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June 19, 2007

Tuesday

To quote Dorothy: There's no place like home.

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Sealyon: Who Says You Can't?

He said it often enough that he almost believed it. The charm of the world at large had worn off long ago; it was his mantra, his absolution. There’s no place like home.

As if the repetition could right his wrongs, pardon his sins, and salve all those he had hurt. See? I get it now – there’s no place like home. He’s learned the lesson they tried to teach him. They have to take him back; that’s what home does – they take you back when you’ve reached the end of your rope, no matter what.

The familiar door swings open.

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Jim: At The Magic Shoppe

“Hey, lookee,” I smirked, sliding my triple-Es into the sparkly red shoes. “One size fits all! Now, how do these loafers work?”

“Why, that’s easy,” the hoop-skirted proprietress trilled annoyingly. “You just close your eyes, click the heels together, and say ‘There’s no place like home.’”

My eyes narrowed. “And then what?”

“Then they take you home,” she warbled.

“Where else can they take me?”

“Er… No place else,” she sang. “Just home.”

“That’s it? For 500 smackers, that’s all they do?”

“Yes. That’s all.”

I pulled the shoes off. “Cab fare’s only six-fifty,” I growled. “What else you got?”

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Dave: You Can't Go Home Again

It was damned unfair.  I'd been the hero, fought the war, gone toe-to-toe with fiends and felons and things from the pit, and some pretty nasty people besides.

And, after the end, the final battle ... I went home.

Myrtle Avenue.  Spring foliage, bright pink flowers, lovely residential lane.

I walked down the sidewalk.  8145.  8147.  8151.

No 8149.

I looked on both sides of the street.  A block either side.  I reread my Drivers License five times.

My address -- my house -- my family.

None of it existed.  No matter how I searched, there really was no place like home.

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