Deep in the forest, beside a low hill, someone built a house. Not a master carpenter, they built two rooms and a kitchen on a foundation so uneven that a dropped item might roll until it found a wall. But imperfect does not mean unhappy.
They made their own bread, they grew their own food. They had a cow for milk and chicken for eggs and a stream from which they could drink and grow. For clothes and meat, they had only what they could hunt.
Two women stayed for the rest of their days. A young man and woman came and went. They travelled as they never had before. When the child was born, he was loved and tended, and never learned the violence of his making.
Perhaps they were happy, in their own way. Perhaps they were lonely, in the usual way. But they were safe, and when a hand reached out in the darkness, they were not afraid.
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Mindless
Historical FictionThe king is dead, and the two halves of the kingdom are hearing different stories. When the guards move into the kingdom to find the traitors, the villagers stand to refuse. Told from multiple perspectives, the citizens of this isolated kingdom must...
