The Eldest Housetop
Hark! The eldest housetop approaches.
“What do you want from us, oh roofen elder?”
The eldest housetop sayeth nothing, for it is but a roof and lacks vocal chords. But the ferocity of its opinions is evident from the angle of its shingles.
“Won’t you come and join us at our nightly feast, your roofen one?”
The eldest housetop slopes dangerously askew at such a brazenly inappropriate invitation, and the villager whimpers and scurries away to more comfortable, roofless quarters.
The eldest housetop scans the streets and ambles on down the road, flaunting his insulation and threatening to explode on other, lesser housetops that dare to get in his way. What does he seek? Is it eggnog once again, to stave off the harsh cold of winter? Or does this housetop have more spiritual goals in mind?
The world will never know, for the eldest housetop has learned many things over its lifetime. Such as origami, although that doesn’t make a difference here. But it’s also learned the value of privacy and secrecy, and this roof plans to tell no other person or housing unit anything about its plans for the night.
In fact, this housetop is so talented that it even gives us the slip. We have no idea where it went, and so can no longer follow it with our words and report on its actions. Maybe we’ll see it again some other night, but probably not. The great eldest housetop has escaped again, leaving us clueless and surprisingly lacking in origami knowledge.
Such is life, I suppose. One day you’re looking at the eldest housetop in the land, and the next day you’re besieged by Christians hurling missives at you while you’re innocently standing in a pasture, trying to chew your cud. Don’t you hate it when that happens? Yeah, we do too. Walk on, you butterfly of a roof, and do whatever it is you need to do. Just don’t come after us when things don’t go as planned. We’ll be far away, probably in Idaho or some place like that.