Where the Wild Things Live

interior design + styling / artistic direction : state.

builder : hollis construction

photography : jenna peffley

location : denver, colorado

listen while you look : listen here

At the very end of a long street (the kind that smells of old books and rain), there stood a big Victorian house with towers, pointy bits, and stairs that whined every time you stepped on them. Inside lived a seven-year-old boy named Max, who tonight was hosting a fancy dinner.

Max set the dining table with crystal glasses that clinked like gossip and silver forks that had been waiting a hundred years for something as exciting as this to happen.

He invited his guests. Sir Barnaby Bear arrived first, wearing his permanent look of “I hope this is formal.” Penelope the Fox hopped up onto her chair, ears tucked neatly, because this was not a casual meal.

From the kitchen, Max returned with the feast.

Fries were poured into a crystal bowl meant for royalty or maybe grapes. Crispy chicken nuggets were lined up in a row, standing tall and proud.

Max dipped a fry into a swimming pool of ketchup from a silver sauce boat that had once been owned by someone extremely serious. The house watched. The chandeliers sparkled harder. The walls crept closer, curious why they had waited a century for cheeseburgers when they could have had them all along.

As the meal went on, the house began to feel wild. The shadows grew fuzzy. The wallpaper vines wriggled. A draft swooshed through the room like applause. For a moment, Max felt like a king. Or a knight. Or at least someone in charge of unlimited fries.

“Dinner is concluded,” he declared. He scooped up his guests and marched upstairs, past portraits that absolutely wanted to laugh but didn’t dare.

The big Victorian house sighed, deeply satisfied.

Because somewhere inside it, a boy had ruled a wild and wonderful kingdom— with crystal and silver, with burgers and bears, and with just enough magic to make it all perfectly true.