Having dwelled too long in the Midwest, perhaps, I expect to find ‘The Spring Herd’ displayed in some orderly fashion, it being among the privately-owned, eccentric-collection type oddities the Wayside has to offer and it being located in a field gone to weeds. On the contrary, I’m pulled over on the shoulder and trying to isolate the source of an off-tempo squeaking that I assume is coming from the motorcycle and find, when the wind blows, that it isn’t the bike at all. Just tall enough to peer over the underbrush, I spy the bobbing head of a cartoon penguin, weather-worn as to evoke images of the typical Hollywood apocalypse. I tap it with the toe of my boot and it rocks back and forth, squealing with the strain of rusted metal.

That’s the noise, all right. If it started ten minutes ago that puts me pretty much in the thick of it, I imagine, and as soon as I imagine it, the wind blows and ‘The Spring Herd’ begins screaming.

‘For the uninitiated, ‘spring rider’ refers to the ridable caricature of an animal attached to the ground with an industrial spring, allowing sober children and drunk or nostalgic adults to sway back and forth, side to side, and in deteriorating circles until the spring surrenders, leaning sadly to the ground, or the momentum of the animal is enough to drive the top of its head into the bottom of its rider’s. They come in pairs or groups of three and rarely represent a collection of a single species.

Insightful travelers may notice the dwindling of the American playground, both in number and in size. Parks are becoming fewer and, with their natural habitat dwindling, spring riders are nearing a state of endangerment. One family has exploited the peace between species of spring riders and created an unofficial, off-highway preserve in order to stave off their seemingly inevitable extinction. This collection of spring riders is referred to as ‘The Spring Herd,’ due both to the construction of the pieces and because they are best viewed in the spring, having risen from the snow and being not yet concealed by growth.

Visitors beware- though tame, the collective undulations of ‘The Spring Herd’ in the wind has been said to induce nausea in those who watch too long and, though the riders hardly suffer for it, there are carriers of lead and tetanus among them.’

I refuse to be seen on one of these creatures from the highway so I venture inward and have soon dropped far enough off the shoulder that the occasional rumble of passing trucks hardly rises above the crinkle of disturbed grass. The squawking of spring riders precedes the wind across my scalp by several seconds. Standing still, it’s clear they’re all around- some nearby, and some a long way’s off. Hundreds if not thousands. When the wind blows just right, it sounds so much like they’re coming toward me that my knees wobble with fight or flight.

I’ve come too early to see them together in the floral twilight between summer and fall (or autumn has too well maintained summer’s growth) but I eventually find a flaking alligator with my knee and upon recovering, I stomp out a small clearing. Precariously mounted, I am content to be carried for a while on the back of something older and wiser than me or anything I own.

Eventually, I’m convinced that ‘The Spring Herd’ is singing.

-traveler

After several days of attempting passage through the American Midwest I hole up in a motel, blocked in on all sides by ‘The Disaster.’ It’s hardly the first time I’ve had to alter plans to avoid ‘The Disaster’, but it normally exists in a relatively contained space. At the moment, it seems to stretch straight up the middle of the state. Local news doesn’t have much to say about the situation, but a split-second throwaway map during the traffic segment confirms what I had assumed- several red ‘X’s mark off the interstates for hundreds of miles in every direction. ‘The Disaster’ has formed a straight line.

‘The failure of early American infrastructure to manifest anything beyond the great sprawl of asphalt and gravel has just one benefit: options.

There is no place in America that can be reached in just one way. There is always a shortcut, a service road, or an extended turn-off that allows for some less-convenient but available improvisation when the normal methods fall through. Oil is America’s lifeblood and, like the circulatory system, the roads have spread in such a way to allow for some… chaotic redundancy, sometimes looping back on itself, yes, sometimes feeding strange tumors in the Wayside, and sometimes becoming so stretched as to be near collapse.

‘The Disaster’ seems, initially, to be the system’s opposing force. It occurs as a physical blockade, patrolled by government officials in hazmat gear and is as likely to appear on a privately-owned backroad as it is on the interstate. It is difficult to breach ‘The Disaster’s’ blockade and seemingly impossible to return from the inside. Those who have taken it upon themselves to blast through the gates are not seen again, dead, detained, or kept in perpetual quarantine.

