T h e T r a i l Vol. 1

A Breadcrumbs Mag Publication #51

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A Note From the Editor

Breadcrumbs Mag is an exercise in motivation and shared inspiration, a chance to create when otherwise your professional life might not give you reason to, an outlet to plant the seeds of an idea and watch where they can go — through your own mind or someone else’s. Each artist showcased here has drawn a phrase, object, or image from an earlier piece and used that to create something entirely new of his or her own. Pieces are published in the order they’re received and include a “…” to link back to the post that the inspiration came from.

We started in February 2015 as a reason for me to consistently write when nothing else had forced me to since completing my undergrad three years ago. But now, it’s so much more than that. It’s a platform on which people from across the world can collaborate with each other in the medium they’re most comfortable in. We’ve received fiction, nonfiction, poetry, spoken word, illustration, and photography, and soon we’ll release even more, such as our first short video. I’m so incredibly proud of how far we’ve come in such a short time, and excited to see where else we can go.

The Trail, Vol. One is a collection of pieces selected from our first 50 publications. It includes three “trails” of content that take inspiration from one another.

Visit us online at: www.BreadcrumbsMag.com

Submit your Breadcrumb here: submissions@breadcrumbsmag.com (be sure to include your name, a short bio, and the number of the piece you drew inspiration from).

*See the back cover for a key explaining where the inspiration for each piece comes from.

-Bob Raymonda

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

SAM TWARDY COVER PAGE

DANIEL TOY 5

DANIELLE VILLANO 9

MARLON CO 12

BOB RAYMONDA 13

SAM TWARDY 16

MADELEINE HARRINGTON 18

BOB RAYMONDA 21

SAM TWARDY TRAIL MAP

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BREADCRUMB #8

DANIEL TOY

B., ~37 y.o.

Case ID: 6-TT9

<Loc> described as “mountain of blue-green glass” by person of interest

B. upon exiting the SomethingShoppe off Singleway 6 on [date last

seen] — though, according to Witness III, who stood ~17 feet from the

SomethingShoppe exit (the last confirmed individual to have seen B., and

who also overheard B.’s aforesaid depiction) noted — later, to be clear

— that “grass” could have been misheard as “glass,” making the <Loc>

in question a “mountain of blue-green grass” and not a “mountain of

blue-green glass” as originally reported. (It should be noted that this small

uncertainty on the part of Witness III unfortunately calls into question the

validity of the phrase in its entirety.)

     SomethingShoppe shopkeeper Scott, former employee of Best Buy *,

reports B. purchasing a brand-new CelPal with in-store activation, which

B. then (again, reportedly) used to audio-comm another individual. (It

was the tail-end of this CelPal comm, re: possible description of <Loc>,

that was overheard by Witness III, who last recalled B. entering her auto

and continuing down Singleway 6.)

A compiled description of B., based on the accounts of Witnesses I,

*Lateral career move calls into question, slightly, the character of

SomethingShoppe shopkeeper Scott.

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II, & III and SomethingShoppe shopkeeper Scott, is as follows (in

subjective and, at times, metaphorical terms): “lean” (WII); “of a copper

complexion,” “delicate,” and “salty, like a beach” (WI)**; “more likely to be

a customer of Best Buy than SomethingShoppe, if you know what I mean”

(SomethingShoppe shopkeeper Scott); “fatigued,” “moved with a reluctant

gait, as if, like, just walking for the second time ever, or something… I felt

kind of like uncomfortable watching, to be honest” (WIII).

      On [date last seen], WI encountered B. in line at the Chop-‘n’-Go

in the city, WI wearing the Team’s standard dress with logo patch on

shoulder, B. to his right, smelling vaguely of the sea, compelling him to

lean inward, which is when he couldn’t help but notice a particular set

of coordinates filling the screen of B.’s old-model ArmPal (which, itself,

was odd to see, on account of those not being popular for years), and

he (thinking, of course, as always, about the <Loc>) became curious, or

paranoid, or suspicious, or some combination of all of those feelings of

B., at which point B., he thinks (see: speculative) glimpsed the Team logo

on his uniform, because then she hurriedly left her place in line (and if

you’ve ever been to that Chop-‘n’-Go you know never to leave your place

in line because wow does it take a mighty minute just to get in the door),

dropped her ArmPal on the cement, it complete-crashing after falling from

her hand (it being a super-old Pal device), and he not wanting to overreact

**Without breaking RSR (Report Style Regulation shorthand) in the official

transcript above by transitioning into a first-person perspective, it should

be noted that the first witness to this case on [date last seen], WI (Witness I

shorthand), is the scribe of this report and the headmost suspector of B. (see:

me)

