Metaphysical Furniture

  Firefly Meadow by Tracie Kiernan Day 12 – The Empty House Real estate agents like to say every house has a story. The reality is most houses have thousands. The walls hear arguments that never leave the kitchen. They witness first steps, broken dishes, awkward teenage dances before school proms, and quiet conversations after everyone else has gone to bed. They absorb birthdays, illnesses, Christmas mornings, and ordinary Tuesday evenings that no one realizes will someday become the good old days. Maybe that's why abandoned houses always feel so loud even in their silence. They're full of conversations that no longer have anyone to finish them. By Sunday afternoon I'd developed a habit. Every evening I'd choose one question and let Laurel Lane answer it. Thursday's question had been: Are these ghosts? Friday's had been: Can memories notice they're being observed? Tonight's was simpler. Can places remember, too? The question came from Arthur Mc...

  Fireflies by Michael Creese Day 11 – Murphy There's a reason people say all dogs go to heaven. Nobody ever says all accountants go to heaven. Or dentists. Or assistant regional managers. Dogs earn the benefit of the doubt. They forgive quickly and love unconditionally. And somehow manage to convince us that throwing the same tennis ball three hundred consecutive times is not only reasonable, but the highest purpose a human being can aspire to. If there is a flaw in the universe, it's that dogs don't live nearly long enough. Jason and Rebecca Collins family had lived on Willow Lane for almost twelve years. Along with their mortgage they had acquired two children, Cody and Carson. And one golden retriever named Murphy. He'd died three summers earlier at the respectable age of fourteen. The Collins children had buried him beneath a flowering dogwood in the backyard with a tennis ball, a faded blue collar, and what Rebecca described as "an unreasonable amount...