prompt: disbelief, title: staying at the mirage in misc. flash fiction

She stared at him in disbelief, which is to say she stared at her boyfriend in Disbelief, Nevada. Disbelief, named as such since no one believed its founder’s claims he was building a shining city deep in the desert’s heart there. Despite the remote location. Despite the paucity of water.

Pastor Josiah said he was given a vision by the Holy Spirit some hundred years ago of Disbelief as the seat of God’s Kingdom on Earth so he led his sect there. Over five hundred strong, firm in the knowledge one day heathens would reflect with bitter irony on its name and the shallowness of their doubts. What had started with five hundred well over a century ago, Disbelief boasted a population of exactly two hundred and thirty-one.

This was what unwavering faith wrought, dismal failure, a wide spot in the road, interesting only to cartography nerds like the boyfriend, who had driven them two hours in the hot sun from their Vegas vacation. He marveled at that dull hamlet solely because of the story of deluded religious hubris that preceded it, just some dot in the dust with an ominous name. She could only stare.

Disbelief could have been saved by the casinos once, being just over California’s border. It never would’ve been a major destination but having the first slot-machines over the state line served as life-support for more than one small Nevada town. The prophet didn’t believe in gaming profits, though, and wrote their banishment into the city code. Cultural momentum preserved the law to present-day. A brothel may’ve done the same, but Josiah wouldn’t go for that either, so the five hundred that had grown to thousands at its peak dwindled back down to two-hundred thirty-one. That’s to say, two-hundred thirty-three if you counted the only tourists in Disbelief that day.

Disbelief, wider than any casino floor, more populous than any congregation. Disbelief, a state larger, more powerful than Nevada or America itself could ever hope. Disbelief, that place you always run from, yet around the bend of the round world, always end up running back. All the other names on any map you like, just rest stops and way-stations between here and Disbelief.

Everywhere else, a fantasy, a place you buy a postcard from and send back home to Disbelief. Monuments to the comfort of transitory failure, knowing where we’ll all be returning when the joy-ride of some fool’s notion is expended. More often than not, our fantasies come to nothing, but there’s at least an anecdote to learn from. A gas station, a taco truck, a roadside attraction.

“Can you imagine someone thought you could build a city here?” her boyfriend asked. “That’s the problem,” she scoffed, “anyone can imagine anything they want, doesn’t make it true.” She just hoped he’d get his fill and they could drive back to The Mirage. The tables beckoned, even hours away in Disbelief. She couldn’t shake a feeling that luck would be on her side that night.