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[plus also still wanting his Chop-‘n’-Go because it had been him in line

for ~52 minutes, his stomach not stopping noise-making, a definitive

sign he (his body) needed said Chop-‘n’-Go], so he watched B. drive onto

Singleway 6 from inside the Chop-‘n’-Go before (finally) grabbing his

foodstuff and sending a lit- and audio-comm to Team headquarters to be

on high alert for an individual resembling B. heading west on Singleway 6,

this comm resulting in the testimony of Witness II, who happened to have

his AutoPal tuned to pick up all types of alerts (reason unknown) and saw

someone fitting B.’s description getting off at Exit 82 “where, y’know, that

Somethin’Shoppe just, uh, opened up.”***

      After picking up Witness II’s comm identifying approximate location

of B., Witness I stepped into his auto and did the following things in an

order he cannot completely, fully, 100% remember on account of high

levels of stress and a history of panic attacks: a) exceeded 95 mph on S-6

in pursuit of B.; b) grabbed a handful of Chop-‘n’-Go greens and dropped

them into his mouth, three times; c) just in case, tuned the AutoPal from a

song by Geese Geese to his alerts station (which was a shame because he’s

been really getting into Geese Geese); d) nearly hit another auto trying to

merge right to take Exit 82; e) took Exit 82, narrowly.

***At this time, since RSR prohibits editing of any kind, Witness I would like

to add something, on account of he forgetting to mention way above (and

he regrets not already mentioning this) but in the description given of B. by

himself, Witness I, well, he intended to note the pattern of freckles covering a

patch of exposed skin on B.’s back due to the cut of the garment being worn.

Now, as he writes this report, additional almost-forgotten details (like the

lamp-shaped freckle patch) reveal themselves to his conscious mind.

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      He questioned passersby in the area off Exit 82, including, eventually,

Witness III, who directed him to the SomethingShoppe where B. exited

moments before, thus leading him to SomethingShoppe shopkeeper Scott,

a generally unhelpful and unlikable informant. The rest, as dictated way,

way above, is just mountains of blue-green something.

      And so concludes case 6-TT9, another report in a series of reports

re: the <Loc> concluding in “So concludes…” As it wraps up, something

to wonder about is: What would it feel like not to always be retaining

forever this warehouse of information? Another thing: What if B. had

just been on her way to an out-of-town interview for a fancy, stress-free

new job (speculative), or to a tropical getaway on an all-inclusive vacation

(speculative), or even to elope with a beautiful stranger (speculative), and

she needed those coordinates to find her way, so when she accidentally

broke her old Pal outside Chop-’n’-Go on her rush to get there, she had

to buy a new one, for something everyday and lovely and real? But this

report, like the hundreds of others that this scribe has composed regarding

the <Loc>, will become all that’s definitive, because no room exists in this

warehouse-mind for anything else, and there’s no vacancy for finer things,

things like copper skin, or Geese Geese songs, or freckles, or senseless,

simple speculation.

     At this time, the whereabouts of B. — and the <Loc> — remain

unknown.

• • •

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BREADCRUMB #33

DANIELLE VILL ANO

I hear her whispering to dead people, sometimes.

     “Formaldehyde, glutaraldehyde, methanol, ethanol, phenol, and

water. That’s all it is. There’s nothing to worry about, when you think of it

that way.”

     We are working late one night and I finally raise my voice enough to

say: “You are very good at what you do.”

      She hears me but doesn’t respond for a moment, focusing on blending

the complexion hi-lite onto Mrs. Simpson’s cheekbones. 

     “That’s a lot, coming from The Artist,” she says, using the nickname on

my apron, the gag gift from last year’s company Christmas party. 

     We smile at each other over tubs of chemicals and stainless steel

surgical supplies, and my head feels light, and we make the unspoken

decision to go home together. 

     I’d never really noticed how close I lived to work until I walk home

with her. It is quiet aside from the ice crunching under our feet as we take

the 10-minute walk past chiropractor offices and Chinese food restaurants

so warm that the steam from the open door makes clouds in the cold air.

The sky is awash with dark colors, like liquid swirling down the drain.

