‘We are assured, as children, that the vast majority of our fears are unwarranted and that the world is a mundane place so when, as adults, ‘The Parade of Strangers’ arrives in town, we hardly bat an eye.

Is it the celebration of some secret society? Is it a memorial for a forgotten war? Could it be a charity event or a publicity stunt? For whom do they raise the money? What are they trying to sell us? Perhaps they are a friendly, if underrepresented, religion, celebrating some esoteric holiday that the government refuses to recognize. Perhaps they are a roving militia, re-distributing their apocalyptic supplies.

They are none of these things, or, they are a lurching chimera of them all. ‘The Parade of Strangers’ descends upon a town much like a spat of rain: with no motive except to move through it, on the way to destination yet defined. Like a spat of rain, we endure it.’

As always, there are websites that track these things- a website that tracks and attempts to predict the movement of ‘The Parade.’ It is estimated to be three and a half miles long when we check, moving south down I-75 at about 40 mph. We approach its tail and break from the interstate as soon as we begin to see candy on the ground. It sits in sticky piles on the median.

Believe it or not, it’s the Strangers that began the great American tradition of throwing candy from a parade. It is an act that is quintessentially strange, invoking the early-American disregard for litter and an unwarranted trust for white American men. We’ve learned better, since then, and now we warn children that Strangers are exactly the sort of person you shouldn’t be taking candy from. Candy can only mean an ulterior motive, kids, unless you’re paying out of pocket. A candy debt to the Strangers is not something you want on your file in ‘The Secret Bank.’ Low entry, high interest.

No easy bankruptcy.

It would be time-consuming and difficult to try to pass ‘The Parade of Strangers’ from behind but the next best way forward still means bisecting it at some point. We settle on a suburb of Louisville, hoping to cut through early, but the motorcycle isn’t taking well to hauling the little trailer of books (the Editor, herself, weighing next to nothing behind me and refusing to wrap her arms around my waist), so we arrive late and find we’re just in time to see the dead-center passing through downtown. It’s visible from miles around, a flock of birds hovering overhead like a sugar-starved thunderhead.

Seeing it, again, I may as well be back in ‘The City of Strangers.’ They have taken most of it with them, the King’s skyscraper looming over the little suburban townhall like a schoolyard bully. Candy rains down from broken buildings as they are pulled along the street. It shatters on the ground and leave dents on the cars parked along the road. The whole thing is noisy- the rattling of broken candy and the roaring of diesel engines as they struggle to pull the buildings through Main Street. Someone is playing music but its volume relative to everything else makes the gesture seem sarcastic and threatening.

Nobody has come to see this parade, but nobody attempts to stop it. It’s another day in the world and another person’s business as to what this is all about.

“There’s an opening up ahead,” the Editor shouts behind me, “You’ll have to be quick.”

The Strangers eye us as they pass, smirking at the bike’s exhaust and the idea that we might find a way to cross. I breathe heavily under the helmet, fogging the inside. It wouldn’t have been hard for them to learn my license plate, the make and model of my set-up, but it wouldn’t be like them at all to consider the details. As unlikely as it may be, I think any one of these men could know me by my face, or by the way I walk, or by the way my shadow lies a little too thick on the ground. I look ahead to where the Editor has spotted the way through and I ready us for the charge.

Much as we both assumed (though these suspicions often remain unspoken between the Editor and I), the Strangers try to close the gap the moment they realize we’ll be trying to slide through it. Whether they recognize me in the moment, or whether this is just their way, the truck engines spin screeching rubber into the pavement with the effort of the Strangers to jolt forward. Candy rains down maliciously, then, cracking the headlamp and sticking in the treads of the tires. We skid through the rainbow hail and I topple the bike on a hidden curb. I rise quickly and see the Editor struggle.

Her left arm is broken.

The Strangers seem to lose interest now that we’ve crossed but I am careful to leave my helmet on. The Editor pulls painfully at her own and eventually allows me to remove it for her. She frowns at the dangling wrist and glances between the trailer and my covered face.

“Can I trust you with these for now?” she asks, “I don’t really want to travel on this arm.”

Before I can answer, before I can begin to guess the time it takes for a broken bone to heal, the Editor pulls a small pistol from her bag and levels it with her head, spraying a nearby van with blood and brain-matter.

I swallow my gum.

The Editor exists in all timelines- she’ll be back when I make a decision that sends us down a new path. I admire her fearlessness for that time in-between, but shudder to think of it myself.

-traveler

“This isn’t right, either.”

The Editor stands over me, dozens of books piled between us. This represents a few boxes’ worth of her collection of ‘Shitholes,’ which supposedly includes a single copy of every edition. The books arrived by mail on the same day, each in its own padded envelope. It’s standard practice, she told me, for her company to send her a published copy of a book she’s edited. Usually just the one, though. The Editor believes she stands at the nucleus of a supposed multiverse.

We all want to be special.

“What’s not right?” I ask.

“The chronology,” she says, “I think we’ve cut out as many good endings as bad ones.”

Alice’s pick breaks between my teeth, the shattered middle soft as a paintbrush against my palate.

“I thought…”

“I know,” she says, “I thought I had it too. There’s just too many to keep them straight and every time I read one I think I remember why I put it in that particular order and… Why are you looking at me like that?”

“You’re still trying to kill me,” I say.

“What?”

“You’re still trying to kill me,” I tell her.

And the second time I say it, I know it’s true.

‘Save for those that wind through the larger, carefully-tamed National and State Parks, most beloved trailheads are crowned with what appears to be a low tangle of rusted barb wire, as though the way were once forbidden but time and negligence have thrown open the doors. The wire reappears often, in twisted piles at the bottom of unexplained pits and in creaking strands, half-absorbed by the cancerous bark of old trees. This is ‘the Devil’s Grapevine,’ an American weed so widely spread as to be subtle, but as mischievous as poison ivy.

The great North American network of ‘Devil’s Grapevine’ maintains a core in western Alabama, a well, of sorts, from which all its tendrils spring. Wind passing over the well greets the human ear like whispered intimacies. Some would have you believe these are rumors, snagged from the skin of clumsy hikers. To visit the core is to submit yourself to the shallowest concerns of all who have felt the sting of its thorns, twisted, as they are, by the paths that brought them there.’

“Don’t be an idiot!” the Editor shouts, “It’s just the wind.”

She throws a copy of Shitholes at my head, its pages exploding across the field. The spine snaps down on the bridge of my nose and by the time my eyes regain focus I realize she’s right.

“Sorry,” I say between my fingers, “But you were trying to kill me.”

“You should hear what it’s been saying about you,” she says, sneering from behind a hardcover.

“I said sorry.”

“A fifty-fifty reduction isn’t that bad,” she reasons, “It means we haven’t done any harm, and we’ve narrowed the future choices down a bit…”

“But…”

“But,” she admits, “The majority of the remaining good timelines, the ones where you live, they all take you back through the ‘City of Strangers.’”

“What? Why would I go back there?”

“It’s different now,” she says, “The city is moving. It’s like a… barricade. And it’s standing between us and the end of this book.”

-traveler

‘Much as the scientists of Copernicus’ era recognized the necessity of standardized measurement, early Americans understood that democracy, as a man-made concept, was abstract at best. Unlike the iron resolve of their former monarchy, a ‘free’ state encouraging free speech and free interpretation of the Constitution allowed for the chance that an amount of well-natured ‘silliness’ could derail the thing entirely.

Silliness, at the time, existed in a country that suffered a perpetual ‘witching hour,’ when the veil between the spirit world and the world of mortals was at its thinnest. The forests of America remained untamed and were thick with darkness and superstition- superstition being the catalyst of a good, pioneering prank. Come April 1^st, farmers would dress as witches and miners would dress as ghosts and, come April 2^nd, it was a coin-toss as to whether those people had gotten a good laugh or been burned at the stake.

It was with these cautionary tales in mind that the nation’s founders instituted the ‘Fool-Safe Zone,’ an acre of land and a group of families that would dedicate their bloodlines to preserving serious discussion and curating a set of understood facts, acting, essentially, as a magnetic north to America’s reality. Theoretically, when the world churned out some new madness, the States could look to the ‘Fool-Safe Zone’ much in the way we grasp desperately for the bus’ handhold as it lurches over uneven terrain. In practice, of course, the founding reality of the ‘Fool-Safe Zone’ was more like magnetic north than could be understood at its creation- neither was as fixed as was imagined.

Now, the ‘Fool-Safe Zone’ serves as the exact opposite of its intended purpose. It lives on, almost cult-like, an inbred society of humans that holds to facts as they were understood in the 1700s. It is an illustration of what might happen if we take ourselves too seriously for too long.’

-an excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

‘[traveler] was a sales associate at ‘The Tchotchke Closet’ when he departed, suddenly, on the narrated road trip that would eventually become the collected ‘Autumn by the Wayside.’ Though presented here as a simple travel guide, his unpublished musings reveal the tumultuous journey that occurred behind the scenes, including a battle with addiction and a near-fatal accident just months into his travel. He contributed to several other guidebooks from the road, among which are ‘Dark Games to Play at Your Local Buffet’ and the critically acclaimed ‘DEAR GOD DON’T DRINK THAT.’

‘Autumn by the Wayside’ is published with the blessing of [traveler]’s parents, who forgive his wordless departure, and of his sister, who does not.’

I read this all the first time I was handed the book and I’m sure I must have read it again in the meantime but it is, admittedly, a crisper page in a book that is dirty with my fingerprints. I did read it again after the accident, sometime in that hazy month of mending bones and physical therapy. At that point, when it confirmed there was an amount of my own destiny between the pages of Shitholes, I assumed the passage had given up the few secrets it contained and, like an idiot, I hung the last line on a wall in the living room of my soul:

‘Autumn by the Wayside’ is published with the blessing of [traveler]’s parents, who forgive his wordless departure, and of his sister, who does not.’

I assumed it meant there would be an end to this, an end in which I would return home, having paid for a conservative haircut and a truck-stop shower, to sheepishly greet a family that would cry and yell and eventually embrace me and welcome me back into the house I grew up in. I worried about my sister, of course, but it would be like her, like us, to agree on the line as a little nod to the months it would have taken her to speak to me civilly. I would have apologized a thousand times by then over a thousand cups of coffee and she would have said, finally, that she was still so sure I would disappear again and she would make me promise I wouldn’t, that my traveling days were over. I would make that promise and we would write that line together, a line like a scar, that would heal the hurt but serve as a reminder that the hurt once was. We’ve always fancied ourselves world-class writers.

I read, somewhere, that an editor helps a writer understand their own work and, now that I’ve met my own, I couldn’t agree more.

This passage is an obituary.

-traveler

‘‘The Last Sectioned Diner’ holds on to its title by a thin, legal thread, relying on its history (claiming to have served any number of politically relevant smokers and yellow-fingered authors) to allow for an indoor smoking section to exist in a state that has long banned them. Rumored to be the result of a technical clause in this ambiguous heritage, the ‘Diner’ has instituted a system far more complex than the smoking/non-smoking binary of young America, opting, instead, for a floorplan described as ‘fractal’ and ‘endless’ in its most recent review by the local fire marshal.

A favorable dining experience at ‘The Last Sectioned Diner’ requires no little cunning on the part of the customer, for each categorized section is likely nested within a dozen others. In order to understand the destination, one must understand the many branching paths that led one there in the first place.’

The non-violent section is, inexplicably, positioned as a sub-section of smoking- that much I recognized almost immediately. Is it calming effects of nicotine? A worry that spilled ashtrays might cause fires? The waitstaff won’t say (and I’ve never been one to needlessly bother a server). All this to say I noticed the smoking the moment I arrived.

The rest, I’ve learned over a week of waiting.

This, for instance, seems to be a section that discourages speaking above a whisper. It’s a section that does not offer wine but does have an extensive kid’s menu. This is a section that enforces a certain dress code, I found, when I arrived in flip-flops and pajama pants in the middle of the night- attire that wouldn’t be out of place at many 24-hour diner chains- and was offered a seat in an area that could not entirely rule out violence but was judgement-free, at least. Seeing the people dining there was like seeing my own soul laid bare and I was soon escorted out for quietly thinking that I must be better than them, for swearing under my breath that I would take the time to pull on jeans before returning.

There are static things about the diner as well. The walls that separate the sections do not reach the ceiling- they terminate in frosted, floral glass about six feet above the floor so that the smell of smoke is always present, no matter its origin. The menus are laminated and spiralbound, their pages sticking together with the residue of a recent cleaning. The tables are always mildly wet, the coffee always weak but plentiful. The cream is always in the little unspoiling plastic tubs, stacked neatly into a little ceramic bowl. It always takes two or three to bring about any change in the coffee’s flavor and they pile like insect shells as I wait and sip coffee and eat pie. I order a steak each time, not because I want it, but because I need an easy out for when she arrives.

It is impossible not to judge someone who orders the steak at a chain diner.

The Editor arrives on the eighth day, lead to my booth by the server. She is shaking, but not for any of the physical harm she has been subject to in the previous weeks. She is shaking with the effort of suppressing her anger. Cracks in the booth’s plastic cushions split and widen as she slides in across the table. My mug rattles as her feet connect with the supporting bar below.

“I’ll be back with that Shirley Temple!” the server croons.

The Editor winces.

“Don’t worry,” I tell her as the older woman turns to the kitchen, “They don’t allow judgment here.”

“Fuck you,” she says.

“How do you keep catching up with me?” I ask, “You tricked me the first time and now I can’t turn a corner without running into you.”

“We’re on the same path, now,” she says, “I know which book you have and that’s all it takes.”

“Are you going to tell me why you’re following me?”

Her drink arrives, dripping red.

“I’ve made myself clear.”

“You edited ‘Autumn by the Wayside,’” I say, “And you think I have something to do with it.”

“You wrote it.”

“You’re the second person to say that,” I tell her, “But I haven’t written anything.”

“What’s this?” she asks, pointing to the napkin under my elbow. I’ve scribbled my observations about the ‘Diner’ there: “A favorable experience at ‘The Last Sectioned Diner…”

“That’s different,” I say, stuffing the napkin into my pocket, “I write what I see, but the only reason I’m out here is because I’m visiting the places in Shitholes. The first I heard about it was the day someone handed it to me.”

“This isn’t you?” she asks, and she opens the back of her copy to the author bio. The pages are crisp and white and the man in the picture is me.

“That picture changes.”

“Bullshit,” she says, “I was the one that had to edit your teeth back in.”

I reach out to touch the unbroken spine of her book but she snatches it from my fingers.

“But it was already written…”

“You wrote this!” she seethes, “You’re writing it now! You will write it! That’s what’s happening. You’ve been writing yourself in circles and some of us are stuck in the loop with you, you selfish fuck! We’re circling the drain!”

“Calm down,” I tell her, noting the gathering of waitstaff at the edges of the section, “I don’t want you following me- I’m on your side! How do we fix this?”

“You die,” she says, “That might work.”

“How else?” I ask, “Can’t I just finish the book?”

“You haven’t listened to a thing I’ve said,” she snaps, “There’s more than one version of the book and the one you’re writing now ends in disaster.”

“What?” I ask, “What’s wrong with this one?”

My own copy is gray and warped with water damage. It seems unsanitary to place it on the table.

“Ever wonder why the bio in your book uses the past-tense?” she asks, “That’s because we publish it posthumously.”

“You’re trying to kill me before I die?”

“Let’s just say that one of the nicer versions is a hell of a lot shorter than the rest.”

“But it’s not the best,” I say, confirming what I guessed in her averted eyes, “The best version is different.”

“The best version is complicated,” she says, “It’s long.”

“It needs a skilled editor.”

Her eyes flick back to my face and her grip tightens on Shitholes. She opens her mouth to speak when the server interrupts us with my order.

“A steak?” the Editor asks, eyeing the dry slab of meat on the table.

I try to warn her, but a condescending smile already grows across her face.

“Sorry,” I shrug, as the waitstaff descend upon her, “But you know where to find me.”

-traveler

She attacks me in the subway of a city while I try to find ‘The Rat Museum.’ I push her into the path of an oncoming train.

She overturns my rented canoe and pulls me into a lake which is rumored to have flooded a town. With her rope around my neck, I am dragged underwater until I think I see the ghostly buildings of ‘Old Fredericktown’ swimming in the depths, but her lungs give out before mine do. I use her body to jettison me toward the surface.

She chases me through ‘The Bear-Proof Field’ until we each fall to the traps, just a few yards apart, and while I pry the jaws from my leg she rakes the ground with her fingers, stripping her ankle of flesh in an effort to reach me. I leave her to bleed out in the dirt.

The Woman is still limping the next time I see her. She hobbles in front of the bike as I swerve to take a familiar gray road, going well past the posted speed limit. The front wheel strikes her just as the world loses its color and we fly forward together, the heavy frame of the motorcycle spinning back up and over us. There is a moment of weightlessness followed by a good deal of pain.

The world is still gray when consciousness returns. I’ve landed in a ditch, spared serious injury by the thick mud there, churned up by run-off from the snow-capped mountains. The Woman, when I find her, is not so lucky. She is on the side of the road, undoubtedly dying again.

Her bag is at her side and, in it, I find the same objects- a shattered phone, a broken hairbrush, crushed make-up, and a ratty copy of Shitholes. I also find her wallet, tucked away in an inner pocket. I find her ID and recognize the name immediately.

This woman is the editor of ‘Autumn by the Wayside.’

My revelation is cut short by a sudden, sharp pain. The Editor has twisted her body in such a way that she is able to weakly bite the top of the hand that supports me on the asphalt and she takes a piece of me when I pull away, struggling to my feet.

The gray world has shrunk to a small triangle in an attempt to expel us. Its corners have stuck on the bike, the Editor, and myself, but it will collapse soon and we’ll be pressed out somewhere along the side of the highway. I walk to the motorcycle and grip the handles, hoping it will be enough to ensure we end up in the same place. The world shifts until it’s only a gray line that connects me and the dying woman. She sees me, because I am the only thing left in this transient reality to see.

I circle the entry for ‘The Last Sectioned Diner’ in her book and toss it to her without thinking. It lands on her broken ribcage and she curls into a ball and the sight of her pain makes me forget what I had planned on saying.

The last she sees of me is an apologetic grimace and a half-wave.

-traveler

In all of my travels, I have never been to ‘Yellowstone National Park.’ From what I’ve read and from the pictures I’ve seen online, it is a strange and beautiful place. ‘Yellowstone’ is a landscape that boils beneath its surface- a place of scalding, prismatic pools that will dissolve a man’s body in a day. It is a home to wild animals and raging fires, a place to buy expensive souvenirs and to hide one’s irritation at the lack of cell service. It is a completely natural place, and, though the Wayside runs through it, ‘Yellowstone’ is a destination, not a detour. It has no place in Shitholes.

But I am compelled to go, all the same.

How much of this is the magic of the postcard? I tell myself that I am going to meet the woman, to settle this before things get out of hand. I tell myself that I have been travelling so long for this project that it could be a relief to travel somewhere for myself- somewhere made safe by the rangers, with no hidden agendas or gray histories. I tell myself that ‘Yellowstone’ in the autumn will be an experience worth having, and that I have reached a point where I might blend in with crowds again. My hair has grown out. My old injuries have healed over. My teeth are still gapped but I have learned to smile with my mouth closed. I tell myself all of this, but when I look at the speedometer, I see Alice’s pick pointing down any road that will take us in the opposite direction.

She doesn’t trust the Woman. Or she doesn’t trust me.

Have I become an adult somewhere along the way, no longer willing to run from my problems but prepared to face them head-on? Or is it the card that compels me: a volcanic spring in vintage, WPA-style, with the message overlaid: ‘Wish you were here?”

Surely not into the simmering pool itself.

When I reach the gates and pay my entry fee I wonder how she plans to find me in a park so big. I stop for lunch and ask about the specific pool depicted on the postcard. I follow their directions, several miles down the road, and pull up to see it.

And the moment I see it I realize I have no desire to.

The Woman tries to kill me. She leaps out from behind a tree and shoves me into the railing so that all the air leaves my lungs and I double over the inconsequential barrier, smelling the rotten-egg stench of the boiling water below. The Woman shifts backward to push again and I roll out of her grasp, my ribs bruising on the rusted metal. I try to hit her before I see she’s drawn a knife and she slashes me clean through my jacket, a flash of cool pain across my forearm. I run, which she doesn’t seem to expect, and by the time she’s caught on I’m halfway around the pool. She follows me and I run again. She changes direction and I run the opposite way. She throws her knife across the center and it hits the ground behind me handle-first. The water is steadfastly between us.

“What the fuck?” I yell.

It’s more an exclamation than a question but she answers anyway.

“You did this to me!” she screams, “You made me like this!”

The Woman tries to rush me again but the pool is too big. She is screaming and crying now, loud enough that a passing car might hear and stop and sort this all out. We run several more circles before she stoops again and starts to throw rocks at me from across the way, screaming with each stone, screaming with so much force that I think her vocal cords must be tearing, that she must be moments away from throwing-up, from passing out. The stones fly past me, aimed as they are with blind anger. I see my bike behind her, parked at the road. If she runs again, I might be able to break from the circle and reach it in time to drive away.

“NO!” she shrieks, seeing my eyes flick to the road, “No more running!”

She lifts her body over railing and drives herself toward me, splashing into the scalding water. There is plenty of time to run- no chance that she could swim across quick enough to catch me even in tepid water. She boils alive, her face reddening and hair falling out with each angry stroke toward me. She doesn’t make it halfway before her screaming rattles down to a hoarse cough and then sputters out entirely. She floats silently toward me, the chemical pool already loosening her skin.

I step carefully around the water, back toward the road, keeping my eyes locked on her body. I am sure, until I reach the short trail back, that this is some trick. Her bag floats out from under her as I turn to leave, ejecting a hairbrush, a phone, several pieces of make-up, and a book.

‘Autumn by the Wayside: A Guide to America’s Shitholes.’

I am nearly a hundred miles away before I look at the postcard again, realizing too late that there may yet be some magic in it. My fears are unwarranted. Staring at the stylized pool, I know I would rather be anywhere else.

-traveler

‘It is likely by design that the ‘The Postcard Depot’ was built near the geographic center of the contiguous United States and, that, in violation of some soft traveler’s code, it stocks a library of postcards from across the country, available for a quarter each (or five for a dollar) and in seemingly infinite quantity. Among Wayside destinations, ‘The Postcard Depot’ stands out as both cleaner and more strictly organized than most. It is broken into sections by state and then alphabetically, by county, with clear tabs to indicate the popular landmarks one might be pretending to visit.

Conspicuously separate from the others are those that state, in one form or another, ‘Wish You Were Here.’ These are kept in a glass case, available at $250 a piece (or five for $1000), with no indication as to why they might be worth more. They are stiff and new, with crisp white borders and razor-sharp edges. These postcards take the ink of a pen as though thirsty for it.

Those in the know would have you believe that the cards do exactly what they suggest, which is to say that they compel the receiver to the advertised location. The cards are wishes in one form, fickle occult contracts in another- they must be sent through USPS- hand delivery will not do- and there are no guarantees as to when the receiver will heed the call. The only guarantee is that the card will sit with them, a window that overlooks a place far away, and nag until they finally crawl through it.’

By the time I understand the consequences of reading the card, it’s too late. The woman has realized I could outrun her indefinitely and now she’s cornered me with an over-priced souvenir. I should have guessed the moment a mail-carrier arrived at my tent in a dusty cornfield in the middle of the night. I should have guessed the moment I saw my full name written across the back, pressed into the cardstock so that I can feel the indention of it on the other side.

The woman compels me to Yellowstone and I turn myself toward it, somewhat relieved to have her in front of me now, rather than behind.

-traveler

‘Summit County, Ohio is home to ‘Old Towne,’ described as your run-of-the-mill reenactment village by colorful brochures found in motel lobbies of the surrounding region. Pictures inside reveal homesteading women hard at work, churning butter or tending fires that heat their theoretical soups in hanging iron pots. They suggest that, for a small fee, bearded men in stiff flannels will guide you in and around their simple (but sturdy) homes and allow you to take selfies in their simple (but sturdy) chairs, marveling all the while at the complicated (and fragile) ‘magic color box’ you keep in your pocket.

The parking lot of ‘Old Towne’ tells a different story.

The complex is walled off, as one might expect, but the entry gates are permanently closed. The townsfolk sealed them from inside shortly after the 2013 grand opening, during which the reenactors were said to have screamed at the sight of waiting customers in their modern clothes and shining vehicles. These events, and several shouted exchanges over the following hours, remain the last verbal contacts that have been recorded with the people inside ‘Old Towne.’ Transcripts consist mainly of accusations of witchcraft, prayers to God, and desperate threats coupled with the clanging of simple (but sturdy) farm tools. The walls of ‘Old Towne’ are not so thick that they cannot be spoken through and they are not so tall that crumpled letters cannot be thrown overhead, but the reenactors have decided to ignore further attempts to reach them and seem to carry on the illusion of homesteaders living out a miniature apocalypse in a makeshift fortress.

Several theories have emerged in the wake of the ‘Old Towne’ apocalypse, the foremost being that this is all some sort of complex art installation (which would explain why an anonymous entity funds new billboards, prints new flyers, and pays property taxes on the land). It does not explain why no charges were brought against the reenactors when, in July 2017, a woman snuck over the wall with a hand-written guide for their reintegration into modern society and was photographed, several days later, hanging from simple (but sturdy) gallows by a helicopter flyover.

Theories from the furthest fringes would have you believe that the apocalypse truly has befallen ‘Old Towne’ and that we are the doom that manifested in 2013 at the beckoning of some unknown force. The world has certainly grown stranger since then, and we, with out flashing phones and roaring engines, torment them so.’

-excerpt, Autumn by the Wayside

The roads I take become more treacherous- narrow and gravelly or too wide altogether and so busy with other vehicles that I am sure I will be crushed between two well-meaning commuters. I go out of my way going out of my way, often losing myself on dead-end service roads when I could be cruising smoothly down the interstate, wondering what music radiates from towers in the distance. I lose myself trying to lose her.

At first, I wasn’t sure how to feel about the woman that seems to be following me. I thought, maybe, I would be brave enough to face her. She has it all wrong, of course. She writes about the burning of beloved roadside attractions (the strangers, remember?), and the extinction of a species of fern (I am not convinced it did not survive the destruction of the Boone radio station). She writes about the body of a man in a rest stop (I tried to save him) and the near-death of a self-proclaimed witch hunter (who nearly killed me, if memory serves). She mentions a run-in with a predatory shadow (as though cut from dark cloth, crumpled, torn, and stretched) and I admit that it might be my carelessness that let it loose on the world. I had assumed the Black Tailor’s false shadow had died long before it tore free from my socks.

What I mean is that everything could be excused in one way or another if I were to just stop and wait a while and prepare for her to speak her piece. That’s what I intended to do at the next comfortable town: spend a little extra time writing a particularly polished entry while she catches up. But Alice has been acting strange, her pick in the speedometer swinging erratically, taking me in wide circles sometimes, leading me down an off-ramp and then back onto the highway.

“What a shame,” I whispered to myself, “This will make me difficult to follow.”

And, with the thought of her further behind me than ever, there came a great sense of relief.

And then I knew I was running.

‘On a planet inhabited by creatures that can fly, swim, climb, and jump, humanity has historically risen above its terrestrial kin in one physical domain: running. We are not the fastest runners, by any means, but we are certainly the most dedicated, capable of wearing down prey and losing predators over distances their own bodies refuse to endure.

‘The Retrospective on the Human Runner’ should be a celebration of this accomplishment, and it does begin that way, providing peer-reviewed back-pats to the men and women who arrive at the building, dressed in athleisure that reveals the rigid definition of their calves. ‘The Retrospective’ takes a sudden turn at its midpoint, however, and becomes a venue for the owner to air their concerns about the current state of humanity.

‘We are still running,’ he writes under an exhibit featuring a man sitting at a desk, filing his taxes, ‘What are we running from? We cannot outrun the inevitable.’

‘This is running!’ he claims of a scene in a strip club.

‘This is running!’ he claims of a woman paying for coffee.

‘We were not meant to go this far- not yet!’ he says of the International Space Station, orbiting the Earth, ‘It isn’t ready!’

‘The Retrospective on the Human Runner’ should be a short museum and, like many things that go on too long, it leaves the visitor feeling tired and hurt and hardly more capable than they felt when they began.’

It strikes me, upon leaving the ‘The Retrospective,’ that I cannot picture the woman behind me in a car. I cannot see her on a bike, like mine, or with a vehicle of any sort. I have a clear picture in my head of what she might look like, and when I hold that image in my mind, I see her running as well.

-traveler