a trail that leads to a carnival

The Road Where the Tents Remember

A half-forgotten road threads through the fen like a ribbon pulled from a cheap costume, its boards slick with moss and its edges swallowed by black water. In the distance, lanterns blink through the fog in colors too bright for swamp gas and too steady for fireflies, as if a carnival has pitched its tents just beyond the next bend. The air carries the ghost of sugar, churned mud, and old music heard through canvas walls. Along the trail lie the remnants of those who came before: a wagon sunk to its axles, a torn banner caught in reeds, a child’s painted mask hanging from a willow branch, and a ring of trampled grass around a dead campfire. Something territorial stalks these roads at night, while smaller scavengers nest in the wreckage and strip away anything left unattended. Travelers can sneak along the drier ridges, bargain for help from the few who know the route, force the way through with torch and steel, or turn back before the fog carries them farther than they meant to go.