It’s not important where the magic came from; it came from wherever magic does. What is important is that it came. From the far, cold North and the warm, jungle South, bringing secrets from the East’s great wall and the West’s open plains; it swelled from the ocean’s floor, drifted through its waves and washed up on the shore, soaring toward Cherry Street where it met with the other magic and swirled in celebration. It came from all over like so many nail filings to a magnet, and when the wind died down, the magic settled, falling to the ground with the falling leaves. It rested among those leaves joined by a bottle cap, a penny, and the letter. It waited with these objects, part of the collection on the empty lot on Cherry Street in Findlay, Ohio.
Then one day, long after the leaves had come and gone again, and the magic had settled itself into the earth, quiet and waiting, men came with machines and hard hats and shouted commands. They dug up the earth, even as the magic chased itself deeper into her. And after several months had passed, a house stood.
Fun. My friend and I have promised to write one hour a day from now until December 1 with only Thanksgiving and Black Friday off. Here's to new beginnings and what they might bring.