Metaphysical Furniture

  Fireflies by Mattie Karr Day 13 – Summer of 1987 Ask three siblings about the same Christmas and you'll get four different stories. Ask a married couple how they first met and someone inevitably remembers the restaurant wrong. Memory is in the business of preserving meaning not facts. By Monday evening, I had stopped asking what year it was inside the Firefly Hours. The better question was whether the neighborhood cared. Dr. Calico Verde arrived carrying two folding chairs and a small cassette recorder. "Going retro?" I asked, nodding at the recorder. "I wanted something analog,” she said. "If reality starts misbehaving, I'd rather not trust a device whose first instinct is to compress information." "I have no idea whether that's scientifically valid." "Neither do I." She smiled. "But it feels responsible." Dr. Calico Verde: Half psychology, half philosophy, half educated guess. She'd long since ...

  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...