Safety Precautions in the Kennecot Copper Mine

The Bingham Canyon Mine, locally known as the Kennecot Copper Mine, is the deepest excavated hole in the world.  About a year ago, I moved to a township called Magna which borders the Kennecot mine, and subsequently went to work for the mine.  Kennecot offers jobs to thousands of men and women, so I found myself rubbing shoulders with friends and neighbors almost immediately into my employment there.  I did my best, and in doing so, earned myself several promotions along the way.

The mine works almost opposite from a large business building.  When you get promoted, you go further down instead of further up.  I found myself going further and further down the half-mile deep hole as I progressed, and the further I got, the more information I was given about the mine.  Although it is an open-pit mine, there is also a network of underground tunnels that go even further into the ground that isn’t talked about until you get further down into the pit and therefore higher up in the echelons of authority.  As I got further down toward where the entrances of the underground portions are, I ran into a series of peculiar safety measures.

For example, there’s a sign that you pass as you get about three-quarters of the way down the mine that reads:


  • If you have any open wounds, do not go below level 6.  If you experience any sort of cut or laceration below level 6, do not move upward.  Call for help and someone will be by shortly.
  • If you notice an open cavity that does not appear on the map, leave immediately.
  • Do not remove the top layer of copper from any of the carts.  If you see something inside the cart other than copper, report it immediately.
  • Below level 6, dogs are posted at each entrance and exit.  If the dog begins to become agitated with an individual, do not engage.  If the dog attacks the individual, do not attempt to save the dog.
  • If you hear any sort of humming or buzzing that others around you cannot hear, leave immediately.
  • If you hear a cry for help, do not, under any circumstances, pursue it unless it is called in on the radio.

They also don’t happen to tell us what it is we’re excavating.  At first, on the surface of the mine, it’s very clear that copper is the main goal of the excavation, but as you go further down, you see less copper being pulled.  There are plenty of veins of it, but nobody mines it.  I only drive trucks up and down the mine, but the further down I go, the more I get the impression that there’s something else they’re digging for.


All work on the lower part of the pit yesterday got stopped for two hours.  I was hauling a truck up the hole when a call came in on the radio telling us all to stop immediately and remain in our vehicles.

Even as I write those words I can feel the tingle in my spine.

They called in a code “7 Delta to all nearby response units” after that.  I don’t know what it is, but a few of the other drivers I talked to later on seem to think it has something to do with one of those rules I mentioned previously.  The consensus is that either someone heard a cry for help, or someone saw something in a cart that was outside of the usual rock and copper we haul.

Either way, the two-hour wait was hot, sticky, and long.  After that, the supervisors had to have one-on-one meetings with all of us who had been stopped.  The line of questioning was odd.  I don’t remember all the questions, but I’ve got some of them written down.

“Did you notice anything strange in your truck at the moment of departure?”

“Did you hear anything out of the ordinary at the moment of departure or at all in the lower half of the pit?”

“Have you had any contact with any of the other employees here since the incident?”

That’s what they’re referring it to now – The Incident.

“Do you have any open sores on your body?”

Then the questions started getting oddly personal.

“What is your mother’s middle name?”

“What was the make and model of your first car?”

“At what age did you lose your virginity?”

“What kind of dog was Torrance?” 

Although the final few questions were odd, the last question still makes me dizzy.  Torrance was the dog I had when I was a child – a German Shephard mix that I had until I was about thirteen or so.  I told him I didn’t feel right answering that question and he told me that it was imperative that I answer.  The seriousness in his voice scared me, so I told him it was a German Shephard and he was about to let me go I think when a call came in on the radio.

“Code 3 Foxtrot.”

Without hesitation, he stood from his desk and told me to stay there till he returned.

I sat in silence for a few minutes until I heard the mechanical whirring of the fax machine in the corner.  I looked at the top of the document which read: CONTAINMENT PROCEDURES FOR INCIDENT OCCURRING AT 2017-07-13 13:19.

I took a quick picture of it with my phone and was able to copy it down.

ATTN: All Site Managers and Supervisors

FROM: The Offices of T.S. Monson and ATK

In response to the incident occurring at 13:19 on 2017-07-13 all production on lower tiers is to be shut down until we can determine the cause of the breach and the affectability of safety protocols.  After interview and identification of all present individuals in the vicinity of the breach, send them home with the rest of their day paid at normal wages.

