HOME | DD

Description
You find yourself standing in a field in front of a small yellow house. There are lights in all the windows. It looks like an overgrown firefly too lazy for lift-off, but the house is a rather cute one with its flowerbeds and white picket fence, so you walk right on up past a small stone gargoyle nestled in a patch of black-eyed susans and let the doorknocker fall. Some of the door's red paint chips under the brass knocker... which, you notice, is shaped like a pineapple. Strange. The door bears a shallow indentation beneath the knocker and the brown of the wood shows through in patches. This place is no stranger to strangers.

You hear someone walking over hollow floorboards, and then a thump, and then a curse.  They've tripped. They open the door while rubbing their head, and when they see you their mouth drops open stupidly.

Her hair is brown and fluffy; her skin, pale and smooth. She's tall; she is of average weight. She has a mole on her forehead and a mole on her collarbone; these are her most distinguishing features, apart from her eyes, which can't decide if they want to be gasflame blue or muted grey.

"Oh, um," she says, looking you up and down. "Oh, um… hello."

You look her up and down in return. She's a plain creature in her ugly yellow sweater and sunflower barrettes, but she seems harmless enough. You decide her eyes are very grey.

"Won't you come in?" she asks, lips twitching into what looks like a smile but is quite obviously a hysterical laugh in disguise.

You step over the threshold. She steps back to let you in and shuts the door behind you both. The entry room is quaint, with framed photos on the walls and a vase of sunflowers on an endtable. She seems to like sunflowers.

"I'm, um, Georgia," she says as she walks into the house. She gestures for you to follow; you comply, noting that her eyes now seem the color of an over-washed sweater. "People 'round here call me Graphospasm, though. Or, uh, Graph.  Some of them call me Jo. You can call me… um, whatever you want. I'm not picky."

You walk through a warm living room (no discernible decorating scheme presents itself) with too many doilies and potted plants, and then your guide opens a pair of wide French doors with white trim and panes of clean glass. Past the panes lies an immaculate room with tall windows, black and white tile flooring, white wicker furniture with black cushions, and on a low glass table a pitcher of iced lemonade. There are two tall glasses and a plate of shortbread cookies and a vase of sunflowers to add a splash of color. White shelves line the walls; these are covered in books.

"I was kind of expecting someone to drop by," she confesses. "Is it weird that I like entertaining on the sun porch at night?"

You think so, but since you don't want to offend her you shake your head.

She smiles, cheeks pudging out. "Good. Lemonade?"

You nod. She pours you a glass as you settle into the loveseat. She climbs into a black rocking chair, legs curling up to her chest so she can wrap her arms around them. She seems more comfortable here. Less nervous, at least.

"So," she says when you put a cookie in your mouth, "what brings you here?"

The cookie, while tasty, is somewhat dry. You fight to speak but the girl across from you takes charge.

"Oh, go ahead, eat, I think I can guess," she says. From her sleeve she produces a pair of chunky glasses, but she does not put them on. "You wandered in. You're not sure how, or why, or what even led you here in the first place. You don't know what to expect or what you even want from me. Is that right?"

You nod, washing down the last of the cookie with a drink of lemonade (which is slightly too tart for your tastes).  While maybe not perfectly accurate, some elements of her assessment are decent enough for you to accept without a fuss.

She smiles—actually smiles, without a single touch of apprehension. The grey in her eyes seems to tremble with a hint of sky.

"Well, then," she says, "allow me to tell you just what you'll find here. One moment."

She hops up, bounces twice on her heels, and slips on her glasses. They magnify her eyes; she looks like a lemur. Her pale hands begin tracing the spines of the books on the shelves, the pad of her index fingers caressing title after title. It takes a few minutes, a few searched shelves; you notice that her feet are bare, that her toenails are sparkling purple, just as she starts grinning. She's found the book she wants.

She settles back into her rocking chair and opens the slim black book on top of her bent knees. A lock of hair finds its way around her finger, twirled like spaghetti 'round a fork. You catch a glimpse of the text when her chair rocks forward; it appears to be handwritten.

"Now let's see," she murmurs, scanning the pages. "Ah, here we go!" She points at a passage with a triumphant finger. When she reads it aloud her voice rings solemn. "'Within this house you'll find mystery, for there can be no stories without suspense. You'll find love, but never easy love, because love not forged in pain is shallow love, at best. You'll find adventure, because who can resist it? You'll find drama to draw your tears and comedy to draw them in a different way, too, because tragedy and humor are each other's complements and one cannot exist without the other at its back.'"

You begin to tell her that this sounds like your kind of place. You stop, though, because the minute you opened your mouth her eyes became infinitely sad.

