Huckleberry
The forest was wide and thick with rough-barked trees. Twitters of birds filled the spaces of silence. Dappled shadows moved upon the ground in a gentle breeze. In the middle of a particularly nondescript clearing was a small, tan cottage. The sun lit it from above at noon, illuminating the mossy green roof and concealing the crumbling sides. In the midday heat, it smelled like candy and damp laundry. A few wildflowers grew on the outside, soaking up the sun at sunrise and sunset from the rosy lavender sky.
The inside was like a dollhouse. The kitchen still had food in the icebox and molasses in the pantry. The dishes were clean and put away and a single glass cup was soaking in water from a water pump on the side of the sink. The kitchen table collected dust and crumbs. The living room had two sofas and a working, out-of-tune piano. The bedroom smelled thickly of mothballs and almost empty except for a single comforter folded at the foot of an empty mattress.
The kitchen door led to a small garden outside. It was mostly weeds, but a few remains of cucumbers, strawberries, and pumpkins fought for their positions in the patch. Impressively sized thistles and dandelions grew in between the rather large orange vegetables in fall, releasing their seeds into the wind. The only remains of a path through the garden were the stone reveled when heavy rains pushed away the soil before the mud pushed it back again.
The garden stopped when the rest of the forest began again. The dappled light spread out across miles of leaves and needles. The thickness of the trees ended at the river, which was dammed later on at the edge of a small town named after the woods: Huckleberry.
Huckleberry had a few houses and generally, the essential businesses. The mill was next to the river, followed closely by the baker, then church, then shoemaker and tailor. On the other side was the smithy and town hall. A rather well used road ran right through it and perpendicular to the river and over a shiny wood bridge. Many people had used that bridge to go to more bustling towns to sell wares and if it weren’t for the amazing talent of the town’s tenants, it wouldn’t have existed. But there was something special about the town and the forest that was its neighbor. Some said it came from the strange house, but others, not quite so naïve, believed it was a secret passed down for generations and perfected for longer than that and those who held such secrets, needed a quiet place like Huckleberry to practice them.