On the other hand, ‘The Disaster’ is normally easy to circumvent, often taking up such a small length of road that barricades on one side of the perimeter can be viewed from the side opposite. Detours are generally unaffected, lending some credence to the supposition that ‘The Disaster’ does not oppose the rambling infrastructure but, rather, encourages it. Occurring in the worst possible place, ‘The Disaster’ sometimes inspires drivers to breach the sacred fontanel between the place they are and the place they must go. Curbs are flattened, medians erode, and gates are unlocked, further complicating the American maze.

‘The Disaster’ itself appears relatively contained for all that it occurs constantly and across the states. Those manning the barricade will admit to very little about it and are careful not to make promises regarding how long it may last or what form it takes beyond the barrier. They are calm, at least, harried only by those who attempt a premature crossing and dangerously competent in reaction to a breach.’

I may be among the first 20 or so people that notice the strange shape of ‘The Disaster.’ For all its persistence and all that it suggests some great, vague conspiracy, there isn’t much online interest in tracking ‘The Disaster.’ It’s easy to research specific instances of it, but the real work of an up-to-date system involves separating out hoaxes and other, mundane disasters from the big ‘D.’ It would be a lot of work for not a lot of pay-off and the suits at the barricade don’t exactly go out of their way to dispel the notion that anybody who does the work will find themselves offline permanently.

I’m able to find a stream of the news broadcast and capture a frame with the local traffic map. It fits nicely with several others people have posted, some of which are, admittedly, a little less credible. Someone has taken a picture of a paper road map with red tape showing a similar blockage in the south. Another poster has scribbled a map of Alabama and indicated closures there. Removing those, however, still leaves a clear pattern of pictures and maps and coordinates like mine, all from the last day or so. ‘The Disaster’ seems to have split the country straight down the middle.

I watch the forums. An argument evolves, one side sure that the line dividing the east and west is solid, that the population is purposefully being split, while the other argues that holes in ‘The Disaster’ are not due to lacking information but a ploy to funnel traffic into specific areas. As is often the case, neither side has much evidence to support their claim and it eventually devolves into something altogether uninteresting.

I take a shower and lay in the bed for a while, listening to the cars outside. The Stranger’s ‘Release of Burden’ has found a permanent home in my wallet- I fish it out and wonder if this is what he meant. This drive is something that I may never see to completion. It may not have a clear direction or a clear goal. There is always more work to be done, which was part of the appeal, initially at least. Now I find myself happy for an excuse to rest and not at all curious as to what ‘The Disaster’ heralds.

-traveler

‘There is no act more arrogant than that of stacking rocks along a path. There is no need for it but to prove that a past traveler has conquered a pass or sat meditating at a pond previous to those in the present. The anonymity of the ‘Rock Tower’ (versus more traditional forms of vandalism) further makes the point- the structure is no modern tomb, no personal memorial. It does not exist as a medium with which a person’s name might live on after them. It is, at best, the licking of a baked good, the unnecessary reminder that others have come first, traveled further, and had the time for idle activities. It is an insistence that denizens of the present are merely shadows cast by those who came before them.

There are two approaches in the conquering of a ‘Rock Tower.’ The creation of a new, more complex tower is the common choice. It is proof that the past can be beaten at its own game, though this is accomplished at the detriment of the future (where this method becomes increasingly difficult) and to the relative indifference of the past (the progenitors never having to face their defeat). It is the opinion of the author that the propagation of ‘Rock Towers’ is always a failing move.

The only appropriate answer, then, is the toppling of ‘Towers’ and the dispersion of rocks, though opponents would rightfully suggest this is a strategy better suited to the philosophy of the Strangers. It is one of only a few origin stories given much credence, that the most dedicated, the most fastidious Rangers are the most likely to convert. The narrative suggests that the Ranger philosophy will be warped after decades of patient trail-cleaning. After years of hauling rocks back to where they belong, after weeks spent dismantling tedious stone structures, after one last ‘Rock Tower’ collapses painfully across a leg, the Ranger is martyred on the path and replaced by the Stranger, who violently pursues the same goals.‘

-excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

‘There is a public “discovery” of the ‘Graycard’ phenomenon every few years, they being featured middle-way through a ‘Top 10 Games You Never Knew Existed” list or a regional tournament being live-streamed via the hidden camera of some exhibitionist onlooker. Despite these minor publicity spikes and despite the wide, if shallow, public knowledge of their existence, actual acknowledgment of ‘Graycards’ outside of the Wayside is perpetually tenuous. Most people will have seen the booster packs in gas stations before and some of those people, likely those who have pushed them aside for other collectible cards, will be able to describe the game’s motif without realizing.

