The Saires of Willtucket
This little unfandomed piece came to me whole at 2am. In my head, this is an excerpt from the [nonexistent] Encyclopaedia of Forgotten Places. This will hopefully be the first of many.
254 Words, PG for kinda creepy
Every year, right around the end of August, when the days are stickiest and the dust comes up and the cool ocean breeze is nothing but a pathetic memory, the saires return to Willtucket. They come in their giant flocks - one week some old timer in the diner will be saying something about how it's getting' on that time again, and the next, the trees are full and the air is filled with their shrill crackles. Used to be there was a festival every year to celebrate the saires' return, where the kid to spot the first saire of the year got crowned Saire-King or -Queen, and people ate kettle corn and fried thing on a stick and entered their pies and jams and quilts to be judged. And, for a while, they forgot the heat and the dust and the way no one sleeps the week the saires get back (and the ones that do, who never get that crackling out of their heads). Used to be Willtucket was a real place. But now the kids move away as soon as they hit eighteen, to the city for work, away from a podunk little town with no opportunities, with no nightlife, with monsters roosting in the trees. Every year, Willtucket sinks a little farther into oblivion, as the old timers die off and the weeds push through cracks in the sidewalk in front of the drugstore. But the saires still return, every August, without fail. And every year, the flock is just a little bit...bigger.
254 Words, PG for kinda creepy
Every year, right around the end of August, when the days are stickiest and the dust comes up and the cool ocean breeze is nothing but a pathetic memory, the saires return to Willtucket. They come in their giant flocks - one week some old timer in the diner will be saying something about how it's getting' on that time again, and the next, the trees are full and the air is filled with their shrill crackles. Used to be there was a festival every year to celebrate the saires' return, where the kid to spot the first saire of the year got crowned Saire-King or -Queen, and people ate kettle corn and fried thing on a stick and entered their pies and jams and quilts to be judged. And, for a while, they forgot the heat and the dust and the way no one sleeps the week the saires get back (and the ones that do, who never get that crackling out of their heads). Used to be Willtucket was a real place. But now the kids move away as soon as they hit eighteen, to the city for work, away from a podunk little town with no opportunities, with no nightlife, with monsters roosting in the trees. Every year, Willtucket sinks a little farther into oblivion, as the old timers die off and the weeds push through cracks in the sidewalk in front of the drugstore. But the saires still return, every August, without fail. And every year, the flock is just a little bit...bigger.