Diz
Overdosing on placebos
The walk was short. They had arrived at their destination in only ten minute's time. It was a small, squat house, bordering on ugly. The architecture was strange, with senseless embellishments, which, while fun to explore, did not add to the visual appeal of the building. Its paint was a neutral brown, with gray shingles. There was a short brick chimney rising out of the center of it, and a small curl of smoke drifted away on the wind.
The weather, while not cold enough to remain winter, was too wet to be called summer. The result was spring, a most depressing time of year. The non stop rains did little to promote the changing seasons, and the cold certainly made the rumor of summer far less credible. A fire was necessary to dry and warm the inhabitants of this house. The owner of the home was amiable, if a bit odd. He enjoyed the scent of cinnamon to an excess, and it had become a permanent fixture of the house, like the roof. The man wore reading glasses perched on his comb-over, but pulled them down to his eyes when he answered the door.
Recognizing his visitors, the man let them into his small living room. There was indeed a cheery fire crackling in the hearth. They sat by it, relishing the warmth. The man then produced some cinnamon cookies, which they politely declined, all except the last, which had not eaten that day; such was the urgent nature of their social call. While the last, who was also the youngest, was eating, the others described to the man the reason of their visit. The man nervously sent them away, because he wanted no involvement in their plans.
The group dismally retraced their steps, away from the ugly brown house, away from their only lead. They walked away into that cold wet spring day, never to find that they had been inches from the book they needed. It had replaced the leg of the couch that they had sat upon while the youngest ate her cookies. Each step took them further and further from the only possible answer to their questions.
The group would never know the warmth of a loving family because a small, balding man who liked cinnamon and wore reading glasses was scared. He was scared that the children, for that's what they were, would discover their family long deceased. Surely having no family was better than glimpsing a family and having them stolen away in one moment. Surely it was better to never have loved at all than loved and lost.
The weather, while not cold enough to remain winter, was too wet to be called summer. The result was spring, a most depressing time of year. The non stop rains did little to promote the changing seasons, and the cold certainly made the rumor of summer far less credible. A fire was necessary to dry and warm the inhabitants of this house. The owner of the home was amiable, if a bit odd. He enjoyed the scent of cinnamon to an excess, and it had become a permanent fixture of the house, like the roof. The man wore reading glasses perched on his comb-over, but pulled them down to his eyes when he answered the door.
Recognizing his visitors, the man let them into his small living room. There was indeed a cheery fire crackling in the hearth. They sat by it, relishing the warmth. The man then produced some cinnamon cookies, which they politely declined, all except the last, which had not eaten that day; such was the urgent nature of their social call. While the last, who was also the youngest, was eating, the others described to the man the reason of their visit. The man nervously sent them away, because he wanted no involvement in their plans.
The group dismally retraced their steps, away from the ugly brown house, away from their only lead. They walked away into that cold wet spring day, never to find that they had been inches from the book they needed. It had replaced the leg of the couch that they had sat upon while the youngest ate her cookies. Each step took them further and further from the only possible answer to their questions.
The group would never know the warmth of a loving family because a small, balding man who liked cinnamon and wore reading glasses was scared. He was scared that the children, for that's what they were, would discover their family long deceased. Surely having no family was better than glimpsing a family and having them stolen away in one moment. Surely it was better to never have loved at all than loved and lost.