Fiction: Fog

“Ain’t natural, Karl.”
“‘Course not.”
“Fog’s ‘sposed to burn up in sunlight, not pile up against the edge of a man’s property like it’s beatin’ on a wall.”
“Ever’body knows that, Carl.”
“Yeah? Well somebody ‘parently forgot to tell ol’ man Hemp. Ain’t natural.”
“Ya’ said that already.”
“Well, mebbe that’s ’cause it bears repeatin’.”
“How long do ya’ reckon it’ll be ’til it burns off, Karl?”
“Thar be a question with a diff’cult answer, Carl. Seems like that there fog sticks around a little longer ever’ day. ‘Fore ya’ know it, it’ll be hangin’ ’round all day and all night.”
“Lordy, Karl. Ol’ man Hemp’s gotta be quakin’ in his polished boots right now.”
“Mebbe. Or mebbe he’s the one done brung it on hisself now, ya’ think? A judgment from the good Lord Hisself.”
“Ya’ think so?”
“Aw, hell if I know, Carl. But you see anyone else around with a danged cloud parked on their lawn?”

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