The houses are on the right side of the highway every Thursday. They expand and contract with the rolling hills, coated in shrubbery and the stucco-like texture of a sea of trees. The fog rolls in when it pleases and provides a pleasant place for kids and naughty people to play. In the evenings it is quiet and dark with nary a lightpost to light the way. Walkers and bicyclers roll through proudly adorned in little lights and their canines wag happily along beside them. The cars are silent roamers, up and down the hills, looking for a place to rest for the night. The lights of the city in the distance are the beacon and the reminder that they are not alone.
One evening, there are flames are on the right side of the highway. They roar and call to passersby.
“Come and see, come and see! Pull over, come and see!”
The flames rise high into the air, sending wave after wave of chemical fury smashing against the side of the houses, crippling the tops of their heads and the leaves on the trees. The rumble rises above the peace of the houses and consumes them, threatening to take all who get near. The passersby watch in anticipation. A new sight to behold.
The flames burn on into the evening and the houses are gone.