by Zachary Belins

Created on: July 15, 2009

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Alone amongst the forest, the antique house was a testament to nineteenth century architecture. The porch was large, as was the custom with most old-fashioned abodes, and creepers crawled up its side and onto its floor. There were small rectangular ruts in the floorboards that indicated the presence of frequently-used wooden rocking chairs. The house itself was a two-story affair, its wooden walls faded with time. The paint was peeling, the windows were showing the fluid nature of glass, and vegetation had grown wild where human hands had not shown care for a long time. In front of the house was an unkempt yard that had long since become part of the forest, the only notable human monuments being two wooden crosses side by side.

A pathway of beaten dirt led up to the porch, showing sprouts of grass and weeds pushing through the clay-like soil. It twined through the forest for about a mile, where it encountered a wider trail of the same composition. It cut from one side of the forest to another, towards the sea and away from it. The end facing the sea fell short by about fifty miles, a plain field of yellow flowers blocking its eternal march. A mile beyond the field was a hamlet full of cozy homes that time had slid by, farmland quilting the land around it.

Among the brick-paved streets, pedestrians meandered about their business. Automobiles were a rarity, though they existed for those that required transport to the "outside world". Most, however, preferred to walk, as the distance between any two points in this small town was within a leisurely range. Children played amongst the legs of their elders, games of running and laughing and pure fun. Two children, however, felt the featherweight of time quickly becoming more burdensome.

Molly and Joe, both twelve years old and looking to the future with a modicum of unease, had lived their entire lives with each other in the small town. They had long been best friends, as faded photographs some twelve years old showed. As was their custom, they sat on the edge of the field, staring at the forest sprawling in front of them. Custom and myth which had snowballed to reverential legend had kept the field of yellow flowers free from not only cultivation, but habitation of any kind. The children and adults avoided it for reasons even they could not understand. Grass waist high, having not been cut in any living human's memory, was all the deterrent

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