When we get to my complex I feel embarrassed by the broken front gate,

but she kisses me up against it anyway. Her mouth is slippery, soft. Her

pulse jumps in her throat. We stumble into my apartment, shaking snow

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off our boots. We are surrounded by deadness all day, and now all I can

feel is this: The pressure of her hand on my lower back is a hot iron.

     “So this is where The Artist lives,” she says, and flicks on the

light switch. And then she sort of yelps, because my mother is sitting, like

some sorry old mannequin, at my kitchen table.

     “I couldn’t stay home,” my mother says, looking past The Girl and me,

to a point above our heads. “I saw your father again.”

     My father died three years ago, and every few weeks my mother calls

crying because she saw my inconsiderate father finish off the carton of

milk and leave it empty out on the counter. How she got across town to

my building at this time of night I have no idea, as her knowledge of the

bus system is very limited, and a quick scan of the room comes up empty

for a sight of her purse. My mother is small and shriveled and I suddenly

feel embarrassed for her eyes, which are sunk so comically low in their

sockets. The Girl is looking at me and whispering, Should I go, should I

go, and then my mother finally recognizes her presence and says, “Oh, you

brought a girl home.” And then she breaks down and cries in a way that

reminds me of a little bird left out to freeze.

     “I’m Brianna,” The Girl says in the voice she reserves for dead

people. She walks over to the table and sits down at the chair across from

my mother. I want to say: No, don’t. We do not need to know each other

like this.

     “I work with your son at The Home.”

     I can see my mother taking in the details of The Girl sitting across

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from her. Dyed dark hair, sloppily cut. Kohl-rimmed eyes. The silver ring

in her lip that, some nights, when I lie awake in bed, I imagine grazing

with my teeth.

     “Such a nice girl? Working there?” My mother looks between the two

of us. 

     “I can still make dinner,” The Girl — Brianna — says.

     I lead my mother over to the couch and Brianna rummages through

the cabinets until she finds a can of ravioli. She locates the can opener and

gets to work. The plop of cold pasta into the bottom of the pot makes the

bile rise in my throat, and I am struck dumb by the fact that I can tear

people open and suture them closed day after day and I cannot tolerate

the most mundane of noises.

     My mother says, “It’s so dark.” 

     I tuck a blanket up underneath her quivering chin, and when she shuts

her eyes the resemblance to Mrs. Simpson from earlier is so strong that I

have to lean in close to make sure she is still breathing.

     It is after midnight when I settle into a chair and spoon lukewarm

pasta into my mouth. Brianna licks sauce off of her lip ring. The moon is a

shining steel basin outside the window.

     I want to say: I often catch myself wondering when my mother will

find her way to the embalming table.

     Brianna speaks first. “At this time of night I feel most alive. Don’t you?”

• • •

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BREADCRUMB #23

MARLON CO

• • •

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BREADCRUMB #11

BOB R AYMONDA

Argus wanders the bazaar with purpose, but allows the flow of wealthy

tourists to determine his path. Tent after tent of children’s trinkets and wall

hangings assault his eyes, but none catch his attention. He spends far more

time looking at the merchants themselves rather than the wares they pedal.

She hasn’t yet appeared, but he’s confident she will, even if he has to spend

all day in the upper district.

     Everyone here makes Argus uncomfortable, but he’s convinced the

endgame is worth it. He tries not to pay too much attention to the navy

blue tint of their skin. He even tells himself that the time they spend in the

warm rays of sun will kill them, rather than give them a healthy glow. He

scoffs when he catches hundreds of his own reflection in a tent run by a

straight-backed glass worker. The mirrors scream of his inadequacies, the sky

blue of an underdweller’s skin, the wiry frame of a person who hasn’t had

three square meals a day since before the upper platforms were built.

     “Looking for anything in particular?” the mustachioed steward asks.

Argus shakes his head and wonders what he would look like with facial hair.

The steward rolls his eyes. “If you’re not interested, keep moving.”

     Argus clenches his fist, nails biting into his sweaty palms, but obliges. He

can’t speak up the way he’d like, or one of the robed security guards might

catch his attention. He doesn’t want anyone realizing he shouldn’t be here,

at least not until after he finds her.

     The next tent stops him with the scent of smoking meats. He isn’t sure

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of what most of it is, as the carcasses are headless, but the emptiness of his

stomach doesn’t mind. He points to a skewer of purple cubes and hands

over one of the few banknotes he scrounged together for this trip. The

flavor eludes him; it’s unlike anything he’s ever tasted. Receptors scream

inside his cheeks that he never imagined existing. He lets each bite linger

on his tongue before swallowing, unsure of when he’ll have a delicacy like

this again. Tonight, he’ll dine with his brothers on the many-legged vermin

they’re paid to clear out of Uncle Vernon’s sewer tunnels. It sounds worse

than it actually is, as long as you have the right condiments.