Any deceased specimens will need to be transported under the usual conditions to the Oquirrh Mountain facility.  If a live specimen is the cause of the breach, notify ATK and the office of T.S. Monson immediately for containment and further instruction.

If anyone has contact with the live specimen, quarantine on the ATK site is required until further notice.


T.S. Monson R.J. Hercules

When my supervisor came back, he looked at the memo on his fax machine, then told me I could go home on paid leave for the rest of the day.

Although I’m not familiar with all the things in the letter, I do know that ATK is the test facility in southern Magna.  It’s known for the testing and development and rocket fuel and other such materials.  It’s practically right next to the Kennecott property, and I’ve even heard that the testing they do is actually ON the Kennecott property, although I’m not sure how true that is… All I’ve seen is every so often a big trail of smoke rises up on that side of the valley.  When I first saw it, I thought someone’s house was on fire, but when I commented on it, one of my neighbors told me that it was “just ATK.”

Last night I got a call from one of my buddies that drives trucks with me.  He asked if he could come over for dinner.  He sounded distressed over the phone, so I told him yes.  He was at my house within a half-hour.

He was pale and his face shone with sweat.  I asked if he wanted to go to the hospital and he downright refused.  He told me he knew why they stopped the trucks.

I almost didn’t want to know.  I thought that by hearing his explanation I was stepping down a rabbit hole that I may not get out of, yet I couldn’t say no.

He told me he saw what looked like a gigantic bone hidden beneath the tons of rock and unrefined metals in the back of his truck.  He called it in just like he was supposed to, and they stopped the trucks.  They kept him detained for six hours while they ran a line of questioning – they even took a blood test!

He said they told him to go straight home to his family, but he didn’t feel safe there.  He said he wanted to tell someone about it first because he was afraid of what was going to happen next.  He didn’t know why, but I could tell from his pallid face and the dark dilation of his pupils that he was genuinely terrified.

I asked him about the bone he saw and what kind of bone he thought it might be.  He was quiet about it for a while, and I could tell there was a detail he wasn’t sharing.  I told him that he should tell me everything – if he’s said this much he needed not worry about telling the rest.

His voice was shaky and dry.  “I think I saw a head, too.”

“Like I dinosaur head?” I asked.

“No,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ground.  “It still had skin on it, but the eyes and nose and everything were sunken in, and it was bigger than a basketball.”  He paused for a moment, like the next part was particularly difficult for him to say.  “I think it was human.”


Hey everyone! Sorry for taking so long to update. There has been a lot going on the past few days…

I had to take my friend to the hospital. He’d been staying at my house ever since he came and told me about the bones. He told his wife he was helping me “dry out” so that she wouldn’t suspect anything. I was dropped down a few pegs in her eyes, but it didn’t bother me too much. He was clearly distressed and needed help, so if that meant I needed to take a bullet for him to save him from worrying his wife, I would.

Two days later, as we were headed to work, he started to have a fit. He kept repeating nonsensical words that sounded like “refa-eem” and “anakim.” His body shook and his tongue lolled out of his mouth and it was dark purple. I immediately sped to the emergency room, where he was rushed in an ambulance to the hospital.

I followed the ambulance closely in my truck and as soon as it stopped in front of the hospital, I jumped out and followed. I could hear him screaming and they had to call several orderlies to come hold him down. I stepped forward to help, and was promptly pushed back, but not before seeing the sick figure that was my friend.

His eyes were bloodshot – almost completely red – and his face was strained and contorted. The neck muscles and tendons were dark and stood out like thick cords as he strained against the men that tried to help him.

After I was pushed back and he was rushed inside, I heard the paramedics giving the report to the doctor. In the chaos, I heard them say “alarmingly high blood pressure,” “lacerations in the hands, feet, and side,” and “burst vessels in the eyes.”

Whatever he’d contracted was not going to let him live through the night.

I called his home phone, but nobody picked up. I used his cell to call his wife at her office and even the kids at school, but I couldn’t get a hold of any of them. His wife’s office said she called in sick that day and his kids’ school said they were absent. I wanted to go out and check on his family, but the hospital wouldn’t let me leave without a blood test. They said that they needed to rule out any possibility of a viral outbreak before allowing anyone to leave the premises. It took twelve hours before they would finally let me leave, but I left with a clean bill of health.

