It was rarely quiet inside. Though the world saw little but the strength and solidity of the little house, it was brimming with hustle and bustle. Whilst the mailman made his rounds the inhabitants of the house listened to their master for the commands he would send. At times he sent one to fetch the mail and speak to the deliverer, but more often he allowed a brave soul to wait for the communication, bow slightly, then hurry into the house. A sturdy house it looked, as was the master inside. The timbers that held it were made at the beginning of time, and woud last longer. The roof was sound and would weather any Texas hailstorm without showing wear. The windows looked clean and clear. The garden was not well tended, as was obviously seen by the smattering of daisies like so much birdseed spread for pigeons. But each daisy was more beautiful than most, and though mottled on the lawn they seemed the freckles of God himself to those who would see.
Visitors were rare, and most simply saw the house, marvelled at the strength and envied the occupants, then continued on their way. But though there was no dog on the porch to keep people away, still most looked only then passed on, deeming the inside to hold a great master. But the inside was much unlike the outside. Paintings like the great masters Monet and Renoir littered every wall. The furniture was rudimentary, serving function and not form, but the entire service was vibrant with clashing colours. The entrance mas mostly hardwood floor, but after a few boards became cement stained with the speckles of some mad artist gone paint-happy. Guests had, upon crossing the threshold, often gasped and flung up their hands for fear of the spectre of flying, falling paint.
The kitchen, in contrast, was spotless, gone over with a fine brush it seemed. This was soon betrayed by the scantness of food in the cupboards and refridgerator. A thick dust lay over all but a few dishes, long unused. Yet those few that lay in the rack, cleaned, seemed worn almost to their end with overuse. Travelling upstairs, the paint faded into fewer colours, mostly gentle blues mingling with gray. At the top of the stair always stood the master, receiving the visitors with twinkling eye and halting speech. He shuffles to a dark closet, revealing the black skeletons there, shutting the door firmly before the creeping,crawling darkness can squeeze a scream of horror. He leads, always, to the many rooms. Each room is in stark contrast to the other, yet the tendencies towards blue-grey is constant, making the rooms gently dim. And yet, were a light to shine in any, the room would light brightly soaking up the light for future sourceless days.
Some rooms are full of memorabilia from years past, the achievements and failures of the master of the house. A gentle light glows in most, seemingly springing from the walls themselves. In a few a bright lamp burns gaily, and though the light is brighter here it is clear the gentle wall-light is a memory only of the lamps that are now lit. As the host leads into room upon room, it is obvious there is a common face above it all. Few are the guests that are allowed into the house, yet most can see the face. It is kindly and full of wisdom, a face you seem to feel more than see. In the final room, if hunger does not take you yet, the master of the house shows you the face. Do you see it? If you know the house, if you see the interior, then it is the face of an old friend, wise and full of love. It is the face hidden in each painting and shown in each item. It is the one who is the true master of the house, the Architect, the Builder. The host merely smiles and bows his head in deference to his Master.
As guests leave the house, many decide they saw not what they thought. Such a face lives only in clean houses full of happy voices, not the disarray and confusion in that house. A pity too, they think, for it looks so nice from the outside. And so they walk on, never appreciating the handiwork of the Master Craftsman