For example, they will never remember ‘Graycards’ as having their own hook on a display or box on a shelf. They will have noticed them accidentally mixed in with other cards or, more often, in loose piles behind the cases of other games. They will remember the packs as looking aged and crumpled, dusty and potentially stained by whatever may have leaked in the truck that stocks the station. They may remember the lack of art and the poor title layout, as though ‘Graycards’ only exist as a bootleg of themselves. Most who have owned ‘Graycards’ have been gifted them by grandparents who don’t understand the differences between games and are happy to save a dollar. They are sometimes handed over wordlessly with a receipt for unrelated products as part of some un-advertised special.

Inexplicably, ‘Graycards’ exist in the peripheries by design. The tarnished foil of their booster packs is printed on, as is the dust and staining. Packaging becomes duller year by year. The brand that supposedly prints the cards changes with each set and a little research reveals none of the companies have ever existed. The less-than-ideal shelf placement stems from the perpetual low stock and low turnover. The placement and the packaging feed into each other and the cycle maintains the product’s relative camouflage among items that are designed to draw attention.

The cards themselves are well-made and rarely as damaged as they seem from the outside. Styles vary set by set with a few clear patterns. Each set is characterized by a single color in addition to grayscale illustrations. Each set contains sporadic cards on which the lettering is printed in silver ink (seemingly the ‘foil’ of ‘Graycards’). Every known card has the same back- a series of nested circles in black and white. This pattern is mirrored by a small holographic circle on the corner of the face-side, acting as a mark of authenticity and making it difficult to scan or even take quality pictures of the cards.

‘Graycards’ seem only to emerge in booster packs and, as such, there is no official source for rules. Several popular variations of play exist and can be found online, their sources inevitably the writings and experiences of those who played before the internet allowed for such collaboration. Though the bulk of rules are agreed upon, regional variations represent another obstacle in the popularity of the game. A winning deck in the northwest will be entirely incompatible with a tournament in the south.

New ‘Graycard’ set releases are sporadic and frustrating enough that most believe it is another means by which the creators of the game sow discord among the playerbase. Booster packs for historical sets (say, the Ultraviolet Crimson set, widely available in 1994) will reappear in bulk decades after their initial printing. Promotional singles have been known to fall out of chip bags, condom boxes, and cases of car oil. It’s rare that a tournament occurs without the debut of an otherwise unknown card that defuncts prize-winning decks and overturns the meta understanding of the game, usually prompting accusations of cheating and forgery. Backhandedness is encouraged by a number on each card that seems to indicate how many of its kind have been printed. The collection or destruction of specific cards in order to boost power and rarity is common. At least one card, ‘The Eavesdroplet’ from 1988’s Pale Beige set, is thought to have been made extinct by these practices.

The inclusion of ‘Graycards’ in tournaments and conventions are relatively common, though the events are rarely a headline attraction and are commonly relegated to the conference rooms of nearby hotels. Perpetual travelers that add a pack of ‘Graycards’ to their gas-station lunches now and again can easily turn a profit at such a get-together, the serious playerbase being one that does not get out all that much. In fact, this pseudo-pollination seems to be the only mechanism in place to keep ‘Graycards’ afloat, it being a game that resists playing.’

You might imagine the cool stab of fear I experience upon opening the Stranger’s copy of ‘Autumn by the Wayside’ and seeing a black and white card flutter to the ground, seemingly a forgotten keepsake made bookmark. It bears an uncanny resemblance to a card I carry in my own copy- the Traitor from my days of playing with Sebastian’s group. The one is clearly inspired by the other, Sebastian himself having created the game while working at a gas-station. The phantom pains of my burn-scarred arm ease as I mark the differences and assure myself that his was a curse dispelled.

I’ve seen the packs of ‘Graycards’ now and again. They’re difficult to miss if you spend enough time on the road. I even followed the advice in Shitholes once, buying them up until I had a little shoebox of boosters to sell out of the back of the truck at a college campus. The buyers, though… The people who showed up asked me where each pack had come from and how long I had had them. They pulled up the flaps and inspected small markings in the creases. One woman asked if she could weigh the packs before purchase with a little jewelers scale. Selling the cards made me feel dirty, as though I was feeding an addiction I didn’t totally understand. The profit was good, even accounting for the time I sat there, but I’ve never done it again.