Nothing had changed in my friend’s state. He was unconscious and the doctors were thinking he’d suffered some sort of massive stroke, although that didn’t explain all of his symptoms. With him in critical condition and the hospital not allowing anyone but immediate family in his room, I sought out to find his immediate family. I’d tried off and on to contact his wife the entire time I was in the hospital, but I had no luck whatsoever.

When I pulled up to his house, the first thing I noticed was his wife’s car in the driveway. As I approached the door, I could hear the television playing in the front room, but when I knocked, nobody answered.

I tried knocking a few more times, but nobody answered – not even his dog barked.

With a stone in the pit of my stomach, I checked the door handled – it was unlocked. I pushed the door open politely and called in to announce myself. Nothing but a commercial for Mighty Putty returned my call.

I let myself in and clicked off the television before calling again. I waited a few minutes, listening intently for any sign of movement or any soft voice, but nothing but silence now filled the empty house.

I walked through the living room and into the kitchen. Two half-eaten bowls of cereal sat on the kitchen table, having become little more than colorful mush in the time since they were poured. Back packs sat on the floor in the corner, and a purse sat on the counter top. I didn’t need to dig into it to see the key ring and wallet sitting on the top of the purse’s contents.

I explored the rest of the house, looking for any sign of life, but finding none. My friend’s family had seemingly vanished. There were no signs of forced entry, no signs of struggle, nothing that would indicate anything out of the ordinary except the small details that suggested the family simply dropped what they were doing and left.

I thought about calling in sick to work the next day, but decided against it. I’d been right, my friend had not survived the night, but I didn’t want to spend my time alone. I felt better – safer – in the presence of others at work.

Although I hadn’t said anything, word quickly got around about my friend and his family and the strange circumstances surrounding his death and their disappearance. I couldn’t imagine being more surprised about what had happened until word came back around to me that he wasn’t the only one who’d gone missing. He was the only one that had been in the hospital, but literally every driver that had been where he was and lower in the pit when the order to stop was called the other day was gone along with his or her family.

As soon as I heard that, I kept my head down and tried my best to avoid the conversations fluttering around like whispers on the wind. Something was going on and I didn’t want to be a part of it. The people who went missing saw something or knew something, and I didn’t want to see or know whatever it was. That information seemed to me as dangerous as a gun to my head.

As I headed back home with setting sun on my left, I noticed something I hadn’t before. There was a smudge on my glovebox, almost imperceptible except when the light caught it just right. It looked like someone had drawn six numbers on the black plastic – probably with dirty or sweaty fingers, but the numbers were unmistakable, and I knew, somehow, that it was a message from my friend written just before his seizure.

78 : 23 – 24


There was an accident in the pit yesterday.

I’m pretty sure several people were injured or even killed, but they’re trying to keep everything quiet. They didn’t even call 9-1-1, but instead used the on-site facility.

Fortunately, I was just returning from my haul to the refinery, so I was on the top of the pit when it happened, but even from there I could hear the screaming from down below. The terrified cries echoed across the rocks like the ricochets of a gunshot, and I felt a heaviness in my chest that told me that those were the cries of the dead.

An alarm went off then, one that nobody had ever heard, and a call came in on the radio. The voice that came in was one we’d heard before, but nobody actually knew who it belonged to. It told us that there was an accident in the bottom of the mine – one of the drivers had fallen asleep at the wheel and that there were a few people injured, but no serious harm was done. There was no need to call 9-1-1 and the Kennecott emergency crew was already at the scene.

We exchanged glances, and somewhere I heard a man say “Fuck that!” then I saw who I can only assume is the owner of the voice marching down the road.

“My cousin’s down there,” another voice called.

Another said: “That didn’t sound like a car accident to me.”

Soon a group of maybe twenty men or so was marching down the road that lead toward the bottom of the pit. There was talk about driving trucks down, but if there really was an accident or something blocking the road, they didn’t want to have to drive backward up some of the narrow parts until they could turn around.

The rest of us stood in silence for a long while. I thought about going down and almost did, but the thought of what happened to my friend and his family hung over me – for the first time in my life, I was honestly, genuinely scared.

One of the workers broke the silence with the one question that I think was on everyone’s mind. “What’s been going on here?”

Nobody answered, but the looks on some of the men’s faces seemed to reflect the same question. The voice spoke again. “Something weird is happening here. I’ve been on this mine for thirty years or better, and over the past five or so they’ve added those safety rules, gotten the dogs, and now they’re having us stop work twice in the last week? What the hell is happening here?”