"'You will find life here,'" she says slowly, "'because I am an agent of creation, but…'"

You find that you can't move. She hesitates, eyes lingering on the book before she looks up to meet your gaze. Her eyes have gone bright blue, sharp with grief.

"'…but you will also find death, in this house,'" she says softly. "'To bring life into the world, I must also bring death.'"

There is a moment of silence. Then the girl's hand twitches. The book slams shut hard enough to make you jump.

"There," she says. Her tone is resolute but petulant, like a child pretending to be grown up. "I've warned you. Don't say I didn't." She uncurls, feet hitting the floor. "Whether you choose to stay or to go is up to you. If you leave... well, it was lovely meeting you, but I have plenty of room if you'd like to spend the night, and if you'd like to stay longer I can make you a guest house."

Your eyebrow quirks. What, was she going to build one herself?

She sees your skepticism and sighs. The black book slips open; your host produces a pen, scribbles something, and smiles. "Look out the window," she urges.

You do. Suddenly there is a house a hundred yards away, gleaming like another firefly in the dark field. Its appearance makes you flinch, startled, because the field had only held one house when you first entered walked up along the road and saw lights quivering in the dark.

"Anything is possible here," she says, happy to share her joy with you. "And you… you're welcome in this place so long as you keep your mind open, your tongue civil, and your sense of adventure intact." She wags her pen, conspiracy in expression. "It's my little corner of the world, but you're more than welcome in it so long as you're willing to take a risk."

Risk?

She sees and answers your unspoken question: "I will lead you into the dark," she says with an air of plain remorse. "I can't help it. You will feel lost, and alone, and hopeless at certain times. There's no way for me to avoid that, and in a way, those times are very necessary, even though you won't like them when they're actually happening around you."

You swallow. You don't like the sound of that so much.

"They're necessary because without the bad times, you won't appreciate the good," she tells you. She leans forward, suddenly more serious than she's been all night. Her eyes are strikingly blue just then, on fire with the raw determination of someone making a very solemn vow… which she does, to you, even though you hardly know her, and this unsettles you more than you can say.

"But just trust me. Even though I may lead you into shadow," she says, eyes locked on yours, "I will never, ever leave you in the dark."

Despite your misgivings, you find yourself wondering just what it would mean to stay.

Description
You find yourself standing in a field in front of a small yellow house. There are lights in all the windows. It looks like an overgrown firefly too lazy for lift-off, but the house is a rather cute one with its flowerbeds and white picket fence, so you walk right on up past a small stone gargoyle nestled in a patch of black-eyed susans and let the doorknocker fall. Some of the door's red paint chips under the brass knocker... which, you notice, is shaped like a pineapple. Strange. The door bears a shallow indentation beneath the knocker and the brown of the wood shows through in patches. This place is no stranger to strangers.

You hear someone walking over hollow floorboards, and then a thump, and then a curse.  They've tripped. They open the door while rubbing their head, and when they see you their mouth drops open stupidly.

Her hair is brown and fluffy; her skin, pale and smooth. She's tall; she is of average weight. She has a mole on her forehead and a mole on her collarbone; these are her most distinguishing features, apart from her eyes, which can't decide if they want to be gasflame blue or muted grey.

"Oh, um," she says, looking you up and down. "Oh, um… hello."

You look her up and down in return. She's a plain creature in her ugly yellow sweater and sunflower barrettes, but she seems harmless enough. You decide her eyes are very grey.

"Won't you come in?" she asks, lips twitching into what looks like a smile but is quite obviously a hysterical laugh in disguise.

You step over the threshold. She steps back to let you in and shuts the door behind you both. The entry room is quaint, with framed photos on the walls and a vase of sunflowers on an endtable. She seems to like sunflowers.

"I'm, um, Georgia," she says as she walks into the house. She gestures for you to follow; you comply, noting that her eyes now seem the color of an over-washed sweater. "People 'round here call me Graphospasm, though. Or, uh, Graph.  Some of them call me Jo. You can call me… um, whatever you want. I'm not picky."

You walk through a warm living room (no discernible decorating scheme presents itself) with too many doilies and potted plants, and then your guide opens a pair of wide French doors with white trim and panes of clean glass. Past the panes lies an immaculate room with tall windows, black and white tile flooring, white wicker furniture with black cushions, and on a low glass table a pitcher of iced lemonade. There are two tall glasses and a plate of shortbread cookies and a vase of sunflowers to add a splash of color. White shelves line the walls; these are covered in books.

"I was kind of expecting someone to drop by," she confesses. "Is it weird that I like entertaining on the sun porch at night?"

