I remember being a kid. It was a long time ago, but memories are etched as deeply as the scent of grass, the sight of fluffy underbellies of passing clouds. I remember the thrill of my first solo bike ride, and finally being tall enough to ride the roller coaster.
And I remember my imagination, and how I used to play.
My playmates and I would hunt trolls, or fairies. We would build tiny rivers from puddles, and dig magical tunnels through snow banks. Sometimes I was a captured princess. Sometimes I was the hero out to save her. Always, I played, and dreamed, big.
And I liked my stories the way I liked to play. Big.
Not thick, as in War and Peace. Not large, as in the oversized-print version of the King James bible.
Big, as in: Evil has reared its ugly head again, and, again, I’m going in to save the day.