Lochby

On the edge of Arizona, was a lively, little town filled with youth, old souls, and memories. In the summer, the water that was once dried out, would burst out of the Earth, as if had been waiting all this time. The sporadic wind would break the silence of not yet commenced conversations. Trees, bushes, and cacti had all blossomed the past season and were ready to wither. The dusty sand became less so as the kids scurried from lake to land. The heat burned anyone who wasn't prepared for Arizona's summer weather. It was a beautiful time of year. Each summer was special, especially this one. This town assumed the name Lochby.

The population of Lochby was 245 citizens whose lives belonged to this town. Anyone who was born here stayed in Lochby. Anyone who had moved here stayed in Lochby. No one left because no one wanted to. This town had everything any other town needed and didn't have what they needed to rid themselves of. Callousness. Animosity. Greed. In Lochby, there were no complications, no altercations, no miscommunications.

On the outskirts of the town were farms that the town shared as a community. In the center, a town hall, that hosted meetings every other Tuesday. To the east, a congregation of lovely residents, in their identical homes, were enjoying their air-conditioned rooms. To the west were the local shops and markets that always seemed to have what you were looking for. But everything had changed drastically overnight.