The Stranger’s card is one called ‘Release of Burden’ and, if the entry is correct, it’s one of a thousand like it. The illustration is of a haggard man’s face as he reclines backward into a chair. It’s printed in grayscale, of course, except for a very faint blue shading as though the scene is illuminated by an out-of-frame television. One of several wiki-style forums suggest its from a set released in the mid-2000’s: the Pastel Blue set. The rules on the card mean nothing to me, but the man’s expression lingers in my mind the rest of the day. I set up camp off an unmarked service road and slide into my sleeping bag, balancing the card up against the tent wall. The man’s face is emotionless and, in that neutrality, I can project both relief and disenchantment.

I fall asleep, wondering what the Stranger may have seen in it.

-traveler

‘In the creation of road signs, the Federal Highway Administration sometimes struggles with tone. Take, for instance, the well-known paranoia cycle that exists along I-80, where signs warn travelers of a nearby prison and suggest hitchhikers are potentially more of a threat in the region than they are normally. Not an unreasonable message in and of itself, but some budgetary or communications breakdown led the signs to be placed every half mile so that, in many stretches, several of the signs can be seen leading off into the horizon. The effect is nerve-wracking- the difference between a friendly ‘watch your head’ as a tall friend approaches a short door and the shouting of the phrase over and over, as though a rogue frisbee approaches.

The dread produced along I-80 is felt to keenly that several instances of vehicular homicide have occurred based on the assumption of a driver that someone on foot meant them harm. Iowa’s knee-jerk reaction to the growing problem was the addition of a second series of signs that target pedestrians, warning them that drivers in the area may swerve erratically across the curb. The new message only encouraged walkers to draw attention to themselves as cars passed, often waving lights or gesturing widely in ways that were considered hostile by on-edge drivers. So much more harm came to hikers (hitch- or otherwise) that it became common practice to carry rocks on I-80 and to pelt nearing cars so that traffic was forced into the center lanes.

Most recently, the Federal Highway Administration has added a third sign warning drivers that people on the side of the road may throw rocks. These signs are smaller and fixed just below the originals, as though attempting to convey apology both for the problem and for the relatively ineffectual solution.’

I’m not sure where pedestrians stand on motorcyclists until something slams into the visor of my helmet, splitting the hard plastic across the center. I pull it up until the rock-strewn pavement forces me away from the center and toward the curb. A dirt-clod that barely misses my head explodes in front of the bike, creating a cloud of dust and grit that immediately blinds me. I manage, somehow, to maneuver to the shoulder without crashing or swerving toward another malicious group of bystanders. It takes 10 minutes to rinse the dirt from my eyes. The first thing I see is the cartoon outline of a car driving off the highway toward someone on the side, its cartoon driver waving a little cartoon fist. Warning, it says, drivers may target pedestrians.

The second thing I see is a car behind the sign, speeding toward me.

I dive off into the brush beside the road and, hearing it pass, leap out with a stick in my hand. I fling it impotently in the driver’s rearview mirror.

Anger churns inside me. My eyes water and my body aches from landing on the ground. Another car is coming and it isn’t until I see my shadow wielding a stone that I realize I’ve picked one up myself. I take several steps back and drop it. The passing car sound its horn; it’s as likely a warning as it is a ‘thank you.’

I wave, regardless. Let them make of it what they will.

-traveler

Though many veteran motorcyclists insist that a bike is more than capable of being a year-round vehicle (given certain precautions) my experience, that of having to rely on it as my only means of transport, has been the exact opposite. In perfect conditions, I am more comfortable on the bike than ever but the slightest patch of gravel, the dark hint of moisture or oil, even a thick shadow is enough to make me grind my teeth under the helmet and ride at a speed that proves infuriatingly slow for seemingly all other commuters. I’ve fallen from the saddle at low speeds and walked away with the skin scraped from my arms. I’ve survived a bloody crash in the forest, surrounded as I was, then, by the pick-up’s metal cage and held tightly in place by the seat belt. I haven’t had a major accident on the motorcycle yet, but I can do the math. So, I ride slowly and, to the best of my ability, I avoid bad roads.

