Charlotte never was one for eloquence. That was the job of her friend, Rebekah. But when faced with what she saw, Charlotte doubted anyone could have kept their cool.
One moment, she had been walking out the automatic doors of her workplace. Her skin tingled from the cool night air, stars danced across her vision from the flashing car lights. Yet, the moment she stepped across that threshold, that metropolitan world vanished.
In its place, a wasteland, and she, the queen of all she surveyed from atop a hill of dirt and shrubbery. Shift her gaze down and she spied rustic houses. Or rather, the battered shells of a cowboy town. Boarded up, half collapsed, skeletal, and she saw the smoke of campfires rising. The barest traces of what must have once been a highway impaled the squatter's village. Had a tornado --or war-- broken out?
Yet, worst of all was Charlotte's apparel. She must have tripped and hit her head and now she was trapped in a mad max delusion. A dirty cream colored floral print dress with a ratty cardigan. She looked like a bloody churchgoing housewife with an identity crisis.
Also, her boobs were two sizes bigger than they were supposed to be. And she was very aware that she wore no bra. How annoying!
She stamped the ground with her boot, watching as dust swirled up, forming tiny tornadoes.
California. Her parents had once given her the dubious pleasure of hiking through its deserts, and merely looking at the scraggly shrubs made her throat go a bit dry.
Yet, squint as she did, even outside of ill-fated non-consenting vacations, there was something else about this scene that tugged at her thoughts. Something strangely familiar...
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