A Grey House

My goal is to paint a picture that would be simple to most, but when looked at by a child there was to be discovered what we cannot easily see as we get older. Simply put, this is the world of a child, and how life was through the eyes of an innocent. Anyone is welcome to add to the story in any way they see fit, so if you feel compelled to do so, go ahead. Write something

In the bleak forest stood a grey house. It sat lonely among the dry grass and fallen leaves, protected from the sun's revealing light by grotesque trees. Adorned by ashen tiles and peeled vanilla paint, it carried the somber weight of isolation in the tranquil wood. Dark cedar bent and splintered, tattered carpet worn and dusted, broken glass and fallen ceiling... such was the house and its melancholy dwelling. Yet as such a house stood, despite such neglect and tragic ignorance, it beckoned to a boy who stood in the wood. Of what the boy leisurely observed, the house stood tall, stood proud. It spoke to the boy, the young innocent boy, who in his mind had no reason to think the house broken or destroyed. The grey house told the boy stories of adventure and courage, of travel into the unknown. The shattered windows boasted tales of war and heroism. The collapsed ceiling bore the scars of sacrifice and risk. The cracking paint spoke of age and wisdom. Every day the house would call out to the boy with promise of adventure. But the boy did not enter the house. No fear coursed through the childish blood, no doubt hindered his innocent desire. Yet he did not enter the eager and welcoming dwelling, for he knew that if he were to do so the adventure would come to an end. He new that the antique veil of mystery that house had bore for so long would be lifted, silencing the echoes of memories and stories, bringing an end to the ancient voice that had been bestowed upon the house. So the boy sat and he listened to tales of mystery and stories of courage in the darkest of times.

He listened to the voice of a Grey House.

The End

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