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You’re a girl. Young. No more than five or six. You sit on the floor, legs tucked under you. Mom perches on the couch, a blanket on her lap because she’s always cold. She props the hardcover book in one hand and holds it aloft like a prize. The cover has a sheen to it;…
Listen well to tales we tell between adventures and heroes felled, for in the stories between the lines is where we live our normal lives. And those, dear reader are best untold for in monotony our hearts are bold but not heroic as with epics, they love as old enduring, Hold. We speak of sword, grand word and crown, and forget the meals, the unshaken down where all is steady content and well, and that’s where heroes prefer to dwell.