52 weeks, 52 stories
My Latest Posts
• • •*tap tap* is this thing on?
I saw a suggestion, via Ray Bradbury, to write one short story every week. I defy you to write 52 weeks of bad short stories, he said, or something to that effect.
I do firmly believe that, hidden in a lot of notebooks, are 52 week’s worth of bad stories. But at least they tried! Which is more than I can say for myself.
Well, enough of my optimism, let’s begin!
Prompt 1: Describe your dream home
Dream home. Right.
A hidden room, entrance probably hidden behind bookshelves. Quite likely that regular room entrances will also be hidden behind bookshelves, due to the sheer quantity of books. Window seats. The central piece of furniture in the library will be an extraordinarily comfortable chair, suitable for sitting on sleeping, with a swing out shelf to accommodate a tea tray. It will also hold a small, elegant silver bell with which to wishfully summon an nonexistent butler to bring cookies and/or sandwich refills, in that order.
A kitchen with a refrigerator that has solved the problem of “I bought another one because I didn’t realize we already had one in the back where I couldn’t see it.”
A wall that hides funny little dioramas a la Zedd’s LEGO walls.
Walls, but enough separation to flow. None of this One Giant Room bullshit. I know perfectly well that builders started building houses with one giant room because they were too lazy and cheap to come up with a house design that allows anything resembling privacy. We’re all supposed to live on top of each other at all times and like it. Not me, pal. I’ll move into a tiny house with the dog, first.
He’d like that.
Speaking of: the space under the stairs Shall Be Utilized for something useful and amusing, but unlikely to be the presently trendy Room for Your Dog because beagles prefer to be with their people.
Outside: not a pool. But probably a topiary. Several topiaries, once I get the hang of it.
Gardens: raised beds for edibles. Still debating fruit and nut trees; I can see the utility but I’m not sure I want to spend my time fighting the birds and the squirrels. The yearly loss in the War of the Tomatoes is bad enough.
Chickens? A small cow? Maybe I can become good friends with a small farmer.
Enough room to entertain friends, compact enough to be maintained without becoming a headache. Comfort, not grandiosity. You should be able to wear a good house like a favorite shirt. It fits, it makes you happy, and you aren’t eaten up with constantly worry about the upkeep.