Smokestacks billow clouds of black smoke into the oppressive grey as the Inquisition approaches the edge of a derelict logging town. No words are exchanged between them as they skulk in silence, a sea of wilted crosses sway under dark skies. They seek those who have fallen far from the pale tree. Those who hide will always be found.
Growing up in central Oregon, my friends and I would often go exploring the wilderness that expanded for miles beyond our little neighborhood. We would often stumble upon these old buildings from the late 1900’s hidden away in the mountains, completely withered by the passage of time. They look like half decayed corpses, their splintered windows forming black eyes, staring at you in agony as their skeletons crack and slowly rot into the earth.
I drew upon those feelings a lot when drafting up this logging town - the feeling of stumbling upon a place that seems to not want to be found… but also seems to beckon you in.
BRAE.
