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Weekly Contest #300
The orchard was not on any official map, though everyone in the village knew where it was. Tucked behind the old granary and the crumbling limestone walls of the Darrin estate, it sprawled for acres, more wild than tended. The trees bore no fruit anyone recognized. Their trunks leaned in odd directions, like dancers caught mid-turn, and their leaves hummed softly in the wind—though no one could agree on the tune. The orchard had belonged, once, to the town’s mapmaker. That’s what the oldest villagers said, anyway, their voices lowering at ...
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