     Argus resumes his ascent into the upper reaches of the bazaar. He climbs

a chain-link ladder hanging from the highest platform to reach the last few

tents. On his trip up, his skewer falls out of his mouth and strikes a child

in the face. Argus is almost to the top of the ladder as he glances down and

watches her aggravated mother alert a yellow robed security guard of his

mistake.

     He hurtles up over the edge and stumbles into the first tent he sees,

knocking over a rack of diamond letter openers. A teenager with a pencil

behind his ear glares at him, but doesn’t move from his place behind the

table, too busy with a sale to fix the toppled rack. Argus takes off running

and bumps into several other angry wanderers. They curse at him in tongues

unfamiliar. A woman in a yellow robe approaches him from below, but there

is no urgency in her movement. He stops dead in his tracks when he sees

what he came here for.

     She is the most elegant creature Argus has ever seen, and he wonders

what she’s doing up here among these rich scum. Her tentacles hang over

her left shoulder and glow the iridescent violet of someone from the western

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reaches. She frequents the bar his sister owns, and up until this moment,

he’s only pined for her from afar. But last night, she’d left behind a satchel,

the one tied to his hip, and he made the trip here determined to speak to

her. He approaches calmly and with caution. He chooses to ignore the

woman in yellow gaining on him.

     Her tent is colorful — there are glass phials filled with orange and green

and purple powders everywhere. Most are corked shut, but the few that are

open smell vaguely of the sea. He yearns to know what’s inside, to share

any common interest with her, but will stick with what he’s got. She smiles

at him, a vague look of recollection on her face. His heart jumps up to his

throat as he inches toward her, unfastening the satchel from his hip and

handing it to her.

     “Thank you so much,” she squeals. “Where have I seen you before? How

did you know this was mine?”

     Before Argus can respond, the woman in the yellow robe appears behind

him. She clutches his shoulder with a gloved hand, and before he can react,

slaps a pair of plasma cuffs on his unsuspecting wrists.

     “Please go about your day, Helena,” the woman in yellow mutters, and

drags him off toward the imposing castle in the clouds. Argus should feel a

crushing wave of despair right now, but he doesn’t. Because even though he

never got to speak to her, she spoke to him, and that’s half the battle.

• • •

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I f y o u d o n o t s t o p d e s t r o y i n g o u r f o r e s t , i n t e r l o p e r, I w i l l b e f o r c e d t o k i l l y o u !

BREADCRUMB #30

SAM TWARDY

17• • •

L i t t l e b r o u g h t h i m m o r e p l e a s u r e o n a S a t u r d a y t h a n d o i n g t h a t w e e k ’ s y a r d w o r k .

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BREADCRUMB #27

MADELEINE HARRINGTON

The delivery men propped me against the wall. You left me there for hours,

and I looked out your very small window and pretended to be artwork. You

paced the room and sized me up. Finally, you took me off the wall and

climbed on top of me. You were nervous and stretched your limbs with

well-practiced hesitancy. You’re afraid of settling I’ve learned; you like

the idea of it but there’s something that keeps you from fully giving in to

gravity. You change positions frequently, every seven and a half minutes in

fact, even in your deepest sleeps, so that your silhouette never has time for

significant indentations. That night, you lay on top of me and we examined

the cracks and rivers in the ceiling. While I hardly fit in that room and

you covered me with a shiny red sleeping bag, those were my favorite days

with you. It was just the two of us, staying up late, bracing for the infinite,

daunting future.

     You never gave me a frame, so there was always a strange, sinking dance

between you and your guests. Kissing while descending is difficult, I’ve

realized. It requires a silent synchronicity, a certain level of trust; otherwise it

just looks wrong, like two people drowning.

     The first guest was too tall for me. His feet dangled over my edge, and

in his sleep he struggled to tuck them into the sheets. Your bodies didn’t

always align, but you put in the effort. He smelled sometimes and made you

angry, but he changed the lightbulbs and stayed around for a while. And the

cadence of your voices together felt low and comfortable, like the tune to

the theme song of a television show that you used to love.

