Going to try something a little different with today's prompt. The plan is to introduce you to a setting and then you guys will have the chance to write something that takes place in that setting. Feel free to completely disregard all other responses and keep your piece self-contained. Or, and I think this would be much more fun and interesting, you can incorporate other takes on the prompt into yours.
I think I might have done something like this before, but there's an added twist this time:
I'm hoping to revisit this setting once a month over the course of this year. So if everything works out (aka, I actually remember to do this every month), today's entries will be the first of twelve set in this locale. I think that if you're able to contribute to the entire dozen it would be pretty cool if all of your entries related to each other in some way. My intention, since my first entry is being spent on the intro, is to have the next eleven connect together.
So what's the locale? A village named: Mejaran.
And what do we know about Mejaran? Well, let me tell you...
As it gently curls its way back and forth across the valley bottom, the unnamed river splits the village of Mejaran in half. The division is geographically perfect, though residents on each side secretly hold on to the belief that their portion of land is slightly - but somehow significantly - larger.
The handful of homes and shops on both banks are of simple design, as the focus of the craftsmen during their hasty construction was on functionality and longevity.
Also: the self-appointed foreman had been born without a creative bone weighing down his undersized body. Unfortunately for those that would come after, none of the men suffering under his withering gaze were foolish enough to suggest a non-utilitarian addition to any of the projects.
In the near century since then little has changed. The villagers have been too preoccupied with carving out a living beneath the impassive eyes of the northern reaches of the Nadaga Mountain Range. Days blended into weeks, which melted into months, which were in turn lost among the passing years.
Rare were their visitors. Rarer still were the villagers who departed with breath still filling their lungs.
But still there was drama and mystery and love and hatred in their lives. Still there were stories and legends and songs worthy of being shared with outsiders.
Outsiders such as ourselves.