Nobody answered, and for the first time since I started there, I considered the possibility that perhaps I wasn’t the only person experiencing strange occurrences in correlation with the mine. What if everyone was just as afraid and suspicious of it as I was?

After work, a few of us went down to the Filling Station. It had been announced that everyone was all right, but we hadn’t seen anyone that was supposed to have been down there at the time of the accident, nor had we seen or heard from anybody from the group that went down after the fact.

Over a pitcher of 801, I began the conversation.

It was a huge risk, I know, considering the amount of people that had gone missing lately, but I had to say something. I brought up the disappearance of my friend and his family, and the strange things he’d said and done just before he died.

The two men on the other side of the table exchanged a look. They were both men I’d worked closely with that had been working on the mine for several years, so I thought that if anyone would know anything and talk about it with me, it would be them.

Their answer was simple. “People don’t talk about what happens with the mine.”

“But people are missing,” I pressed. “Something’s going on down there; you can’t deny that.”

Neither man did, but instead they both simultaneously took a drink of their beer.

“Fine,” the one on the left said. “I’ll tell you what I know, but you didn’t hear it from me, and I want nothing to do with whatever it is you’re doing.”

I agreed.

He proceeded to tell me a story that happened to him a few years back. He’d overheard a conversation in the radio static as he was driving a truck up the pit. It was between one of the site managers and another man whose voice he didn’t recognize. He said it sounded like a bizarre progress report. He did his best to recall what he’d heard, although he told me his recollection wasn’t perfect.

“0900 hours. Progress has been made further in the past quarter than ever before, and we believe to have found something of importance. Some of the men in the front of the mine seem to be experiencing hallucinations and delusions. They speak of lights at the ends of the tunnels and voices in their heads. They think they’re hearing the voice of God in those tunnels.

"They’ve been getting violent and have started hurting themselves. One of them somehow tried to put holes in his own hands. We think he may have used his teeth or a rock or something to do it, but we can’t find what it was he was using for sure.”

The other voice, he said, sounded elderly and important.

“Those wounds were not self-inflicted. Have him transferred to the Wasatch facility in the canyon and have the others transferred to the Jordan River site for testing and screening. Has anything else happened to the others, or is this an isolated incident?”

“Not as bad,” the first voice said. “They seem to be fine, but just a little off, like they’re drunk or something. And they seem irritable too.”

That’s when the radio signal cleared and he could no longer hear the conversation in the static. He told me that a few hours later, one of the workers went crazy – speaking like he’d just walked right out of the bible and such - and tried to carry off one of the kids at the visitor’s center, going on about baptizing him in the name of the lord. The only thing that stopped him was a guide dog that one of the other visitors had. The dog went nuts and started to attack the guy as he tried to carry the kid off.

Nobody knows what happened to him after that – although they all assumed he either got thrown in jail or tossed in the psych hospital.

When his story was done, the other guy looked at him solemnly, then turned to me and excused himself and left the filling station.

A few hours later, word got around that he’d driven out to the Great Salt Lake and eaten a bullet from his revolver.


The whole mood around the pit yesterday was solemn. Nobody talked, openly at least, about the man who killed himself, whom I’ll refer to from this point forward as John. The news of his suicide spread like wildfire among the community hours after it happened, but it didn’t make any news stories. In fact, it didn’t make anything at all. Even his daughter, whom is avid about Facebook and Twitter, was tight-lipped about it online. For all intents and purposes, there was no record of him having died at all as far as we could tell.

Work went about in a normal capacity, and someone had even taken up John’s job seamlessly. It was as if he’d never been there in the first place.

It was around lunch time that something changed.

Tim, the man who’d told me the story from my previous post, sat down across form me in the cafeteria. This, in itself, wasn’t that strange – we’d eaten lunch before, often with John and a handful of other people – but it was the conversation he struck almost immediately after sitting down.

His voice was hurried, shaken, and he spoke in a low tone that was almost a whisper.

“I’m going down there,” he said.

I didn’t reply. At first, I wasn’t honestly sure what it was he was talking about, but it dawned on me at the exact moment he continued to speak.

“I’m going down to the bottom of the pit. John used to work close to the bottom – he actually KNEW the guy that I told you about yesterday that went crazy – and he almost never talked about it. I got the impression he saw or heard something he shouldn’t and that he was honestly afraid of the things going on down the mine. If he killed himself, which I’m not convinced it was as plain as that, I think he did it because he was scared. He had a lot to live for, but whatever he knew was either too dangerous for him to stay alive, or too terrifying for him to want to continue living.”