You think so, but since you don't want to offend her you shake your head.

She smiles, cheeks pudging out. "Good. Lemonade?"

You nod. She pours you a glass as you settle into the loveseat. She climbs into a black rocking chair, legs curling up to her chest so she can wrap her arms around them. She seems more comfortable here. Less nervous, at least.

"So," she says when you put a cookie in your mouth, "what brings you here?"

The cookie, while tasty, is somewhat dry. You fight to speak but the girl across from you takes charge.

"Oh, go ahead, eat, I think I can guess," she says. From her sleeve she produces a pair of chunky glasses, but she does not put them on. "You wandered in. You're not sure how, or why, or what even led you here in the first place. You don't know what to expect or what you even want from me. Is that right?"

You nod, washing down the last of the cookie with a drink of lemonade (which is slightly too tart for your tastes).  While maybe not perfectly accurate, some elements of her assessment are decent enough for you to accept without a fuss.

She smiles—actually smiles, without a single touch of apprehension. The grey in her eyes seems to tremble with a hint of sky.

"Well, then," she says, "allow me to tell you just what you'll find here. One moment."

She hops up, bounces twice on her heels, and slips on her glasses. They magnify her eyes; she looks like a lemur. Her pale hands begin tracing the spines of the books on the shelves, the pad of her index fingers caressing title after title. It takes a few minutes, a few searched shelves; you notice that her feet are bare, that her toenails are sparkling purple, just as she starts grinning. She's found the book she wants.

She settles back into her rocking chair and opens the slim black book on top of her bent knees. A lock of hair finds its way around her finger, twirled like spaghetti 'round a fork. You catch a glimpse of the text when her chair rocks forward; it appears to be handwritten.

"Now let's see," she murmurs, scanning the pages. "Ah, here we go!" She points at a passage with a triumphant finger. When she reads it aloud her voice rings solemn. "'Within this house you'll find mystery, for there can be no stories without suspense. You'll find love, but never easy love, because love not forged in pain is shallow love, at best. You'll find adventure, because who can resist it? You'll find drama to draw your tears and comedy to draw them in a different way, too, because tragedy and humor are each other's complements and one cannot exist without the other at its back.'"

You begin to tell her that this sounds like your kind of place. You stop, though, because the minute you opened your mouth her eyes became infinitely sad.

"'You will find life here,'" she says slowly, "'because I am an agent of creation, but…'"

You find that you can't move. She hesitates, eyes lingering on the book before she looks up to meet your gaze. Her eyes have gone bright blue, sharp with grief.

"'…but you will also find death, in this house,'" she says softly. "'To bring life into the world, I must also bring death.'"

There is a moment of silence. Then the girl's hand twitches. The book slams shut hard enough to make you jump.

"There," she says. Her tone is resolute but petulant, like a child pretending to be grown up. "I've warned you. Don't say I didn't." She uncurls, feet hitting the floor. "Whether you choose to stay or to go is up to you. If you leave... well, it was lovely meeting you, but I have plenty of room if you'd like to spend the night, and if you'd like to stay longer I can make you a guest house."

Your eyebrow quirks. What, was she going to build one herself?

She sees your skepticism and sighs. The black book slips open; your host produces a pen, scribbles something, and smiles. "Look out the window," she urges.

You do. Suddenly there is a house a hundred yards away, gleaming like another firefly in the dark field. Its appearance makes you flinch, startled, because the field had only held one house when you first entered walked up along the road and saw lights quivering in the dark.

"Anything is possible here," she says, happy to share her joy with you. "And you… you're welcome in this place so long as you keep your mind open, your tongue civil, and your sense of adventure intact." She wags her pen, conspiracy in expression. "It's my little corner of the world, but you're more than welcome in it so long as you're willing to take a risk."

Risk?

She sees and answers your unspoken question: "I will lead you into the dark," she says with an air of plain remorse. "I can't help it. You will feel lost, and alone, and hopeless at certain times. There's no way for me to avoid that, and in a way, those times are very necessary, even though you won't like them when they're actually happening around you."

You swallow. You don't like the sound of that so much.

"They're necessary because without the bad times, you won't appreciate the good," she tells you. She leans forward, suddenly more serious than she's been all night. Her eyes are strikingly blue just then, on fire with the raw determination of someone making a very solemn vow… which she does, to you, even though you hardly know her, and this unsettles you more than you can say.

"But just trust me. Even though I may lead you into shadow," she says, eyes locked on yours, "I will never, ever leave you in the dark."

Despite your misgivings, you find yourself wondering just what it would mean to stay.