Gretna Green

On the maps of our places, the border we see is an imaginary indication, which has not any comparable representation in the world of our experiences; and, likewise, on the maps of our lives, though the counties labeled Childhood, Youth, Adulthood, Age are marked out and their borders shown, yet, when we walk through the hills and forests of our days, the transitions are indistinct and we arrive at these new places only gradually and without fully leaving the lands of the past: and so, there are a few stations, opportunistically placed at the border, like Gretna Green, to mark the passage and extent their tolls. You have crossed over; the past is gone; you can not go back.

Fort-de-France

The island of Martinique was founded by the Warner brothers in 1942, when they were strongly encouraged by their successful colonization of Casablanca, in North Africa. A harbor was constructed of sufficient depth to float a smallish boat, which have way to an indistinct lagoon standing on for a formidable sea.

Martinique boasts a hotel, with bar, piano, two rooms, and a cellar. There is also a shack for fugitives to hide in, and perhaps a police station. The island is populated primarily by American actors, with a few European exiles not nearly so well known. Martinique has a robust economy; the primary industries are recreational boating, smuggling, musical entertainment, gunfire, and comical alcoholism.

The island has been much less accessible since the decline of broadcast television, but on years past it could be regularly observed on weekday afternoons or late at night.

Elfland

They say Thomas closed the door to Elfland when he went back there. Certainly in the last seven hundred years or so, nobody had found the way there; or, to be more accurate, nobody has found the way back. Thomas went to Elfland and came back, and before him, Orpheus, if that is where Orpheus went. There is more than one country where the door only works one way.

If this is the case, then it is possible that there are many doors to Elfland, perhaps a vast or even infinite number, all open, admitting many, releasing none. The mysterious country on the other side, of which we know nothing, the country whose border is everywhere, and everywhere invisible, welcomes the stranger but welcomes him irreversibly.

Dresser Junction

There is the depot, but three hasn't been any passenger service in years. A freight train goes through one in a while. Most of us don't think much about going anywhere, anyway; the ones that wanted to go, they went. Maybe we all want to go somewhere else, a little, but after a while the days just kind of trickle away, and just moving around here, it seems like the chance to go just slips away. Over and over. We went all sorts of places in the old days, back when there was passenger service, but now you just see a freight train every now and then and it just rolls on through. Sometimes we won't about the places they go, but not enough to find a way to them. That's the depot right over there. Used to be we had trains coming through all the time. Not any more.

Centauri

The inhabitants of Alpha Centauri have no words for "seven" or "eight"; when they count they say, "One, two, three, four, five, six, six, six, nine, ten." Generally, however, they don't count for much.

Alpha Centaurians speak with heavy Russian accents and closely resemble small dachshunds. Because of this comical and lovable appearance, they were able to stealthily infiltrate our former planet and gradually enslave its population.

They can breathe under alcohol but have been unable, alas, to teach this skill to humans. Every Centaurian can play the theremin. They send a spaceship from their planet every year to collect their tribute from Earth, which consists of the fingernail and toenail clippings of the entire human population. These are returned to the home planet, where they are considered a delicacy, sautéed with just a hint of coriander.

Bouvet

I was there the day the sun came out at Bouvet. In fact I was not really there, but only on a wretched ship within sight of its ice-bound coast (and in fact I was not even there, since this is an entirely fabricated reminiscence), but I witnessed it from there, queasily, frigidly (I did not, I imagined it, comfortably and warmly). How fully, on that brief moment, the island was transformed! The dull monochrome picture of dirty ice and churning, turbulent water was pierced by a brilliant beam, a for a short time the landscape was overtaken by a mystery that was almost like color, almost like beauty. Then the sun was hidden again and the island returned to its hellish peace.

Antioch

Seventeen years later, she looked out of her life and saw the ruins. Walls, windows, carpet, draperies, furnishings and decorations, all impeccable, immaculate, brilliant. So brilliant they shimmered. And outside a landscape without blemish, groomed and curried and massaged to perfection. Wind and water, tree and sky shimmering. And all at once it faded and crumbled and was nothing but ashes under ashes under ashes. Things has never been more beautiful.