Little Mac

They lived in a glass house lit up from inside with the filaments burning. Window coverings were flimsy and insubstantial; the light always got out in spite of them. It was carpeted in mauve in what looked like popcorn, and one could hear crunching under foot with every step taken towards the threshold of the first doorway, down the stairs of which one could find a large room this time carpeted in electric puddles; it was quite intricate really. Not what you would expect actually, from the outside looking in. The main problem in the glass house was that somehow all the light was constantly escaping, and the interior burned like a furnace and buzzed like a bee. It became difficult for living, was actually not life-supporting at all. It was like a planet too close to its own sun. The inhabitants would often need to flee out of doors. The glass was quite high up- suspended, and descent was facilitated only by holding onto and sliding down one of several ropes and ribbons which hung from it, giving the appearance of an airborne jellyfish.

She would often imagine a life set somewhere else. In something called Little Mac the name of a house her grandparents had lived in. It may have been the name of the house or the name of the street, regardless it sat in her mind quite solidly. It had no questions of itself, Little Mac. It was cute and small and made of bricks, planted firmly in earth with an even number of rooms; 4 or 6 or 8. It didn't matter which. Little Mac would have gardens and sensible window coverings. If she could get there, then Little Mac would be real and the glass house would be fantasy.