A picture says a thousand words. Write them.
Mission: Write a story, a description, a poem, a metaphor, a commentary, or a critique about this picture. Write something about this picture.
Be sure to tag writeworld in your block!
08 - 414.
The house in the center of the village is, in a word, curious.
"Curious," Mrs. Flowers of Flowers’ Emporium of Curios and Knickknacks remarks, snipping a lilac from her flowerbed to arrange in an exact replica of a 6th century red Byzantine glass vase. "The house is curious."
"No, not the house," Mr. Hormel of the village Butcher Shop says, bringing his cleaver down across a leg of lamb so hard that the blade sticks in the board. "It’s the people. They are - curious. They seldom go out in the day and even less seldom go out at night."
"There’s four of them, I believe," Miss Emerson, the village gossip, says, thumbing the rim of her straw hat. "I’ve seen it, you know, though I’m not quite looking for it, of course, but one does happen to catch a glance every once in a while out her window. The shadows, I mean. There are no windows on the bottom floor, but you can see them congregating upstairs by candlelight. Four shadows. Puttering around until long past midnight and then the candle goes out.” She’s breathless by the end of the sentence, takes a measured pause before finishing. “One really cannot know what they are doing up there all day until so late at night. The four of them, so curious.”
"I simply don’t know what they do for a living," Ms. Harmon, the village spinster, tsks, beady eyes set on her needlepoint. "They’ve a street stall set up right outside their front door but there’s never any business."
"Five," little Melissa Burton, the dentist’s daughter, whispers with wide eyes and gleaming silver teeth. There are warship explosions overhead and she ducks her head under the desk until the shudders die down before peeking her head out once more. "There are five people living in the house in the center of the village."
"Five? Miss Emerson said there are four," you say gently, ignoring the second tremor and the debris falling from the ceiling, scattering across desktops.
"Miss Emerson likes to believe that she knows everything about everything," Melissa sniffs, shooting you an obvious look of displeasure. "But I know the truth. There are five.”
"But the shadows."
"You can’t very well see the shadow of a child.”
Then the question that very well should have come first, that would have come first had Melissa not been a child herself (a constant victim of adult-skepticism). “How do you know?”
"I’ve met them, of course."