Porchwood Hollow

Porchwood Hollow is a living storybook on a frontporch in Michigan. It is where the ordinary remembers, and forgotten things find their names again.

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  • In Porchwood Hollow, they say that every few generations, two souls are spun from the same ember. One is made of a steadfast flame, and the other of guiding light. When they meet too early, the world isn’t ready to hold them steady. Wrenlow, the Survivalist of the North Gate, teaches the art of endurance,…

  • There are two small mice who live beneath the rafters of the old porch library, in a place where dust is just another form of memory. One keeps maps. The other keeps moments. Archivemouse was the first to arrive, a silver grey s mouse with whiskers like quill strokes, and eyes the color of old…

  • A note from The Keeper: Whenever I find an item at the thrift store that seems to shiver a little when I walk by, I begin a character development on them to give them a new life and story among Porchwood. ArchiveMouse and Minnette and frequently mentioned, and the main characters in the story. Here…

  • Mr. Jim minds the planetarium while the stars sleep. When the last visitors leave and the great domed room falls still, he moves among the projectors like a quiet keeper of galaxies. His white hair catches the faint glow from the exit light, turning him almost celestial himself. The tweed jacket he wears year-round smells…

  • The moon had barely risen when the hush settled over Porchwood Hollow, Eglantine the Oracle Owl tilted her head, sensing a ripple of something bright. Then, chuff-chuff-chuff, a chorus of happy paws echoed along the cedar walkway. It was Sir Jimbly of the Warm Hearth, his bald dome catching the silver light like a friendly…

  • Gratch doesn’t say much, just enough to show you how something works, and not one word more. He lives in the back of the hollow, in a workshop that is carved out of an old cedar stump. One would guess that he carved it himself. Gratch moves about the woodshop with purpose. The smell of…

  • Before the sun even came up, Iva from across the street was already marching down the sidewalk in purple socks and messy hair. She lugged an enamel lantern rescued from the free box and adorned it with glitter glue, three stickers, and a lopsided paper star. Iva never tiptoed. She stomped, because tiptoeing was for…

  • It wasn’t always of Porchwood Hollow, before it found its place among the Hollow, The Big Red Crayon stood watch in an exhibit at the museum. It was once a towering monument to creativity, bold, silly, and important all at once. The Big Red Crayon thrived among the chaos and echoes of school groups. It…