It was a small town, the type of place where everyone knew everyone. A rural treasure off route 83 in southern Louisiana, just over two hours distance from New Orleans. With a total population never shifting more than 15 digits from 895 people, it wasn’t uncommon for townsfolk to remain within the fifteen mile radius their entire stay on earth. Sure we had the fair share of tourists, after all being on the direct route to the Crescent City had it’s benefits. As a whole, however, Mr. Sanderson was the latest new resident of Funsktonville, having moved into his two bedroom bungalow with his son 16 years ago in ‘07. Late every summer, before school was in, a drive in theatre played some old 90's movie, selling cotton candy and popcorn, a tradition first instituted in the late 1960's by a group of teen best friends, now overjoyed to see their tradition continued. After, everyone would join together around a bonfire to burn a slip of paper concealing their hopes and dreams for the coming year. In the winter, when the crisp wind and festive joy soaked the air, the streets were dressed in ornaments and streamers of white, red and gold shades, laced in long chains of snowflake shaped twinkle lights. A handsome, towering tree would sit in the towncenter, where the ground elevated to a podium, originally built for winning announcements in the October Harvesting Competition. Ten days before Christmas, on December 15, the lucky young winner of the snowflake competition would be lifted high to the heavens, like dozens of young children before, to place the gold laced star at the topmost point of the Christmas tree. The quaint town could’ve been pulled directly from a Hallmark film, the heart of everyone who lived there. Gah, reminiscing truly makes the heart ache, if only it weren’t for fuckin’ 2020, oh how I miss Funkstonville.