From the author: Paragraph Fiction
The House came over the hill, knuckle-kneed and crackling. Step, step, down the steep slope, and the lady cackled and drove her lads ahead with a stick and a rattle made of stolen teeth. “Hurry, boys. Hurry, or I’ll swallow you up.” I’d never seen such horror on little boy’s faces, nor such consternation on the neighbours’. Property values plummeted with every step. But what are homes for if not to keep out witches, and to let them in? “Stories for a meal,” she said, knocking on my door, after her house had settled in the vacant lot at number eighteen. I flung the door wide, and she ate my noisy children, gulp, gulp, but the stories were worth it, and my house works much better now with legs.