‘There is a special sort of sadness present in ‘The Layaway Vault’s’ of western Illinois. The items there represent sadness on an individual level, of course, having been long abandoned by the families that hope, someday to afford them. This is compounded by the much more judgmental sadness that arises when an American pledges, but is unable to, complete a purchase.

This is not to be confused with the noble tragedy of a failed enterprise- it’s very noble to gamble and even to lose on money-making schemes, but to commit to buying something, say a comfortable armchair, and to fail to have the funds when the prescribed time has arrived is a pitiable thing. It represents not a failure of the individual, but a failure of the system which should, at least, have offered the would-be purchaser a high-interest loan or even a direct, parasitic siphoning of their monthly salary. ‘The Layaway Vault’ represents opportunities lost and the owners are determined to preserve them in this state, unwilling to open the packages or to contact the original layaway-ers or to consider the willingness of visitors to purchase said packages and have them delivered, belatedly, to said layaway-ers. 

There is a lot of shame wrapped up in the whole thing.’

Soft, quality bedding. Thick jackets. Kitchen sets. Toys. The items tucked away in ‘The Layaway Vault’ are all little luxuries- things that could likely be replaced with cheaper versions, that could be thrifted or done without entirely. They represent the then-dreams of the families that chose them. That comfort has hardened into something really quite sad in its abandonment. ‘The Layaway Vault’ has pledged that, for posterity, these goals will never be met. It’s a cruelty I imagine most of the families don’t even realize. 

I’ve seen a lot of sadness on this trip, but these goals, left dust-laden in the dark, fill me with dread. I’ve shelved so much in my life. I’ve left things behind me for longer than I intended. I’m not sure how much of it is still waiting for me. 

-traveler

‘Biologists agree: ‘The Fruiting Bramble’ is worse than its previous manifestation, and they have roundly apologized if their questions about the once ‘Fruitless Bramble’ have somehow, in a display of irony, prompted ‘The Bramble’ into this new phase of life.

“We much preferred ‘The Bramble’ when it was inert, a spokesperson said, “And, on behalf of the scientific community, we’re sorry for ever asking.”

‘The Fruiting Bramble’ now oozes a thick sap from its branches. The sap attracts and traps nearby wildlife and ‘The Brambles’ wet the ground with their blood. The sap does not prevent decay, not really, but it does seem to draw it out, creating a loose sinkhole of rotting insects and small mammals. It smells for miles around and has been known to kill birds who fly overhead. 

The fruits that have appeared are soft and white and plump. ‘The Brambles’ tear at their skin, revealing deep red innards, riddled with thick seeds. Nobody has tasted the fruit, which says a lot about ‘The Brambles.’ People taste anything- this is a universal constant. Nobody wants to go near enough to ‘The Fruiting Brambles’ to try it. 

Those brave and foolish travelers who have consumed the side-of-the-road bramble tea have largely been hospitalized since the fruiting. Nothing so dramatic as the growth of new brambles in their bodies, just a stubborn and wasting sickness of the bowels and a weakness of the limbs. The tea left something behind and it is killing them. 

Flowers of ‘The Fruiting Bramble’ are small and temporary and largely nocturnal, as pale as the fruit and impossible to smell over the rotten soil. Their petals glow faintly in the evenings and attract moths, half of which are shredded by the incessance violence of ‘The Brambles’ thorns and half of which escape, somehow, carrying a wicked pollen to parts unknown.

Local governments have reached the conclusion that ‘The Fruiting Brambles’ may be dangerous, that it may be time to take action. To do the right thing and see ‘The Brambles’ uprooted for good. The process is slow, though. Money is short. 

It has become a game for local children to cover their faces with their shirts and look out over ‘The Brambles’ as though stargazing. They identify violent constellations in the flowers and return home with strange ideas. They dare each other to eat the fruit, but nobody will.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

What is most uncomfortable for me about ‘The Museum of Urinating Statues’ is that they are not displayed as one expects- outside as part of one large or many various fountains. The owners of ‘The Museum’ have instead organized them in separate stalls, all situated in a fairly enclosed, almost tunnel-like hall, so that each can (and must) be viewed separately from the others. Signs on the outside of each door describe the statue inside in some details and, where known, include the date of its creation, its original location(s), and its manufacturing process.