Ohio’s ‘Bloodslide’ is unavoidable.

The staining begins well before ‘The Red Road’ proper, streaked across the pavement by so many passing cars that it resembles the feeler of some long, flat, worm. The smell reaches me next, when the wind momentarily turns and presses air up under the helmet. It is the overwhelming stench of decay, lent grotesque familiarity by the frigid autumn weather- smelling, at its edges, like the meat coolers of a grocery store. The road darkens, not for cleared pavement but for thicker layers of gore, crusted, broken, and crusted again, dried blood powdering like sand under the tire. I slow and the smell hits me a second time, fresh from being turned over by my passage.

‘Several names are given to the short section of I-77 where animals seek death. Though conversationally jarring, ‘Bloodslide’ is likely the most recognized identifier and likely the closest to the truth of the matter. Pulped viscera thoroughly coats several miles of northern I-77 where it runs with  forested sides and a dark cloud of birds hangs perpetually at its center, where the phenomenon is concentrated.

‘Bloodslide’s’ perpetual grime is the result of an evolved behavior shared by local herbivores. Various birds of prey nest in the region and local rodents (as well as opossums and raccoons) have learned that a deeply bloody road is distraction enough for hawks and eagles that they may live in peace as long as the coating remains fresh. Though the exact trigger remains a mystery, mammals surviving to maturity in the woods will grow fat as though preparing for hibernation and will spontaneously scramble to the road one day in order to throw themselves under the wheels of a passing vehicle. These small sacrifices have remained unhindered by all of the state’s attempts to end them, including fences, lights, and scarecrow-like statues that only further frightened drivers along ‘The Red Road.’

As with falling rocks, patches of ice, and other natural obstacles to the nation’s vast infrastructure, the state has resigned itself to simply warning travelers of ‘Bloodslide’s’ potential dangers and advises that animals on the road be given what they want- a quick end.’

By the time I consider turning around my lower half is already painted red. The brown layer of the road has begun to give way to slick red beneath, peeling like a scab to reveal pockets of bone and rot. The occasional corpse rises from the leveled mash, usually surrounded by a dozen birds. They watch me carefully as I putter by.

Several fat squirrels approach as I attempt to navigate ‘The Red Road.’ They wait expectantly at the front tire until I kick them away. One finally fools me as I hydroplane across a particularly slimy patch of pavement. I correct and feel the motorcycle lurch over its form. Its gorged body explodes and begins to drain into the asphalt. Something larger lurks at the forest’s edge but it’s smart enough to realize that the size and speed of my vehicle likely wouldn’t do the job. It sulks noisily off into the underbrush to wait for a car.

‘Bloodslide’s’ treacherous surface draws the journey into the early evening and it’s dark by the time I finally reach clear pavement. Having made it across ‘The Red Road,’ I find Ohio’s attempt at settling the consciences of drivers somewhat lacking. The illustration on a diamond sign a mile onward sports the outline of a cartoon rabbit, smiling and offering a thumb’s up as a cartoon tire looms toward it. My headlight paints it red and I suck heavy lungfuls of fresh air through the helmet’s visor.

-traveler

‘There are certain moments, acts of violence (intentional or otherwise) being the most common, when a game veers into something more serious. Imagine a water balloon fight when a cornered child picks up a rock. Imagine a paintball match when a player huddles near a ditch, hoping the enemy will trip. Imagine a new boxer exchanging  form for fury- the adrenaline of the first angry strike, the surprised look on the face of the opponent. The tissue-paper guise of competitive recreation tears so easily that it’s a wonder we are able to look our barista in the eyes without preparing for the small chance she chooses to leap over the counter and strangle us as we claw our pockets for a debit card and wonder aloud about the weather.

The illusion wavered in a big way outside of Kenmare, North Dakota in 2014 where stands ‘The Black Ice Behemoth.’ Existing in one form or another since the early nineties, ‘The Black Ice Behemoth’ is a vaguely humanoid structure of ice, snow, and debris- a frozen slurry of the sort one might find hanging from the back of a pick-up truck in February. The day/night temperature rotation keeps ‘The Behemoth’ from retaining any fine details but grants it a smooth, glistening surface and a translucency that glows orange-brown with the sunset. Standing atop a hill, ‘The Black Ice Behemoth’ varied in size for just over a decade as participants regularly stopped to rub snow and ice onto it, based on some loose tradition of good luck.

