Stillbridge – Episode 2: The Potluck on the Common

Early autumn stretched lazily over Stillbridge, sunlight draping the town common in a
honeyed warmth that hinted at cooler nights. Leaves rustled in the breeze, carrying
the faint scent of apples and damp grass. It was the perfect day for the annual
all-church potluck, and the common buzzed with the gentle chaos of a well-loved
festival.

Reverend Hastings stood near the gazebo like a general surveying his troops,
clipboard in hand, nodding at tables heaped with casseroles, pies, and salads. Pastor
Vogel fussed over her Lutheran garden centerpiece, adjusting stems with precise
care, while Father Alvarez oversaw the pie contest with the vigilance of a general,
muttering about “custard ratios” and “crust integrity.”

Townspeople arrived in a steady flow. June Parker brought her famous cinnamon rolls
and a firm opinion on toast times. Roy flipped burgers with quiet patience. Walt
Higgins leaned against the hardware store counter, retelling the story of the potluck in
’72 when the beans caught fire. Miss Clarity Finch floated among the tables, offering
small suggestions no one asked for but everyone secretly needed.

Then there were the sticky buns—thick, golden, and dripping with caramel—from the
Stillbridge Inn bake shop. Even the most disciplined townsfolk circled back for “just
one more” until fingers were tacky and the air smelled of cinnamon and vanilla.

At the duck pond, the teenagers gathered, cheeks flushed with warm days and
mischief. Tommy and Ellie had floated a hollow pumpkin toward the ducks. A startled
mallard flapped indignantly, splashing water toward them. “Hey, easy, we’re
unarmed!” Tommy laughed, holding up his hands. The duck quacked once, as if
unimpressed, then paddled off with regal disdain. “He’s got attitude,” Ellie said.
“Probably Methodist,” Tommy replied.

Back on the common, a small bonfire crackled as dusk settled in, sending the scent of
woodsmoke curling above the lanterns. Children chased fireflies between tables; older
folks lingered over the last bites of pie, trading gossip and gentle grievances. The
teens drifted back from the pond, damp-shinned and laughing, drawn by the fire’s
warmth and the promise of leftover sticky buns.

As the sky deepened to violet and the first stars blinked awake, the town grew quiet in
that contented way Stillbridge often does—after the talking’s done and the dishes are
packed and everyone’s just listening to the crackle of the fire and the ducks
murmuring by the pond.

And in that soft, sticky, slightly smoky moment, life felt right enough. The beans might
have spilled, the pumpkin floated crooked, and someone had definitely hidden a sticky
bun under a hat, but no one minded. Because this is Stillbridge—where the nights
come early, the gossip comes gentle, and the ducks always win in the end.