Even with the madness that America seemed incapable of escaping, there sat a town who liked to pretend perfection. It bore the rather stupid name of Schoozle Town - named after its founder, so it was said - while simultaneously acting as though it were the most sensible place to be. The suburban town lay nestled within the heart of an oak forest, and to the odd observer, it felt as if the town had simply been dropped haphazardly into place, but there was indeed a history behind all the strangeness in the details. Were one to travel down the street of By and By, and pass by the manicured, green lawns and white picket fences, the pale shades of off-white and pale grey two-story houses, and the general utopian feel of the town, one would find an ancient and scarred oak tree whose portly trunk stood pierced by the steel blade of an ax.
As according to folklore, Schoozle Town had once been a very rapidly expanding town. Spreading from a single, white-walled house, each house around it had a kind of resemblance that many residents thought of as unifying, and more and more houses were built around it in its image. Similarly, the more houses there were, the more trees were cut to make room. One day, a man went to the edges of town with an ax in hand and a mind whirring with thoughts of settling himself a nice family in a house he'd build himself. This would never be. He disappeared that day, leaving behind his tool dug firmly into the ancient wood of the oak tree. The people of Schoozle Town gathered around, puzzled, and inscribed upon the birch handle, the single word NEVER read clear across. It was decided that day - or so it is said - that not another house or structure was ever built again.
Yet, this is not where the road ends; simply, it is merely where the story begins. Out yonder, at the very end of the street of By and By, there is said to be the house of Never - an abandoned house, whose origins are unknown and occupants an even bigger mystery. The house is like no other in the town of Schoozle. It is a rounded-corner structure with two stories and a subterranean basement. The walls are robin-egg blue, whilst the window sills and hand-carved door are bright red. A dilapidated fence surrounds the property, bordering a flourishing garden of the most beautiful sort. Year-round, a wide variety of flowers bloom; daffodils and snowdrops in spring, roses and sunflowers in summertime, pumpkin flowers in fall, and a range of hardy flowers in winter. Vegetables and fruits spring from neat beds of plowed earth, neatly trimmed bushes pop here and there, and beneath their shade grow plump mushrooms, gathering around the feet of a lone garden gnome. A clear pond ripples with lilies and small fish. Nearly swallowed by ivy, a bird feeder fends off the green tendrils to spill dry seed to finches and swallows alike. Below, a still birdbath reflects the dappled forest canopy.
For many years, the residents paid the house no heed. It was a myth, a legend, a fable, a bed-time story; above all, it was different, and within the close-knit community, diversity was a foreign word not to be tolerated. All this changed when a new family moved into the sleepy town. With the stresses of moving weighing heavily upon him, the newlywed Arthur Kirkland took it upon himself to have a wander about the stillness, the peace, the calm of the world he would soon come to know as home. On this day, he walked decidedly west, taking careful note of the road sign that read: The Street of By and By. Inevitably, Arthur did indeed come across a sturdy tree marred by deep hack of a single, hefty stroke of an ax.
"Never," he mused aloud, pondering the word curiously. He looked beyond the mighty oak, feeling chill in the springtime air. In his mind, he turned over an old phrase he'd once heard, and began to walk. Down the street of by and by... you will reach the house of never.