As ‘The Behemoth’ grew in popularity so too did it grow in size. By 2005 its head rarely drooped below 15’ and its legless base expanded to encompass the trunks of nearby trees. Around this time, the tradition began to evolve- the survival of ‘The Behemoth’ into spring and early summer suggested healthy crops, safer work on the oil fields, lower taxes, or whatever else a hopeful mid-westerner might ask of a non-denominational snow idol. Hearing that ‘The Black Ice Behemoth’ was slouching in the sun or cracking along a side became a reason for the high school football team to drive out en-masse to repair it, hauling snow from miles away as necessary, laughing all the while lest anybody think they took the matter too seriously.

2007 is reportedly the first year ‘The Black Ice Behemoth’ survived the summer, if only as a mildly-phallic ice monolith. It survived in better form the years following, its shoulders widening and its arms stretching outward as though holding up an invisible cape. The local branches of fraternal organizations divvied up time to maintain ‘The Behemoth,’ usually fund-raising in the process. It began to show up on post cards and in murals. Tourists smiled in poses next to it, laughingly took a knee at its base in mock-worship.

In the warm spring of 2014 a group of college freshman, laughing as much as anybody, decided to starve ‘The Black Ice Behemoth.’ They camped in a ring around its base, breaking no laws in the process. They huddled around it when people attempted to approach with snow and were largely responsible for felling ‘The Behemoth’s’ right arm by shaking the dead husk of a tree that it had, in recent years, grasped for support.

The following night, April 8th, they were attacked by unidentified assailants described as “…a buncha’ rednecks in masks.” One student was killed onsite, her skull cracked on the ice. Another was admitted to the local hospital in a coma, also resulting from blunt force trauma to the head. He was removed from life-support in 2017, having never regained consciousness.

A small contingent criticized the response of local authorities to the case. Candid footage of the crime scene, taken on April 9th, depicts several officers rubbing snow against ‘The Behemoth,’ their hands red with blood that is likely still encased between layers of grime and ice to this day. The area around ‘The Black Ice Behemoth’ has been ineffectually cordoned off since the incident. Strangers to the area report stern warnings from local police with surprising regularity, given the relatively rural location and a parking area that can’t be viewed from the highway. Despite this seeming vigilance, ‘The Black Ice Behemoth’ lives on, growing taller each year.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

Traversing the country by motorcycle has granted me an appreciation for having the wind at my back and it is steadily at my back for the latter miles of a long stretch of driving. This bears mentioning now only because the driving is not in a straight line or through a valley, where a person might expect steady wind. The path turns in several directions and the wind follows, rushing me along like the current of an invisible river. Its intent is so clear, near the end, that I recognize immediately when I take a wrong turn, the breeze suddenly and clearly at my right. I pull a U-turn and pause at a three-way stop just a mile or so back the way I came, a place where my cell service ends and my map relies mostly on guesswork.

A tree hovers over the intersection, barren except for a few brown leaves and a black baseball cap, tangled in the branches. I toss rocks at it and surprise myself by knocking it loose after just three tries. The hat does not fall straight- it hardly touches the ground before spinning down the road exactly opposite the way I came. I leap back onto the bike and follow.

‘At the terminus of the westward-facing jet stream lies ‘The End of Crowns,’ a romantic name for what is a natural dumping spot for the nation’s hats, umbrellas, kites, and whatever else humanity dares to place above its head. Certainly not all wind-blown ephemera lands at ‘The End of Crowns’ or that any conscious effort has been allocated to this arbitrary separation of garbage, but the westerlies are persistent and regular enough that a dune of sorts has formed at the foot of ‘Halo Hill,’ 50 miles south of LA. It is the dusty-corner-near-the-door of the continent, a collection point for anything that can be airborne on a draft for more than a few minutes.

The intrigue underlying the pseudo-patriotic name (‘The End of Crowns’ being an oft-used backdrop for the enthusiastic internet Libertarian) is that the sky above and around makes up an aerial Bermuda Triangle of sorts, downing drones and birds and even planes before the airspace was quietly forbidden, forming an obnoxious detour for flights into LAX. The accumulation of fowl and insect creates a year-long reek about the dune itself, turning away all but the most stubborn of researchers.

