly strode back to the truck, three quarters of my shadow already traipsing ahead of me. Behind the wheel, I consulted the face of my cancelled direction march.
I dreaded what lay south of me.
Just above the lake the horizon seemed to rise up into the encompassing cloud’s belly, ending abruptly in a leaky gray wall. My odometer read 166; 169; 171.
*Young gods are dead. Queens bleed like rain.*
*Their names are whisper leaves in worn-out songs…*
I pushed the gas pedal to the floor. The car sped indifferently up the hill, buoyed into its silent horror by the burning of fuel limbed by hungry, grasping fear.
The pine tree in my way cracked and fell. Caddy remarked *that’s it*. I revved the ignition and threw open the window, pitching away the tattered conditions of the world. The ash smelled of salt. I reached for the bottle of cheap gin in the glove◆ About the ending
❧ About the title