August's Fog
What Happens To a Town With No Memory | Flash Fiction
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A small town, the fog, the brain. What is a person with no memory? A neighborhood? A town? Are we only as good as our memory? Are we only a collection of synapses firing?
The fog rolled in on a sunny day in August. If you asked the townspeople a week later no one would remember the date. It moved like a demented sloth slowly creeping over the grass on the outskirts of town, crawling under cars, then over, raking its claws over trees, the playground, then into the homes of the 878 residents of Vieuxville.
Day 1
Merline, known town gossip, texted the neighborhood watch chat.
Merline: What’s with the fog?
Paul: What fog?
Merline: You haven’t heard about the fog?
Elli: Open ur blinds! It’s so creepy.
Merline: just opened my window wtf it kind of stinks
Kenneth: whoa did anyone check the news??
Merline: news for what?
Kenneth: the fog
Merline: what fog?
Paul:…. The fog you just texted about
As the fog continued its glacial and sinister crawl through the town, residents began to forget things. It started with an inability to recall the beginnings of conversations. All across Vieuxville residents forgot to put their dishes in the sink, lock the doors, and brush their teeth.
Day 2
In the morning some people forget to leave their homes. Kenneth’s favorite coffee shop was shuttered. As he approached the door trudging through wisps of the fog he could not remember why his foot was heading in that direction. As he turned he knew that he was looking for his car but he could not tell you what direction he had parked. He walked past the dark gray Honda and walked another two blocks before he forgot what he was looking for. Kenneth did not remember to use his car keys to alarm the vehicle. He had forgotten it in his pant pocket. He had forgotten that he could use the alarm.
That night Marcus sat at the TV and forgot to turn on the game to watch his favorite team. His wife did not remember to cook. Their teenage daughter sat on her bed and did not rehash the details of her first kiss with Lee behind the bleachers with her friends.
Under the same waning moon, Merline’s kettle whistled and whistled, screaming at her to turn it off. Every 10 minutes she’d look at the origin of the sound and wonder why it cried. Then she’d be distracted again by the light of a passing car, the shout of a neighbor, or the sound of her cat scratching at the door.
Day 3
In the morning Marcus woke up to an empty bed. His wife, Nella lay on the floor in the kitchen fast asleep. She could not recall falling asleep. She could not recall forgetting to recall that she had a bed. Marcus came down and shook her shoulder.
“Nell, you’re gonna be late for work! Why are you down here?”
“Marcus, why are you yelling?”
He walks to the stove, stands for a brief moment, and walks to the table where he sits waiting for something he can’t quite recall.
Elli is awakened by the sound of something scratching and the smell of smoke. She follows the sound and opens the door. She is terrified as a cat skitters past her. She opens her mouth to make a sound but her lips gape open, shut, open, shut. Her brain cannot remember how to constrict her throat or bend her tongue to make the sound she is supposed to make. Ever so often her phone vibrates. She searches for the sound and is again distracted by something else.
Two blocks down a house is on fire. There is no sound of sirens only the crackling of wood and the scent of burning flesh. Who calls the fire department if no one remembers it exists? Who runs out the house if they forget what fire can do? The fire spreads a viral infection that no one remembers how to cure. There is no yelling, no screaming, only the nagging feeling that a reaction is supposed to happen. Something is supposed to happen next, but there are only brains affected by fog.
Day 4
The neighborhood is usually a lively mess of happy neighbors. The fog has wrapped its body around the town a cloudy cord slowly tightening. You can find the townspeople in all manner of disarray having forgotten to do the things that are necessary not only for life but for liveliness. Across several benches of the town, people sit slumped. Old man Patrick in his green shorts and favorite sandals keeps standing up to go do something and sitting back down when he forgets what he meant to do. There is a damp patch on his favorite green shorts where he peed himself some time ago in between sitting and standing.
In a car not too far away the young Lee who enjoyed a kiss under the bleachers days ago sits in his feces. He was lucky enough to have his windows rolled down when the fog rolled in. Behind him in a parked car with the windows rolled up is the bloated corpse of Patrice, who owned the coffee shop, dead from heat stroke.
Day 5
The stench of garbage clings to the air like a damp shower curtain. The garbage situation varies from block to block but it is clear that the sanitation workers have not collected garbage for several days.
A person walking through the town, if they remembered how to walk, would regurgitate if they remembered how. From far enough away, it looks like everyone is sleeping, but up close, the stench of death is undeniable. Even the pets who were scratching at doors, escaping homes, screeching, and barking are silent. Some are curled up dead under their owners. Others are splayed in the streets, on roofs, under cars, and in chimneys. Dead.
Day 6
Death & decay.
Day 7
If you asked the townspeople about the day the fog rolled in they wouldn’t remember because they were all dead. They wouldn’t remember today either when the fog receded into nothingness; a famished beast having devoured an entire town.
The After
When the first car rolled into town the absence of life was a sad putty in their palm. By the time local law enforcement had arrived, news of the town had begun to spread like the fog online. What happened to the Vieuxvillians? It became a national sensation, eventually bleeding into a staple of international internet lore. The Vieuxville Mystery would never be solved and with time it too would fade away to nothing not even a memory.
Memory is life. It is the gentle current that pushes and pulls and moves us all in unity or tension. It bends history and shapes culture. It can preserve. It can convince. Its force is inescapable, so we must keep the fog out by any means necessary. 
Props to the folks who cooked up this idea and to
for thinking to include me. Your thoughtfulness and respect is appreciated. Hope all who find their way here enjoyed the story and stick around for some more.For all of you who have already subscribed thanks so much!! For those of you who haven’t subscribed yet, it’s never too late to join my smart and funny subscribers (nickname sadly still pending)!
I loved this. Thank you for sharing it. Memory is life. Beautiful.
"She could not recall forgetting to recall that she had a bed" - A great line which recreates the vortex of forgetting and all its repercussions and rippling unremembrances.
Nice tight story, very enjoyable indeed.