Biologists who brave the smell have discovered strange, flightless evolutions among aging maggots (who can call them flies?) in the dune. Historians have found hats dating back before the Revolutionary War. A recent core sample suggests even the dinosaurs were confounded by the place, the skeletons of several flat, ancient pterodactyl-types the only thing separating generations of old headwear from the earth’s crust.

‘The End of Crowns’ was quarantined for several years in the early 2000’s following reports of a virulent dandruff outbreak and restricted again in 2011 when a local entrepreneur claimed to have discovered a pocket of rare sports caps, creating a vicious gold rush of sorts. In 2017, ‘The End of Crowns’ became a protected environment and a tall fence was constructed to dissuade visitors. It works about as well one might suspect.’

The black cap strikes the ground and performs a final roll before vaulting upward. It strikes a wall of hats that towers above several nearby trees and moves over them in a jerking sort of spider-crawl before settling into place. I park the bike and consider the enormity of the undertaking, the sheer number of hats needed to create a wall that stretches 20’ into the air and indefinitely to either side, before I remove my helmet and identify, by the whistling, that what I’m looking at is the fence. The helmet tugs at my grip, suddenly, the underside momentarily exposed to the wind. I strap it to the handlebars and approach.

The wind is stronger nearer the wall, intent on working its way through the various folds and cracks between the hodge-podge fabric. I step to the left in order to examine an old cowboy hat and realize, too late, that the wind is stronger there. It pulls me off my feet and drags me up against the wall, where the smell of the thing becomes undeniable: wet rot, fabric and feathers. I press myself backward- resisting isn’t impossible, just difficult. The wind has stripped everything but loose dirt from the ground near the fence, though, so getting any further than a leg’s length away is futile. I recall a lesson in escaping riptides- the idea is to move sideways, not backwards. I put this strategy into practice and soon find myself performing an odd horizontal walk along the ground.

After a few yards I’m pulled back against the wall with such force that I see stars. When I open my eyes and press myself away from the hats I realize I’m no longer on the ground but held in place half a foot above it. I re-situate myself, with great effort, until I’m standing horizontally. I trace a circle in the dirt to my left with a healthy amount of disbelief.

Walking along the wall is difficult. My feet sink where the debris is thickest and my clothes rage against me where the barrier is thin, desperately trying to join the collection on the fence. I’m 10’ off the ground when I feel the suction wane and I tumble back to earth, rolling along the vertical plane. I land with my face in the dirt, much of the initial whimsy lost in the fall.

“Are you all right?”

A woman crawls down the wall nearby, carefully planting her feet in the place where the earth meets the fence.

“Fine,” I groan- not at my most convincing.

She begins to strip off her clothes. I scrabble backward, avert my eyes, look back because I don’t understand what she’s doing, and, seeing she sees me watching, look away again, embarrassed.

“It’s the easiest way to escape the fence,” she explains, “Just got to ball everything up.”

When I open my eyes again she’s already 30’ away, standing from a crawl. The woman disappears between the trees before I think to ask what she had been doing.

I spend some time trying to dig a hole in the debris, just for a quick look at ‘The End of Crowns’ beyond. It’s useless- more flies in to fill the gap, striking the back of my head in the meantime. I give up after half an hour, secretly relieved. A part of me worries about the strength of the vacuum. I wonder if it would pull my eye straight from its socket.

The coast seems clear enough as I take off my own clothes, recreating the tight bundle I glimpsed in the woman’s arms. Tucking it beneath my armpit, I drag myself from ‘The End of Crowns’ and back onto the road.

-traveler

‘‘The Dread Body of Westing Hills’ may well be gone by the time these words reach publication, but the attraction (if the word can be said to apply) is included for its present effect upon the Wayside and the tension that has risen between those who dwell there.

Unlike much of the Wayside, ‘The Body’ is relatively easy to spot by those who seek it. In the historical Westing Hills neighborhood, on the corner of Madison and 5^th, it looks as though a man is napping in the grass, head resting upon arm and torso well into the drainage ditch behind. In reality, the man is quite dead and has been so for some time- long enough that one feels no compulsion to check vitals for confirmation. That the man rots is not a debatable point but that the body was once a man is fiercely contested by those who wander near.

