Post
The house was hollow. It sat on the corner, the first house to be seen in a line of many. The lights stayed on, the water stayed warm. The lawn was even cut every week. ​ ​ ​ Then weeds grew strong, roots to stems, topped with a fiery yellow. So they sprayed the lawn with weed killer, removing the weeds, but leaving the grass yellow. Large patches of cracked dirt replaced the crab grass and dandelions. However, the lights stayed on, and the water stayed warm. ​ ​ ​ Then, inside the house, the kids grew strong. The eldest daughter with a might to persevere, the middle child truculent to bloom a striking floret, and the youngest smoldering something fearsomely potent. ​ ​ ​ The kids grew until inevitable enmity sprouted between the eldest daughters, leaving the youngest son vying for attention. So when the son noticed an inevitable quarrel between his siblings, he struck while the iron was hot. ​ ​ ​ He listened hollow heartedly, and met with his sisters, first the eldest then the next. Like a blacksmith working the metal, he said just the right things, with precarious manipulation, to assure they would never speak again. So the house stayed hollow, And the lights remained on, and the water stayed warm. ​ ​ ​ The youngest son, discontent with his work, wandered around the house with feigned vegetation. When he got to the lawn, he took note of the barren patches, and the unlit window in the center of the house. The middle sister freshly moved out. ​ ​ ​ Then with a flash, the window glowed again. His mother, entering the room to tidy up. So the son sat in the patchy lawn, and watched. Curious neighbors going by, and cars driving past, just might have mistaken him for a voyeur. ​ ​ ​ But the son did not gawk nor peep. For he did not see luminescence, like the average gaper, but incandescence. Conceivably, an ember. And so the light stayed on, and the water remained warm. ​ ​ ​ Then, before his father stepped out to mow the lawn, the son scoured the garage, and found his crimson catalyst. A rectangular, flat-sided, repository. So the son, opened the red jerry can, and inhaled the reek. He filled his lungs up, as much as he could bear, and blew out into the can. And it was done. ​ ​ ​ As the son set down the container, the garage door opened. He exchanged a quick glance with his father, and in perfected meekness, left him to his own devices. ​ ​ ​ The father took the jerry can, and fueled the lawn mower. He took his machine outside to the grass, and started the appliance. With one move, the starter ignited, and with a bang, an explosion engulfed him in a firey yellow. As the fire blazed, out in the lawn, for all to see, the son watched from the window, eyes glimmering with light. ​ ​ ​ The lawn, now devoid of grass or weeds or dirt, was simply charred debris. The house, now with all but one instigator, sat on the corner, at last a spectacle. The son saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good. The lights stayed on, and the water was warm, and he prayed the house was hollow no more. ​ ​ ​ Comments: 1 2
Intent Score
2
Intent
99
Confidence
Summary
This is a literary/creative writing post and does not indicate any window replacement intent.
Reasoning
The post is a narrative poem/story about a house and family dynamics; it mentions a window only as part of imagery, with no signs of a homeowner problem, repair question, or comparison of window options.
Extracted Signals
- creative writing / unrelated content
“The house was hollow.”
- window mentioned only in passing
“the unlit window in the center of the house.”
Model: gpt-5.4-mini · Prompt: v3 · 6/11/2026, 5:01:55 PM