Dee Dalsey was constantly surrounded by heroes. Big heroes. Little heroes. (One that could be either, depending on the need.) Heroes with super strength, super speed, or super senses. Not to mention the whole slew of heroes that could fly.
Yet none
Everyone knows how the stories go.
The princess imprisoned by a dragon. Then the knight comes and fights the dragon with his mighty lance and rescues the lady.
It’s a good story to tell around the hearth on a winter’s night.
There’s only one trouble with it, and I see that now:
A man and woman bought a plot of land and built a cottage and greenhouse. The rest of their earth they cultivated to full, flamboyant, leafy life, pendent with edible gems. Some tomatoes ballooned to be nearly as large as watermelons. Others reminded one
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The crone’s home lies deep within the forest, so covered in moss and vines that I almost miss it. The old woman sits on a stool by her front door, hunched over a massive tome, running her fingers across lines of text.
I adjust
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Book club invitation. Take one if you dare.
Lucy withdrew a folded slip of red paper from the acrylic display. How mysterious.
Hearing shuffling from behind the check-out desk, she cleared her throat. “Excuse me, I’d like to renew my library—”
Kaloa headed for the water, surfboard in hand. The crashing waves roared the truth he refused to hear: he kept trying to prove he was the same rider from fifteen years ago.
He duck-dived through the break and surfaced in a prime spot. One, two, three paddles—he was up.
My stroll down the block came to a halt as I caught the sign in my periphery. TIMELESS: Antiques & Vintage Goods. I could practically feel the time portal pulse with hope, though I’d shoved the former deep within my bag and the latter deep within my soul.
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Maire strode through the center of the war camp, head held high, one hand resting on the pommel of her sword. The phoenix crest on her scarlet robes identified her for anyone who still hadn’t heard the stories, and murmurs trailed behind her as people bowed and
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On Christmas Eve, Belle awoke as the toll of the neighboring church bell struck four quarters, then rang the hour with one hollow, melancholy chime. Before she could roll over with the hope of falling back asleep, the bed curtains were sharply drawn aside.
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Belle’s steps slowed as she neared the grand house. Had her heart not already been racing from hurrying to make it in time, it surely would be now. Her stomach tightened. Too many years had passed. What if he had forgotten her?
She pulled her shawl closer, shielding herself from the frigid snowfall,
Therrus wanted to hate the cold.
Thick snow spilled over the tops of his snow boots, soaking his socks and numbing his shins and feet. The frigid air assaulted him, stinging his hidden scales and causing his holographically projected skin to turn bright red. He took a deep breath, the wintry Connecticut chill sharp in his lungs
“Champagne.” The steward places my order on the tray table. “Is there anything else I can get you before takeoff, Miss Windthorn?”
“Chocolate.” I give him a winning, closed-lipped smile.
“Of course, Miss Windthorn.”
Lifting my flute high, I whisper toward the window, “Harrison, may you rot.”
I’m determined to enjoy every possible convenience
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