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     You painted your walls sea green and it spilled all over me. You

worked well into the night and fell asleep on the couch, leaving me alone

with my stains to settle. The second and third guests alternated into

the summer. When they tried to hold you, you complained about the

heat. When your ex-boyfriend visited, you fucked aggressively and woke up

periodically. The sheets came off my edges, the red sleeping bag kicked to

the corner. When he left, you entered me like I was a warm bath, put the

sheets over your head, and lay so still that I started to worry. Eventually,

though, I began to hear the unmistakable vibrations of weeping. You cried

always with your face smothered by pillows, your body like a crescent moon.

     You welcomed the fourth and fifth guests with ambivalent embraces.

I stopped counting the amount of times you went to the bathroom

throughout the night. You kept things inside of me — a hairbrush, a book,

Altoids, a museum brochure — that were better suited for your shelves. It

was because you were lazy partially, but I could tell that you liked it

— having all your possessions within reach, floating amongst you on your

island.

     The sixth and seventh guests didn’t even spend the night. I woke up

once at 4 a.m. to see a mouse watching us. I will never understand why

humans fear these animals so much, but I’ve also learned that nearly all

your emotions are disproportional. You hung artwork, posters, newspaper

clippings that arrived and vanished with their relevance and your

boredom. The mouse lived with us for weeks and you slept through all of

its appearances. You had a boyfriend. You bought a comforter, wrapped

me into it with meticulous affection, and stuffed the red sleeping bag deep

into the closet. When the mouse was finally gone, I felt guilty, like I had

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a secret from you. You had a breakup and hid inside of me. You drooled

and flinched from nightmares. You found another boyfriend and together

you painted the walls back to white, and the smell and general chaos of the

room kept all of us up late. 

     We moved: more natural light, a larger room, an optimistic outlook. You

had another breakup and repositioned me to face the door. We fell asleep

to the cadence of your weeping and woke up early from fitful, incomplete

sleeps. You never got around to buying curtains, and on good days, the light

touched every object you owned with firm persistence.

     One morning, you woke up and something felt different. Your limbs

felt heavier, your breathing rhythmic and void of restlessness, and I could

tell you were realizing just how alone you really were. And as the sunlight

crawled across the floorboards and sloped along every surface, I felt a sense

of sheepish excitement; it was just the two of us again, examining a crack in

the wall, bracing for the day.

• • •

21

BREADCRUMB #16

BOB R AYMONDA

i

The tallest spire was nestled in the middle of a welcoming forest. It was

at the epicenter of a vast network of tree dwellings, each covered in

stained glass windows of varying shapes and sizes. Wary eyes peeked out

from each building at the dense underbrush, and a collective fear was felt

amongst them. A menacing figure was in their midst, one unlike anything

they had ever seen. A hairy, ineffectual beast that brought with it a giant

weapon of motorized destruction.

     The smoke that emitted from its weapon made the tree-people’s noses

scrunch up and tickled their throats. Its loud noises filled their ears with

pain, and their hearts with dismay. But these weren’t even the worst of its

offenses against their community. It used this weapon to shear the grass that

they used to weave their clothing and stuff their pillows — collecting it for

some nefarious purpose unknown to them.

     Ike, the sheriff and resident protector of the woodland community, was

the first to speak out. He left the safety of his spire and yelled to the beast

from its wooden drawbridge. “Who are you, interloper? And how dare you

disrupt our Sunday gathering?”

     The beast lumbered on, a combination of scraggly hair and earth-stained

metal tearing through their most precious resource. It obviously hadn’t

heard Ike’s voice, though not for his lack of trying. He spoke louder on his

second attempt: “I said, who are you, interloper?”

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     The beast briefly acknowledged Ike on this attempt, but made no move

to stop his destruction of their beloved lands. Ike re-entered the spire and

looked at his cowering countrymen. “Brothers, sisters, I promise you, I will

vanquish this interloper. Does anyone care to join me?”

     Apprehensive looks were all that met Ike’s challenge. He left the spire

again and descended to the forest floor and the beast before him. Looking

at its back, Ike raised his loaded slingshot, armed with the largest rock

he could find. He demanded, “If you do not stop destroying our forest,

interloper, I will be forced to kill you!”

ii

Gregory was a quiet, sensitive man who preferred to keep to himself. Little

brought him more pleasure on a Saturday than doing that week’s yard work.

