My formal party gown quietly scrapes the empty, paved road. Car horns echo in the distance. The scent of years of pollution is heavy and choking. The houses, old and wise are neglected, standing quiet and empty. The mill is gone, burned down in the dead of night, and soon will be forgotten.

I turned a forever familiar corner and my foot meets dusty earth. The sound of horns is gone, replaced by the melody of horse hooves rhythmically hitting the ground. The sweet aroma of fresh untainted air hits my lungs once again. The houses are transformed back to their former glory. The mill is alive once more, the workers moving all around doing their work for the day. This is my home and my prison, for this place is no longer real.

I opened my eyes and I am back. Back to cars and pavement, I was in a different place. A place you know nothing about. You weren’t there. You do not know.

You do not know the sound of the wooden buggy or the proud horse that pulls it. You do not know the men who work in the mill making various items. Nor the children as they run off to school across dirt roads and open fields. You do not see the Supers house as I do. The home that once held grand parties and get-togethers, that was once so full of life.

All you see is the empty broken windows, the untrimmed yards, the unkempt appearance, the skeleton of what was once there. The place I see is forever lost, save the small handful of people who were there to see this place in its prime. You will never fully see or understand the magical feeling that this village gives off.


Now you may be wonder who I am. Who am I? Well I am, much like the former Glendale, a memory. That has long since been forgotten.