Maytonsfield, Sernela

In the Sunday Sernela, the county's go-to source of misinformation, it had been made questionably official that Maytonsfield was the most eccentric (to put it politely) village in the area. Apparently, it had been voted as such, but the readers, who skimmed over the pages as a way of taking up time rather than searching relentlessly for things that never happened, thought rather abstractedly: "Oh, I guess I missed that."

But it didn't leave them at any disadvantage in the awareness of their county, as Maytonsfield was, without doubt, a thought-provoking place, or at least it would've been if it wasn't covered by the E of England on curiously every map. And it was all because of one girl.

When she was nine, bright-eyed and curious, seeing everything with a glow of wonder and excitement, the village was a place of joy at every pebbled path and love in every home. The mayoress introduced a ten-foot-tall chocolate fountain in the middle of a public park, never-ending and free for everyone to use (not to mention that the temperature of the chocolate changed perfectly to suit each season). Parents never worked; just played with their children, yet the local economy thrived on what seemed to just be pure happiness.

When she was twelve, things took a turn. People wrote more words in their diary than words that came out of their mouths. The mayoress gave awkward, stuttery speeches, and new libraries opened at an alarming pace. An overwhelming, communal sense of anxiety hung still in the air, impossible to blow away or even to shift slightly using the power of the strongest winds. Everyone worked diligently to distract from the looming pressures or from the crushing paranoia of an empty soul, absolute, indefinite nothingness.

When she hit sixteen, the village was any right-thinking human’s idea of a dystopia. Post apocalyptic? Not quite, but close- the mind of a teenager. Innocent stone cottages had their walls covered in spray-painted slang, tag names and inappropriate things that shan’t be described. Heavy metal boomed from every household; even the village centenarian had two red streaks in what little hair she had left. Bins were set on fire; skateboards were more popular than cars and every so often there was a cry of “It’s not just a phase!” 

But then, as suddenly as the madness of Maytonsfield began, it ended. It’s now a pleasant place to visit, and an even better place to retire. A stereotypical, quiet countryside village. Since then, the girl has been traveling around the world, trying desperately- albeit hopelessly- to see the sights as she saw them online, not as a reflection of her mind.