Terracotta

The ✧✧✧✧✧ backerei

Most obvious to us; not a local, as the grass is most definitely greener on the other side after all; culinarily speaking. this flee was fast, to us, the roaring chase of the car and its driver seat inhabitant, addict to speedy cars and a life of criminal behavior has but flashed and dissipated. We ambled to the patisserie and walked over to its counter, as a usual decay of a local "small business" laden with antiques, the degradation of this staple food for the locals has been them looking down from out their high-rise windows to the cut's snug shop, or toothier lap where the local press is stationed in all proud to be from; of this phoenix of stone once; To glass. Over to The checkered countertop of the clean walls with the mural of a bronze deer, and the floor renovated more than the number of customer sales in this trap, not for tourists but residents of the hamlet-scraper town, population and technologically respective. "We are in a bombshell, I, I believe" he said quivering with the guilt that came from gazing upon the normal looking and seeing the chaos within. A militaristic man with a thin hat; what you would not see in this present, but some far-land movie with gunmetal, maroon and birch, Paper Brown. Came in front of me, Trees of such old sway outside in the street to distract the tourists from the poverty on the façade of the city, It's streets too loyal to the tracks by people unknowingly making irreversible routes from source of money, from community, these spray across the new glass and grey in such peculiarity grainy peppercorn, that it astounds why not just destroy the road signs, lights, cars and scrap this way of thinking as it is built, As I saw like a racetrack! he stole the checked ground I thought my sight of vision possessed away from him already and he marched close .

His personality was not rounded and certainly not anything of European Caliber, not something that would have been seen as popular to any of the former customers of this establishment that we were in. Nothing about him from the way that he wore his clothes to his disdainful look was formal. Luck would have it that he may be on our side but would have to convince him. He spoke in a shrill, but deep voice that pierced the stones in the floor that laid awake to so many patrons and now Us, all of Us all These ballroom walls now contained a violent argument. "This is a crime scene. Unfortunately, you know the arts; as you seem to think This is somewhere to get your pastries delivered fresh, unfortunately, I cannot allow you to be here longer unless you are some sort of defendant. Try to get an alibi because you may be linked to this case. not gonna ask you to leave the premises. But going to make sure you interfere with my work. Because trying to see what connection killing this innocent person would have to some sort of Gain But not financial from the stag. Someone was trying to influence the well-being of these people.

"My name is Leonard Andersone and our petit overtures, that are our personal noninterventional discoveries can be of use to you if you inquire, but we really haven't gone far with them as of late, but as you kindly explained earlier we are within law to write our paper on this! maybe you should have kept quiet and we would have the guilt to leave, but with the missing artifact, we will exercise our right to.." I looked at him in awe of his abrupt disclosures to the man of importance to our forward face, and pecked out the word into the void musty space; "paper?..." the droning of my short word infuriated the man and he snapped his fingers, you could see the ripples of angry skin cascade on his hands, though he wasn't So well built that his presence intrudes anything. A stout man with a parked bike outside entered, "we've been on this case for a while" he said as he stepped, grazed knee tarnished the sodden lycra he wore, that he is trying to hide as his usual police uniform, he spoke less English but was slightly gruff as if he knew all of our diction, he wasn't elderly but a breeze of a life with children hits you when he reasons with anyone close. "I've been cycling in because I don't care about using those tax-cash cars they sent, who is here?" he sheepishly held out his wavering hand half its extent, looked at his partner who was looking rather ill and disdainfully back at us and with such authority for a mild tone, volume and accent; we were signaled through no rash gesture, to leave, the streets were bone dry with the gunmetal grey bike grabbed by the lock for the passers-by to knock into and look at, hoods up. we left in no condition to hurry anywhere but to a local café, the bread was sweet with fruit and adorning rose petals but left a taste, distinctly of under appreciation squandering the time they had to make it, new business had arrived at their doorstep but everything was disheveled and out of place for a stance of food that they had, and they didn't have the relic that the stag did. I sighed and looked at the crumbs on my plate, reminiscent of, to me, grouping of hamlets amidst the field and trench, viaduct of poorer water, which the horses' field had only rusted rain.