I didn’t say anything for a moment after that, but instead let what he said hang in the air between us like the blade of a guillotine. Although I hadn’t said it outright to Tim, I believed we shared the same feeling that whomever was running the mine had more control over our lives than we cared for. If he crossed them, he would be vaporized from existence – and me along with him. Simply being a part of the conversation that was happening was enough, I think, to merit action by the upper echelons. The moment he sat down, hell, maybe even the moment we met in the Filling Station, our lives were already in danger.

I agreed to help him.

There was no point in waiting to carry out the plan that Tim had devised. Being that we were likely already on the radar, waiting even 24 hours could mean that one or both of us would go missing before carrying out the plan.

Tim’s plan was simple, really, and it started with me feigning a stomach ache. I was so nervous it wasn’t hard to force myself to throw up, and after making a mess all over the dirt, I was sent home by my supervisor.

I drove nearly home, just as Tim instructed, then double-backed up the highway and turned my radio to the channel I was told.

He’d been very specific on where I should wait to hear from him. It was a few miles down a dirt road in Herriman. I knew what he’d been planning to do, but I didn’t believe he’d actually do it until I saw the dust being kicked up on the other side of a hill.

One of the big Kennecott trucks – the kind that goes down to the bottom of the mine and drives through the tunnels – came up and over the hill with Tim in the driver’s seat. I sat in my truck, watching as he drove the truck past the road where I sat and up a small canyon.

In the years that he’d worked for the mine, he’d made some friends, as he put it, and those friends had managed to get him the keys to one of the trucks that he’d otherwise need special clearance to drive.

I heard his voice on the radio then, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

“You there?”

I told him I was.

“Keep the channel open, and don’t use my name. I’m going to report to you what I see as I go down this tunnel. No matter what happens to me, I want you to share with everyone what I tell you. Understand?”

I told him I did.

The next forty-five minutes was completely silent. I sat and played games on my phone and listened to music, but I couldn’t help the knot forming in my stomach. I thought for a moment that perhaps I didn’t actually fake being sick. I was hot and feverish from the anxiety and my stomach bile felt like it was going to burn a hole right through me.

When the voice came over the radio again, I’d almost begun to give up hope that he’d made it.

“I’m in.”

From this point forward, as requested by Tim, I will transcribe everything that was said over the radio.

TIM: I’m in the tunnel now. They searched the truck and let me in. I passed two of those guard dogs they talk about on the signs in the lower tunnels. They’re big fuckers – I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of them.

I don’t think they’ve been mining these tunnels. There are huge veins of copper and gold that don’t look like they’ll ever be excavated. I think they’re working on getting deeper into the mountains.


TIM: I just saw a caution sign, sort of like the one in the pit, but this one is different. It says:


Gloves and protective masks must be worn from this point forward. Under no circumstances are you to remove them.

All fossils and artifacts must be reported immediately upon excavation.

Rio Tinto accepts no responsibility for any physical, mental, or emotional damage past this point.


TIM: I’m still in the truck and I’ve reached a big room. I’ve got a mask and gloves from the cab of the truck. I’m gonna get out and take a look here.

It looks sort of like a bomb shelter. There are these barrels that look like whiskey barrels all over the place. I think they’re Cedar maybe.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a vein of copper this big. It’s like they dug the room out of the stuff. The walls and everything are almost all completely unrefined copper.

I can’t seem to open any of the barrels, but there’s something weird about them. I feel warm, but not on the outside.


TIM: Someone’s following me. I can hear them talking to me. They know my name.


TIM: I’m trying to come out now, but he won’t stop following me. He wants me to take off my helmet.


I’m going to take off my helmet.

ME: Don’t take off your helmet! I’m on my way.


Inaudible audio

Note: Tim began to speak in another voice here. I could hear his voice in it, but I do not believe that it was him speaking. I believe it was something or someone else speaking THROUGH him.

VOICE: Come unto me.

ME: What was that?

VOICE: Come unto me my child and partake of the manna of heaven. For with it, ye shall know everlasting life.

TIM: Crying I will. I will.

ME: Get out of there!

VOICE: Timothy. Look upon me and see.

TIM: Screaming.

VOICE: Do you believe in God?



I haven’t seen or heard from Tim since then.


