The history of Ravenwood was long, it had been been founded by Charles Smythe back when him and a group of colonizers had arrived in some territory and had decided that this was as good a place as any to try and figure out living in early America. They had started with the usual colonizer bullshit and didn’t often talk about their travesties. It had been out of the way to the point that they completely missed the early witch hunts. They sent boys to fight in the various wars and remembered what few they could.

The town was located on the ocean but had never quite made it to the point of massive tourist spot. They still got some visitors but they were less than what the shops wanted. The town was large about eight square miles and was about three miles from any other town in the north, south and western directions. There was a great deal of forest and national parks around the town.

It had its usual share of rumors and ghost stories but they never attracted any ghost hunting shows or even a bored Youtuber who might want to make a name for themselves. There was little crime and the police were mostly bored and didn’t do much else besides write speeding tickets and hassle skateboarders.

The kids went to the elementary school until sixth grade and then moved up to the high that was seventh through twelfth grade. There was a main street that had several shops on it. What few speciality restaurants that could keep up with the local fast food joints. There was a eight screen movie theater, an arcade and a few other shops that provided entertainment. There was a smoke shop and diner that shared the same characteristic of continually changing ownership but never changed anything else really. Except for the one set of smoke shop owners that sold overly powerful weed and they eventually left town to find their success in a larger location. The local stoners held a candlelight vigil when that dank kush left.

They were close enough to a train station that people could go to larger cities when they wanted.

The seasons came through in their endless cycles. There was almost always snow at Christmas and the leaves satisfyingly crunched underfoot during autumn. The kids spent their summers at the beach and everyone sneezed their way through spring.

It was a good town. Things worked there. There were people with stories there.

Here they are.

(This is a project I’m going to have going on for when I can’t think of anything to write for fiction Fridays or just in general if the muse takes me.)