only sunlight to reveal their molded faces. The sliding glass door
on the porch showed the inside of the family room, which looked
rather cozy if one could imagine a fireplace with hot chocolate.
Right as I imagined the wood stove glowing inside, smoke
began emanating out of the chimney. But the glass front of the
woodstove was not red with dancing flames. The dogs stopped
wagging their tails. Reluctantly, the dogs followed me around the
house. The windows were all covered with dark green shades (a
truly ugly color). One of the dogs barked at the house. I turned
to look at the dog to calm him down, when I heard something
clatter from inside the house. The other dog had run off to who
knows where by this time. The one dog who remained with me
kept a steady, gleaming stare at the house and growled. I followed his gaze and saw the dark green curtain move. It twitched
once, as if a hand had pulled it back and then dropped it with
haste, fearful of the attention it gathered.
The dog took full advantage of my distraction as assurance
that he could jump into the same window with the ugly drapes.
It made the loudest crash with lots of thundering footprints from
the dog to follow. I called the dog’s name as I chased after him
with the torn collar in my hand.
The broken glass from the window did not make my entrance easy. After a few scrapes of the glass on the palm of my
hand, I entered the house.
It was just as I imagined it to be. A small house, like my
family’s home, which was cozy. And yet, it produced the strange
feeling of an old duchess who clung on to her imaginary jewels
despite how her face had wrinkled.
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