Death of the Author

800 Word Short Story

I don’t have that long. I’ll tell it fast. There was nothing remarkable, then, apart from the great white autumnal nothingness that spanned the highway and licked the light out of the neon of the signs. I wasn’t driving. I don’t drive. I don’t think I do. That’s not important. He was driving. I remember that, his hands on the wheel, the indicator clicking, the way his face looked when he saw it. He saw it first. “That’s weird,” he said, pressing a forefinger up to the windscreen. “That’s really weird, right?”

About fifty feet in front of us, there was a sign, half swallowed by the mist, acrid yellow and gloaming. “What?” I said, squinting. I wasn’t wearing my lenses. I do normally, I think. It’s blurring now. “Look at what it says, babe,” he said, tapping the glass. I peered forward.

søkr kjån

“What on earth does that mean?” I mused, aloud, wondering if some idiot at the council had ordered the wrong signs. “Is that Norwegian or something?” My husband shook his head, and then shrugged. “Maybe it’s a practical joke. Would be unhinged to put a warning sign out like that in Surrey.” We drove on, in silence. The mist was thick now. Really thick. First the trees faded, their ochre canopies rotting into a blur, then shadows, then just the whiteness. “This isn’t safe, honey,” I mused, glancing at…