Vol. 1: The Golden Hills at Twilight

It happened during the summer after she left. I was left with an unbearable emptiness; I was a jar with the last remnants of sweet red jam scraped out and left on the counter to be forgotten. The house was empty, too. The world felt empty. So, I drove. With no idea of where or when I would stop, I drove. Just hit the Highway 2 and headed south. There are few things in this world more solitary than the hills of Highway 2; but the setting sun has a habit of hitting them in just the right way – and they shine in a deep magnificent golden hue with silhouettes of hay bales and barns burning their forgotten mark into the horizon – then it plays with your mind. You feel as if you’re being relieved of the broken pieces of the past that weighed so heavily on your shoulders. The hills carry them away with the light of what was once a scorching, burning heat-filled summer day. Your eyes widen as you drive on, clouds hang mercilessly like glowing red embers fresh out of the fire. The cold air moves through the grass – now dark grey with anticipation of a new night – it produces a sense of helplessness, yet not of hopelessness. there is hope still that the sun will rise once again and paint the hills in majestic copper tones of tall grass leaning against the breeze. There is still hope that the peaceful calm of twilight will remain indefinitely,and cleanse your mind and body. There is still hope that there will be an end to this emptiness that is so tirelessly shunned by the hills beside Highway 2.

And so I drove on. I drove until black shadows overtook the horizon. Until the beams of light protruding from my car could no longer pierce the unsavory darkness of the empty void surrounding it.

There is a town called Nanton, where the world stopped forty years ago. It is a place that has no concept of time. The world outside carries on, pushes forth; but Nanton is trapped in thick molasses. It knows what it is, and what it shall be forever. Sleep drives deep into the mind when in Nanton. “Rest. There is no hurry,” it whispers in your ear. “There will always be another day.”


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