For all ‘The Body’ is theoretically visible and for all it should provoke fear or repulsion in those who pass it in the course of their daily lives, one feels a sense of justice in sighting the corpse’s sad state. Most ignore it- a thing that exists only in the peripheries, that warrants no attention. Having seen ‘The Body,’ a witness finds it difficult to muster the initiative to call the police and the police, when called, do nothing. One struggles to name it any other thing but an object.

‘The Dread Body of Westing Hills’ is to rot on the street, it seems, protected by magic or destiny or compelled indifference. It does not resist covering, but those who hide it face backlash from those who believe the Wayside should be left in its natural state. For every hand that draws tarp across ‘The Body’ there is another that peels it from the rot. For every attempt to push ‘The Body’ further into the ditch, there is another to drag it onto the sidewalk. In response to a video of an unknown visitor closing the man’s eyes, ‘The Body’s’ eyelids have gone missing, confirming, for many, that something remains nearby (further in the peripheries, perhaps) to mete out the punishment in its own, patient way.’

‘The Body’ is still rotting when I find it. Its skin is largely unbroken but it roils with insects. It hardly smells until I stand over it, at which point the stench becomes unbearable. Whatever maintains the man’s sight must preserve its whole, drawing out the long decomposition. I slop gasoline at ‘The Body’ from a careful distance, eyeing the street, the trees, the windows of nearby houses. Nobody moves to stop me.

The Stranger earmarked ‘The Body’ for burning and his reasoning was sound. Having studied the margins of his book, I realize the Stranger’s reasoning was well-considered and, when I arrived at the corner of Madison and 5^th, I never doubted that this was a thing that should be finished.

The corpse goes up in flames, hissing and cracking and curling in upon itself. It warms a cool autumn evening and casts my dancing shadow into the street. When it’s near embers, passersby finally begin to see it.

Sirens in the distance.

-Traveler

Spotted Traveler, again.

All the Stranger ever wrote about me in his book, granted, he wrote it more than once. I study my shadow, draped in the carpet of a grim hotel. It stares back through a single glowing eye- the red-orange switch of a surge protector. I shift and the shadow’s head is forced under a shelf.

Better.

I didn’t recognize my expectations regarding the Stranger’s written accounts of our meetings until they were abruptly unmet. Hurried, sometimes, and regularly discreet, I thought my own recollections of the man were brief.

There’s more than length to a dick-measuring contest.

A joke he would make.

I crawl onto the bed- crawl out again to retrieve the small pouch of nickels on the table. A truck rumbles past the window and my shadow looms, suddenly, to peer over my shoulder. I shake the bag of change- noise wards off evil spirits and intrusive thoughts alike. The traffic passes and the room returns to the predictable sort of dark I prefer.

I slip between the sheets again, toss my clothes to the floor, and press a nickel into a slot on the headboard. The world goes quiet- dreadfully so. It’s the quiet of a power outage in the middle of the night, the sudden non-ticking of the fridge or the silence of a bedside fan. It’s the sound of an absence and, after a moment, I trace the absence to myself. My own body is silent, as though the blood has stopped in my veins. There is quiet, even within me. It’s frightening, at first, and then the world returns and the noise of it is so disturbing that I run coins into the headboard until the pouch is emptied.

Already I am afraid to hear that sound return. I’m just as afraid of the blessed silence, that it has so quickly become a balm. I breathe (silently) and remind myself why I limited the nickels to a handful- the same reason I prefer twine to chalk on the occasion that Shitholes leads me into a cave. The twine is a logical limit and the chalk, well, one piece has the potential for so many arrows.

Re-adjusted to the silence (and resigned to its inevitable end), I pick up the Stranger’s book and endeavor to understand the path to his strange demise.

‘For those seeking respite from the myriad stimuli of everyday life, one might call ahead to the local motel-by-the-hour and inquire about the make and model of their beds. The long-defunct ‘Tectonics’ line of vibrating mattress frame wears in such a way that, after a few years of heavy use, the motor maintains a frequency quite opposite the music of the spheres, creating a state of absolute stillness.

As with much of what happens in motels with vibrating beds, addiction is common and side-effects are the norm. Dizziness follows long use of the ‘Tectonics’ line, as do migraines. Random internal ruptures have been reported, though witnesses of such events are unreliable, hiding either deep inebriation or motive for murder.’

-traveler