The Little Red House
“What if magiq isn’t necessarily based on stories in the literal sense, but the intrinsic narrative of the creation process?”
Tinker
It was my book. My unnamed book. I knew even before I finished reading Deirdre’s post. The moment I read “The Little Red House isn’t a place,” my mind completed the sentence like a key knocking the tumblers of a lock in place: “it’s the book I loved and lost and then destroyed my life by remembering.” For years, I’d believed the title had been longer, that there was a certain rhythm to speaking its title that I could hear but couldn’t put words to, like a song you could only hum. Maybe that was just the lie working its will on me, hiding the truth.
The Little Red House.
It was almost more than I could process. Same for the Mountainee
