I was talking to a friend today who had doubts to what they were doing, so I thought I would write them a short story. I am by no means a writer, but I hope the point gets across.
In a little town, stood an old and intimate, brightly coloured shop filled with giggles and laughter of children. The smell of freshly baked gingerbread men tickled the air as the full bloom flowers seemed to beckon in the gentle breeze. Although the shop wore no sign, it was obvious from the beaming smiles on the children's cherub faces, that happiness was made here. Through the window, above excited heads, stood an elderly couple with cheeks plump with kindness, and eyes shining with playfulness. Their clothes wore stains of colourful paint, glitter and stars, as their hands cradled a lump of special clay. The colour of the clay changed from different angles, with changing temperature to match, when a quiet child, with his head shyly lowered, poked it.