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Back when I was a boy, there was a hill above my house. There still is, in fact, but it's not my house anymore. Behind that hill was a higher hill, and from there the hills rolled on and on up English Mountain and back along the ridge. I remember the dappled light among the trees, the constant presence of dry leaves crunching underfoot, eating Vienna sausages while resting from a hike, my father showing us the Wood Fairy, who could answer any question Yes or No. Later, we'd find out he was using the reflection off his watch to create the fairy, which woke me up to a different, realer kind of magic than is told in stories.
Words are how the world is made, in a real way. I try to make worlds with my words on www.acdw.net. Help me by donating a cup to a thirsty writer.
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