At the Edge of the Age of Print

A still-hidden village high atop a Smoky ridge took a name today, designed and lauded by a triumvirate: the local preacher, the town’s one cop, and a housewife whose husband plows the road down to Pigeon Forge. Hear the result of a single session of sweet tea and scratch pads and a great county nod at the town forum, and if you dare, sing it like a note that signifies both belly and umbilical: Godsland.
What embattled omniscience they’ve made for themselves by the mere absence of an apostrophe, sending even the most pastoral community awry under the looking glasses of ancient forces, at the chins of an almighty mob who’ve waited out the age of print to play their games again. Soon there will be orgies and sacrifices, feasts fueled with moonshine, still-scoured, tapped after years of benightedness; soon everyone will be led to the edge of the ridge, pressed against walls of windows, where all the views are flashing and the wind clicks and buzzes.