I hired a private investigator with the little money I had to see about finding Tim and the rest of the missing people from the mine.  It took a few days to get any trace of him, but eventually the PI found him.

The phonecall was a short one, but one that I will never forget.

It was Sunday afternoon, and the first words I heard were: I found him.

The PI told me he’d found him in Provo and sent me a text with his picture.  It was Tim, but he’d changed.  He was wearing a suit and tie and was walking into a church building.  His hair was whiter, but he looked healthy.  I couldn’t figure it out at first, but as I examined the picture, I realized what it was – there was a faint look in his eyes.  It was something I’d never seen, like a twinkle of light behind a lump of black coal.

The man on the phone told me Tim was going by the name of Bishop Timothy Haynes now, and that there was no point in trying to contact him.  I asked him why, and he explained that he’d already tried.

He went on to say that this wasn’t the first incident like this he’d seen – in fact, this was actually a common thing in the state of Utah for folks to be reported missing only to show up a few counties away, alive and well.  He said they usually showed up as Bishops of the church or holding some other position in the community, but they almost always turned up.

Even stranger still was the insistence that they’d always been there.  He said he’d interviewed friends, family members and neighbors, all of whom swore up and down that the person in question had always been there.  All except the first person to call it in.

I asked about public records – surely, they’d have a record of Tim having lived in Magna and worked in the mine.

He said that no such record existed.  The church IS the government in Utah, and whatever they say goes.  If the church records say that the person had been there for the last decade, every public record would soon follow.  No paper trail could be found to support anything other than what the church insisted was the truth.

I suggested calling the police, but he said it wouldn’t do any good.  What proof did I have that Tim was ever at the mine?  He said there were state records that would back up the fact that Tim was a resident of Provo, Utah and had never once lived or worked in Magna.

That was when he suggested I leave.  It would only be a matter of time before it happened again, and eventually it might even happen to me.  He said that people who stay in Utah for long enough never leave.  That’s why he was still there.  He’d tried to get out a few times, but he never could – there was always something that brought him back.

I went home that night from work, tired and troubled, but with a strange memory itching at the back of my mind.  I’d only heard a few stories from the bible, but as I drove up and down the pit, something sparked in me the memory of being told the story of Moses and the children of Israel.

On the brink of starvation, Moses called upon the lord for deliverance and the people were blessed with food from heaven, which the bible called manna.  Wasn’t there something that the voice had said about manna?

The story played over and over in my head, preventing me from sleep that night.  Eventually I gave up and decided to get on the computer and see what I could find out.  Manna, it seems, is the food from heaven, but nobody knows specifically WHAT it is.  Some websites say it was something similar to bread, however the story says that it fell from the sky, and the suggestion of bread falling from the sky is rather far-fetched, even for the bible.

It was then that I stumbled upon a word I’d nearly forgotten about – Anakim.  It was in reference to a race of giants that Moses and the people of Israel encountered whilst being lost in the wilderness.  I remembered then what my friend had seen – gigantic human remains.

As I journeyed deeper into the rabbit hole, the mystery of what was really down at the bottom of the mine deepened, and I began to consider going down myself.

When my phone rang, I nearly leapt out of my skin.  I looked at the clock, which told me it was just after three in the morning.  I didn’t need to hear the voice on the other end of the phone to know that something was wrong.

The voice on the other side sounded winded and hurried, but I knew in an instant that it was Tim’s voice.

I went to say something, but he cut me off.  He told me to shut up and listen.

He said he didn’t know who I was, but he woke up with my phone number in his mind, he repeated it over and over in his sleep and when he woke up, he knew he had to call it.  He said that his name was Tim and that he had a dream that someone was in danger.  He asked me where I lived and I told him Magna, Utah.

He gasped and said he dreamt it.  He said he dreamt about the Kennecott Mine and that I was a worker there, and that people were coming for me because God was mad that I was asking too many questions.  He said they were going to make me partake of the manna from the lord and soon I would see.



Author’s Note:  Thanks for reading this story everyone!  It’s a dream I had a few weeks ago and I couldn’t get my mind off of it.  I’ve dreamt about it a few times, but hopefully now I’ll be able to sleep at night without waking up from these weird nightmares.

For the record, I’ve never lived in Magna, or even been there for that matter, so please forgive any inconsistencies in the topography.

For those of you concerned about my portrayal of the church, please don’t be worried or offended.  I’m actually a bishop of my ward and have been for a few years now.






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