wither
Find Brittni Garms I never liked seeing the train house so sad all the time. It was the one thing that kept me coming back. — It was 2007 when I first passed through Ijamsville. I just got my license and I was driving back from a local cafe with homemade brews. I was there because they had a new flavor to celebrate the end of winter, so, of course, I had to get my dirty hands on it. My rusty, used car had a hard time faring over the unpaved, makeshift road that led to the small town of Ijamsville. I never knew the town existed until I drove through it. I wasn’t at its heart, but I could see a small row of houses, some old and some new, in the distance. Right before them was a railroad. I groaned as the conveniently-timed railroad crossing gates closed and I slowed to a stop. I put my car into park; I was going to be here for a while. Lazily, I pulled the lever to make the chair seat go back and I relaxed. I tapped my feet on the dashboard and folded my arms as I watched the freight train go by. I flipped my phone to check for any messages. I had none. What was I expecting? The train tore my attention from my empty inbox with a loud whistle. I groaned again. Just then, as if God actually heard me, the last train car passed me by and the gates let up. As I reached to put my car into drive, my eyes followed the white and red gates
to the right. I left my hand hanging in midair. I was caught having a face-off with an old, ugly, red brick building. It appeared to have two floors, but there was no glass in the windows. Half of it was collapsed, probably from years of rain and earthquakes. The gates lifted all the way up, and I put my car in drive but pulled off to the side of the road to investigate. I grabbed my bag, left the car, and locked it. Stepping on bricks, I observed the lonely little structure. Inside, the floor was overgrown with brown grass and covered in scattered clay bricks. Above me were exposed wooden beams which were green with age and looked as if they would melt off the ceiling. The top floor was slanted downwards in my direction, like a frown of disappointment. I backed up to see more of the second floor, but it was completely devoid of anything besides rotting wood and crumbling bricks. Despite all the red, the building was empty of color; I felt the need to add some. Reaching into my bag, I pulled out a can of green spray paint. My eyes sneakily crept through every empty window and I put my hood over my head to block my eyes. I shook the can eagerly and decided I would write something to literally make my mark on history and the fully intact brick wall. I sprayed on: EM WAS HERE I smirked at my creation and made
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