ALBA IULIA: JOURNEY TO NOWHERE

PROSE BY ALICIA HOCH

There is a beauty in the start of a journey to nowhere. Eyes soft with grief harden with the final decision to wander. Determined souls press their backs against cream walls or opt to rest their anxious legs by sitting in baby blue seats. There is something in the air of this place, a collective purpose, so strong that you can almost hear it in the hum of the electricity running the emergency phone. I am leaving.

This stop has captured the spirits of drifters, each firm footstep imprinted in brick, a message in code only travelers understand. Punctuation is marked with snuffedout cigarettes.

The bus will arrive every two hours; you will be kicked off after three rounds.

This is a home, if only for a few minutes, the last taste of structure before the world whizzes by through tinted windows, painted with streetlight strokes. It is fully furnished. The diamond blocks spelling AUTOGARA take the place of a welcome mat or a “live, laugh, love” sign. A cardboard box, never moved, is a coffee table. A flickering