14/10/2021
The final wilts of sun would trickle and stretch by their last breaths over the peaks surrounding the Valley, overhangs of clustered grey brushed over the mountains, rolling hills, and sharp slopes of Aernwood. The shadow of night reached forward and consumed splotches of meadow and land, acre by acre, enchanting their windy paths with chilling gales that sent frosty drafts into the City Of Ellesmere. Vail was to take his usual route into town, to run his usual errands, passing by the usual shops that never seemed to dull-- another usual day where nothing had stepped an inch in the direction of peculiar. He thought it perfect, for in my ways, it had been. Beyond the visible reach of the metropolitical horizon, hidden by the bulwarks of evergrowing forest and deterred by the everlasting roads that lead there, the mundane rural thrived calmly by the nine-hundred and eighty-one that sustained it. Unpolluted by the filth of city air, virtually untouched by unethical innovation and ill market, minimal of technology and trends alike, Aernwood was a haven for those uninterested or in the escape of the rapid world. A perfect little town, stripped from a novel or fairytale where each second was detailed with a softness that spoke the crackling of a hearth, the taste of pastry, the texture of a newly opened book. No matter where you were, whether, by the rustic coffee shop on 14th or Grandmother Aines bakery or the Valley bookstore, you were at home. Past the border of the forest and onto one of the four intersecting small-town Main streets of what you could consider the shopping district , the youth had already felt the flowing evening crisp of Ellesmere expand his lungs. Dragged steps laid upon the greyed concrete sidewalks, one of two, that lined either side of the dual-laned coble roads; the boy would bounce a hopping glare from store to store, alongside their large windows showcasing handcrafted specialties-- tailors, trinkets, local business-- and then between the hooked lampposts every twelve feet or so. Wrapped cozily by a coat that seemed a bit larger than his size, Vail would scurry on with a ruffled list of items that had alternated between checked and unchecked boxes, his leather messenger bag swaying and tapping against his back as quietly he’d have read over the indents before coming to the last blank inkling, “Just A typewriter ribbon for Ophelia.” He’d have said briefly under his breath, allowing for his raw umber digits to trail over the increments a final time before reeling his stare back up and proceeding onward into the heart of Ellesmere.
Isa Ul-Hassan
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