Persimmon and petrichor permeated the atmosphere in the small Ozark village. The inhabitants were hidden from the world by a series of natural defenses: a large forest, steep mountains, and treacherous poison oak and ivy. Gardens abounded in the natural river valley, cultivated by the peculiar villagers. Everywhere an observer looked wheat, beans, legumes, fruit trees, berry bushes, root vegetables, and more could be seen. The little place was Eden in the middle of Arkansas, a paradise lost in time.
The people who lived in the village wore simple, timeless garb: trousers, collared shirts, blouses, fitted jackets with pearl buttons, long and short skirts. Everything both easily fashionable and easily made. Shod in sandals and boots, leather and wood were the primary sources for the village cobbler. The men were both shaven and unshaven, the women wore their hair long and short; the strangest sight among them was the absence of grey hair. Children abounded in the village, clamoring for each other’s attentions, running everywhere, always muddy or covered in dirt, joyful, playful, happy.
It looked like utopia. It smelled like home. It felt like paradise. Its name was Infernos.