ALL THE BILLBOARDS IN MADISON COUNTY

[Anonymous No.22998582]

I one time got a lot of attention because of a big autofiction story I wrote.

I wrote it late at night. The kids were in bed. My wife was in asleep. I wrote it straight through, no corrections, no revisions. I was shaking, trembling. My hair stood on end. I felt as though I had my finger stuck in the electrical socket of the universe.

Ive done it, I said to myself, Ive finally done it.

I had finally alchemized years of agony and private suffering into gold—pure autofictional gold.

My story was rejected by 27 online lit mags. It was rejected by Muumuu House, House of Vlad, Hobart, 3am, Forever, Believer, Expat, Backpat, the Three Penny Press, The Tin Cup, Cutty Spot, Heavy Traffic, The End, n+1, Swamp Lit, Bullshit Lit, Last Ditch Lit, the Shit-tube Press, and 22 other online lit mags unworth mentioning.

My wife hated my story, my wife didn't care, but I knew I had done something big. I knew I had written a story as good, or better, than anything Robert James Waller, Elizabeth Ellen, or Delicious Tacos had ever published in any online lit mag.

I had done wrong in my life. I made a lot mistakes. But I had done this.

It was late November, gray and bare. I visited every billboard in Madison County—billboards for cheap cremation and hair removal, billboards for East Side Electric and Rocket City Motors, billboards for personal injury lawfirms, billboards for Jesus, and a billboard for an enormous Italian combo, at an Italin import delicatessen—there were no billboards for rent in Madison County.

There WAS a billboard just outside Madison County, over a six lane highway interchange that locals called 'The Mix Master.'

It was like a third world country. Scaffolding and orange traffic cones everywhere, flashing signs pointed every which place. The breakdown lane and the liminal space beyond was littered with the anamalous detritus of the American roadside; broken glass and nails, blown out treads, plastic lawn chairs and—inexplicably—a microwave.

I popped a poloraid. The flash went off needlessly. The film fed out like a half limp dick.

[Anonymous No.22998585]

My story got a lot of press pretty immediately.

Three days after my story went up, an eighteen-wheeler plowed full-speed into a loaded minivan like a missile. It looked like it had been vaporized by an interstellar death ray from outer space.
The van was reduced instantaneously to a small, smoldering heap of molten steel, ash, and seven dental records of various sized scattered across the freeway like dentures.

It smelled like cancer for miles around. A toxic black cloud could be seen by passenger planes. Fire, police and ambulance had to he rerouted. Holiday plans werd postponed or canceled. The Mix Master was shut down for two whole weeks.

The trucker had been distracted. He had been reading my autofiction story, printed on the billboard in size 3000 font.

They wanted to put me in jail over a 48 word autofiction story.

The day after the accident, the chickens came home to roost. The local news was lined up and down my block. They were in my yard. They were in my bushes. They had their cameras shoved between the blinds. They were banging on the door.

My wife was following me around the house, screaming. The kids were crying in the corner.

I couldnt think, I flew to the front door and flung it open. A helicopter thromped overhead. There were bright lights shining in my face and a dozen film crews, a bunch of microphones shoved in my face. They were shouting questions at me.

My knees went wobbly. I was hot all over and tugging at my collar.

They all wanted to know the same thing.

They wanted to know which parts were true, and which parts I had made up. They wanted to know, who were the biggest influences on my short story entitled, 'All the Billboards in Madison County'.

[Anonymous No.22998746]

[Anonymous No.22998773]

>doesn't understand paragraphs

[Anonymous No.23000599]

bloop