The old egg seller, his eyes weary and hands trembIing, continued to sell his eggs at a loss. Each day, he watched the sun rise over the same cracked pavement, hoping for a miracle. But the world was indifferent. His small shop, once bustling with life, now echoed emptiness.
The townspeople hurried past him, their footsteps muffled by their own worries. They no longer stopped to chat or inquire about the weather. The old man’s heart sank as he counted the remaining eggs in his baskets. Six left. Just six. The same number that the woman had purchased weeks ago.
He remembered her vividly—the woman with the determined eyes and the crisp dollar bill. She had bargained with him, driving a hard bargain for those six eggs. “$1.25 or I will leave,” she had said, her voice firm. He had agreed, even though it was less than his asking price. Desperation had cIouded his judgment.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The old seller kept his promise, selling those six eggs for $1.25 each time. He watched the seasons change—the leaves turning from green to gold, then falling to the ground like forgotten dreams. His fingers traced the grooves on the wooden crate, worn smooth by years of use.
One bitter morning, he woke to find frost cIinging to the windowpane. The chill seeped through the cracks, settling in his bones. He brewed a weak cup of tea, the steam rising like memories. As he sat on the same wooden crate, he realized that he could no longer afford to keep his small shop open.
The townspeople had moved on, their lives intertwined with busier streets and brighter lights. The old man packed up his remaining eggs, their fragile shells cradled in his weathered hands. He whispered a silent farewell to the empty shop, its walls bearing witness to countless stories—the laughter of children, the haggling of customers, and the quiet moments when he had counted his blessings.
Outside, the world was gray—a canvas waiting for a final stroke. He walked the familiar path, the weight of those six eggs heavier than ever. The sun peeked through the clouds, casting long shadows on the pavement. He reached the edge of town, where the road met the horizon.
And there, under the vast expanse of sky, he made his decision. With tears in his eyes, he gently placed the eggs on the ground. One by one, he cracked them open, releasing their golden yoIks. The wind carried their essence away, a bittersweet offering to the universe.
The old egg seller stood there, his heart as fragile as the shells he had broken. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. And in that quiet moment, he whispered a prayer—for the woman who had bargained with him, for the townspeople who had forgotten, and for himself.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, he turned away from the empty road. His footsteps faded, leaving behind a trail of memories. And somewhere, in the vastness of the universe, six golden yolks danced—a silent requiem for a forgotten dream.
Man spend 14 years to build the largest tree house in the world, but wait till you see inside
Nestled in Crossville, Tennessee, the world’s most colossal treehouse stood as a testament to an extraordinary vision.
Horace Burgess, its creator, claimed divine inspiration for the construction of what became known as “The Minister’s Tree House”. Since 1993, a staggering 250,000 nails were meticulously placed across its ten stories, all supported by the steadfast foundation of six mighty oaks.
Spanning over 3000 square meters, the living space amalgamated across its multiple floors. Remarkably, this wooden marvel, which took 14 years to complete, supposedly incurred a mere $12,000 in costs
What kind of person embarks on such an ambitious endeavor, you might wonder? Perhaps a lunatic, one might think. However, according to Burgess, God directed him to undertake this extraordinary project, promising an unending supply of wood.
True to his conviction, the treehouse featured a central space designed for both prayer and basketball games, along with a penthouse crowning its tenth floor. A substantial half-ton church bell further accentuated its grandeur.
Over the years, the countless planks that composed the treehouse bore witness to the marks left by intrigued tourists who flocked to witness this architectural wonder.
Despite its popularity, the treehouse faced closure in 2012 due to violations of local fire codes. Concerns mounted as the fire department feared the catastrophic consequences of a blaze in a structure entirely crafted from wood.
Regrettably, those fears materialized as the colossal treehouse succumbed to flames in less than half an hour. Standing at an impressive 97 feet in Crossville, Tennessee, the Minister’s Treehouse became engulfed in a destructive inferno.
Constructed through the 1990s with a promise that building a treehouse meant never running out of material, the structure comprised 80 rooms, including classrooms, bedrooms, and a kitchen. Supported by an 80-foot white oak tree, it featured a wraparound porch connecting the five stories with a winding stairway.
The interior, a blend of the quirky and spiritual, boasted a hand-carved Bible, towering cross, and wooden pews. The name “JESUS” was even mowed into the grass beneath the building, emphasizing its spiritual significance.
Tourism ceased in 2012 due to safety breaches, leading to its eventual closure by state fire marshals.
The demise of the Minister’s Treehouse was swift, and Captain Derek Carter of the Cumberland County Fire Department, who had visited the treehouse as a tourist in the past, described it as “very cool, but also very dangerous”.
For those who once marveled at its grandeur, the Minister’s Treehouse remains a cherished memory, even as it has now returned to the earth from which it was built.
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