This is all good information, I suppose, and the door system does mean that nobody has to see anything they don’t want to (nudity being mostly necessary in this statue genre) but the result is very much like entering a massive public toilet and moving between occupied, but unlocked, stalls. The urge to knock is overwhelming and finding the actual bathroom is impossible.

‘Is it possible that the owners of ‘The Museum of Urinating Statues’ are run-of-the-mill art collectors who interests leaned innocently niche as the years went on? Yes. Is it much more likely that there is some sort of fetish involved, that it is the owners themselves staring down into the monitors of their unnecessarily robust CCTV system and watching visitors watch, in turn, these statues as they attempt to do their business in the privacy of their protective stalls? Yes, also, to that. 

It’s recommended that one avoid the 43^rd stall, which is kept empty for some reason but is also consistently occupied by a disgruntled man who, mid-urination, will turn to hapless travelers (they having opened this door like all the others, curious about the lack of sign and assuming that no person in their right mind would put themselves in the position of being caught pants-down) and be both angry and embarrassed and give just a small view of his genitals before shooing they, the also-embarrassed but also mildly-violated and suspicious traveler on.

On the other hand, it is recommended that travelers do not skip the 44^th stall, as they so often do in their reflexive attempt to place some distance between themselves and the urinating man. The 44^th stall contains the statue of a rather majestic horse and rider, hair swept back as though by the wind and both of whom are urinating into the same pot, mid-giddyup.

Not another one like it in the states.’

I waffle a little at the 43^rd stall and finally push it open with my foot, just wide enough that the man inside can grunt his annoyance and show me his dick and I can say ‘oops, sorry about that.’ I suppose it’s the perfectionist in me, wanting to see these places on full display, even when their fullness is… tainted. 

The horse and rider are absolutely worth the stop. 

-traveler

‘It’s said, or assumed anyway, that every part of nature has its place. The predators keep populations of prey in check. Prey consume and distribute seeds. The lowliest forms of life, those that feed on the dead, churn out fertile earth. Everything depends on everything else, this is a lesson we’ve seen realized again and again.

Everything except for ‘The Fruitless Bramble.’

There is nothing quite so frustrating to biologists than ‘The Fruitless Bramble,’ which covers a few acres in southern California and seems to do… nothing. ‘The Fruitless Bramble’ is so nearly inert that most people assumed it’s dead. The thick, brittle vines ribbed with stinging thorns are green only for about a day as they squeeze out new growth. Following that, they fade into a brownish gray and move no longer, hardly twitching under even the strongest winds. 

‘The Fruitless Bramble’ kills everything that enters. Mice and birds have not yet evolved to survive there and have difficulty avoiding the thorns. Their bodies litter ‘The Fruitless Bramble,’ rotting in the sun because the ground is so hardened by bramble roots that no natural decomposition can take place. ‘The Fruitless Bramble’ seems to forgo any of the nutrients it might receive from these kills. It needs next to nothing because it exhibits no seasonal change- no flowers, no berries, no leaves. 

‘The Fruitless Bramble’ has proven to be resistant to nearly every type of destruction. It has survived fires set by disgruntled landowners with adjacent property. It has been struck by lightning more times than seems right. It doesn’t respond to any form of weed killer or pesticide and the one time someone attempted to drive a bulldozer straight into the field, ‘The Bramble’ was able to work its way into the wheels and disable the attack before local authorities could respond. 

Sometimes nature turns out an evolutionary dead end and ‘The Fruitless Bramble’ appears to be one of these lost causes. It serves no purpose, makes no attempt to spread, but it persists all the same, baking angrily under the sun and howling in the wind and sometimes cracking, randomly, when one spiral of the bramble has become too heavy for bramble underneath. 

Avoid those stalls selling ‘Fruitless Bramble Tea.’ It isn’t good, or good for you.

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside