I want to talk, for a moment if I may, about the god of liminal spaces. 

I don’t know his (her/its/their) name; I only recognise him by the sound that emanates from him when he is near: a ringing in the ears, a moan on the wind, silence so complete it becomes its own sound, a piercing train whistle where there is no train readily visible. You know the sounds. 

I don’t know what she looks like, but I recognise her in the way my shadow is sometimes darker than it should be, has eyes when it shouldn’t, the way the trees sometimes watch me, breathless and still as though only her will keeps them tethered to the ground. They vibrate with hunger because the soil of my home (a backwater Texas town) is soaked with the blood of the unavenged, and these tall pines long to silence those bloody voices. 

The road is its main body, its veins that meander and stretch, seemingly endless. I try to keep track of each new road and trail and avoid those I haven’t seen built, especially at night. Has that farm road that leads deep into the woods always been there? No? Who lives down there? Oh the McKinleys? But…i thought they lived on the other side of town…no? But this road was just built. No…it’s always been here? Oh…

Highway rest stops and gas stations are their temples, the spirits trapped there their acolytes. They serve, some trapped in time loops, some actually dead, until they have paid their debt to the god. What deals did they make with the god? How can one know until it’s too late?

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