It was a place born of contradiction and subjected constantly to the question of "which came first, the highway exit or the town around it?" to which the answer was generally that they both arrived at the same time, both needing the other to survive. This answer was the basis behind their town's founders who were revered with an almost religious fervour - Margarita and Imelda, the conjoined sisters whose symbiotic relationship was the truest representation of the town they founded.
Their existence was speculation, their words alleged and their home a museum that was only visited by people who passed through and even then they only ever went there once. No matter how many times a single person passed through, stopping for gas and food, they never went to the museum twice for reasons they never talked about, not quite comprehending why they ever went to begin with.
It was once a unique little place full of quaint cafés and bistros from the migrants who'd come to call it their home, now a conglomeration of corporations all vying and shoving for the attentions of anyone willing to shove a few coins in exchange for their mass produced goods. The original settlers adapted from craftsmen to salesmen, gradually forgetting their handmade wonders for words that paid them better.
Nobody seemed to live in the town, there were no houses and the shops weren't spacious enough for beds to be in place too. Even the hotels were full of guests, never the townsfolk. It was debated as to whether or not anyone was a local to the town or if they'd been driven into the mountainous wilds to form their own homes while giving up their land to bigger names.
Some say the town was never a home, only a stop. The rumours all call this true and go further to claim that the people only exist as long as there is someone new arriving in the town to interact with them. A kind of ghost if you will, the sort that can only survive as long as they are known in the present, known as a living breathing person who just sold you a soda that you'd never heard of before. Not something super unusual but just unusual enough that you talk about them every now and then, keeping them alive for another day.
Their existence was speculation, their words alleged and their home a museum that was only visited by people who passed through and even then they only ever went there once. No matter how many times a single person passed through, stopping for gas and food, they never went to the museum twice for reasons they never talked about, not quite comprehending why they ever went to begin with.
It was once a unique little place full of quaint cafés and bistros from the migrants who'd come to call it their home, now a conglomeration of corporations all vying and shoving for the attentions of anyone willing to shove a few coins in exchange for their mass produced goods. The original settlers adapted from craftsmen to salesmen, gradually forgetting their handmade wonders for words that paid them better.
Nobody seemed to live in the town, there were no houses and the shops weren't spacious enough for beds to be in place too. Even the hotels were full of guests, never the townsfolk. It was debated as to whether or not anyone was a local to the town or if they'd been driven into the mountainous wilds to form their own homes while giving up their land to bigger names.
Some say the town was never a home, only a stop. The rumours all call this true and go further to claim that the people only exist as long as there is someone new arriving in the town to interact with them. A kind of ghost if you will, the sort that can only survive as long as they are known in the present, known as a living breathing person who just sold you a soda that you'd never heard of before. Not something super unusual but just unusual enough that you talk about them every now and then, keeping them alive for another day.
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