Today’s chore was mowing and edging the lawn. He donned his giant noise-

canceling headphones, turned on a little bit of Fleetwood Mac, and basked

in the warm afternoon sun. He used his lawn mower to create calculated

lines up and down his front yard. The smell of freshly cut grass filled his

nose, and he couldn’t help but smile — nothing satisfied him more than

tending to overlong grass with a focused precision that no one else in his

family quite understood. 

     By the time the front was finished and it was time to tend to the back,

Gregory’s body was covered in sweat. In the privacy of his fenced-in yard,

he tossed his shirt onto the deck and continued topless and free. He was

vaguely aware of his stepson Isaac’s presence in the treehouse the boy’s father

had built for him before dying, but decided to leave him be. He knew that

if he gave the boy enough space, and left a small ring of overgrown grass at

23

the tree line, the two would have no issue.

     Unlike the front yard, Gregory made a perimeter around his backyard

while mowing, happiest as the square shrank with each passing lap.

Everything was going smoothly until the mower ran over a large stick that

jammed its blades. As he turned it off, his headphones blared louder than

he was ready for, and he scrambled to unplug them from the device in his

pocket. In the same moment, a rock caught him on the back of the neck.

He let out an exasperated yelp and turned around to find its source. When

he did, he was met face-to-face with his young stepson. “Isaac, what the

hell?”

     The boy stared at him indignantly and shouted, “I said die, interloper!”

iii

Ike readied his slingshot for a second attack. The beast acknowledged him

now, and while it didn’t entirely back down, it did briefly pause its attack on

the woodland community’s precious grass. “Interloper, I banish you from

these lands, cultivated by my father and his father before him. Back away

now and leave with your life, but continue your destruction and face my

wrath!”

     The beast grumbled angrily at Ike, but surrendered. It lumbered off to

a cave in the distance, with a look of obvious defeat as it skulked away. In

leaving, it abandoned its weapon of mass destruction and the grass had

gathered in the time before Ike’s brave resistance. As soon as he was sure

the beast was gone, Ike tore into innards of its weapon and ran his fingers

through the destroyed grass. He may not have been able to save it all, but he

prevented total devastation. 

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     Ike stood and faced the onlookers cowering in his woodland community.

He rubbed the mulch from the destroyed grass on his cheeks like a warrior’s

face paint, and raised his fists high above him in a victorious salute. Their

community would live to see the light of another day.

• • •

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#1 -100 CONTRIBUTOR L IST

BOB R AYMONDA MATT ALEXANDER KIM DIETZ V I ANDALL AS RICO TOM DARIN L ISKEYDANIEL TOY COLIN RICHARD JAMESJEN WINSTON JULIA ROBINSONANNA P ICAGLI SAMANTHA JACKSL ANDTR AVIS SAMUEL R ACHEL DREIMILLERBRYAN GAMBLE ROSS KNAPPKRIZTILE JUNIO SCARLET GOMEZMARLON CO CHRISTINE STODDARDJOSH RUBINO JOANNA C . VALENTEADAM R AYMONDA JD DEHARTWENDY O ’SULLIVAN KATIE NAUMMADELEINE HARRIGTON BARB ROSINSKI BENINCASADAN POORMAN SHELBY LEWISSAM TWARDY ANDREW MARINACCIOCHRISTINA MANOL ATOS MEREDITH C . JONESDANIELLE VILL ANO BRITTANY ANN COOLAMY CREHORE JESSICA SCHNEIDERPETER SCHR ANZ STELL A PADNOS -SHEADANIEL GRJONKO RUSS COPE@333333333433333 STACY SKOLNIKCHRISTIE DONATO BRITTANY DIGIACOMOMICHELLE HAMMER RYAN EVANSGER ARD SARNAT D .C . WILTSHIRERUSS BICKERSTAFF JOSH KRIGMANROBIN WYATT DUNN EVAN CARDONAKATIE LEWINGTON V INCENT PERRETTAFREDDIE MOORE CHRISTA BRENNANR ACHEL HAUER KEVIN ALEXANDERKYLE CANGILL A T YLER NAUGLE

Breadcrumbs Mag Is:

BOB RAYMONDA | Founding Editor. He wars over dominance with his cat.

DANIEL TOY | Content Editor & Social Media Manager. He eats chicken.

SAM T WARDY | Graphic Designer & Layout Editor. Baby animal enthusiast

ADAM RAYMONDA | Producer & Audio Engineer. Is pretty fond of sounds.

T r a i l M a p

Trail 1

Trail 2

Trail 3

#8

#11#23

#16

#30#33

#27

#51