Cream Scene Carnival

Paradise

The street was an experiment⁠ conceived in fine wine and laughter and rich goose fat. On one side lived the good people, on the other the bad. It⁠ was the vision of the famous architect James Morris, a man who built sky houses for politicians, velvet teepees for wealthy artists, and creamy concrete boxes for merchant bankers. The bishop’s wife, on hearing the architect’s plan as she stroked his leg, suggested perhaps that people were either good people, or bad. Never the twain shall meet she said. You’ll see, said Morris, buildings can solve problems Copernicus himself would scare from. Real problems. The bishop’s wife looked skeptical. She sang sparkled hymns and traveled on rose petals, and no one had collected more for the poor and needy than she. When the simple houses were built, people flocked to the street in search of clean lines and pest-free living, and the good people lived next to the bad people, and the bad people next to the good. For one long, hot summer, it worked beautifully. Sparse clouds crested red pitched roofs, and probing sun cast light through pretty picture windows. Kind words were said in passing, favours done, goods exchanged, friendships made. Despite this, whilst the children played with abandon and became indivisible in their energy, the adults held onto their knowledge, just in case one day it was needed. On that day, a rumour spread through the street, and the bad people descended en masse and burned the houses of the good people. Or perhaps it was the good people that burned the houses of the bad. No one can quite remember that now. They all remember the bishop’s wife however, for in a rich flowering park opposite a single row of pretty houses, her statue stands to grace all before it.