Somewhere, out on the flats, is a church. Or at least: in America it’s a church. Elsewhere it&

Somewhere, out on the flats, is a church. Or at least: in America it’s a church. Elsewhere it’s a temple or a synagogue, a gudwara or a town hall. But in the American South it’s a church, cross shining neon above the doorway.

It’s always been neon, no one questions this.

It’s never in the same place twice, no one questions this either.

The church sits there, walls shiny and pristine white, roof neat grey, cross almost invisible in the day but blinding in the light.

No one questions it.

It travels. You’re driving down a highway: you see it. You’re walking in a park: you see it. You’re flying high above the ground, broom study beneath you: you see it.

There is one similarity between all these people: they need a place to go.

The church isn’t really a church. It’s more like… the idea of a church. A safe place to go, a safe place to find yourself. A safe place to get some rest, to sort things out and think things through. A place for peace, a place for advice. A place to take a moment and be a person. 

They say, time passes differently in these travelling places, that these pieces of folded space are also pieces of folding time, that you can go in one day and leave after three days and find only an hour gone. That you can enter one day, and leave the next, and find you’ve been vanished a whole year.

“’S jus’ the ley lines,” says the preacher. “Jus’ the foldin’ of reality. ‘S all good.”

And in truth: no one lost is ever lost forever, with these travelling places. They just end up a different place to where they meant to go - a different place, but a better one, often.

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