The house was quiet. The coast is clear. All of the pictures, paintings, drawings from childhood that are framed for some reason, portraits, and posters tentatively begin to move. Trapped inside their frames, the pictures look around and stretch their tired muscles for holding the same position for so long. The winds blow the trees of one, the rain pours in another, kids splash around in a lake, ladies dance, a woman reads, the cat that lives there paws at a scene of animals running. Lately the pictures had begun to grow restless; tired of being ignored and looked over and ignored while the large paintings above the mantel stole the show. Pictures are, after all, only memories, in the past and done with while the paintings were unique, imaginative and original. They could be anyone, real or fictional, and were constantly changing personalities to please the family’s mood. There was a food chain among the decorations. The paintings held the top spot, then the children’s own artwork, the pictures came after that, and the posters-destined to be replaced within a few years came next. There was a constant war between the groups, all excluded the other types of wall adornment and only interacted with others of their kind. Jealousies raged between them when a family member or guest would stop to look at another kind of decoration, while pride swelled when one of their own received praise by someone.