A Tale Among Tales

If the vast amounts of stories shared through songs and texts of old truly exemplified the nature of tragedy and destiny, one would be forced to conclude that all great adventure begins a cold, dark, stormy night. The severity of the weather, of course, would ominously prophesize the chaos to be unleashed, wrecking the right amount of surrounding structures to strike any observer with the appropriate amount of apprehension.

A mysterious character would unearth a cryptic prophecy to precisely the WRONG people, leaving the night to invariably end with a terse promise of bloodshed. Cold, frightened, and terribly hopeful, the meek people overhearing their future salvation would silently await their golden hero to save them. The evil ruling them, lashing out and cursing, would vow to destroy their “so-called hero” and rewrite the story that would have been set.

Unfortunately, ours is a story that can hardly hold a candle to the dramatic beginnings of its predecessors. While other storytellers

holler and yell in the town square, the poor chap telling ours will be stuck with their normal timbre, describing a rather cheerful, bright summer morning.

What was particularly interesting about this morning was the complete lack of distinguishing features it had to boast of. See, every day has a tiny, notable detail that sets it apart from the rest: a new ear-splitting bird call, a fashionably late sunrise, or even a new national interest in crispy bird stew. But this morning did not have a single thing. It was the most tediously average morning to dawn in centuries.

The wind rustled the trees just hard enough to avoid being noteworthily gentle, and just hard enough to avoid being memorably violent. The sun rose cautiously, frustratingly punctual as it tread the same path it had followed for millennia. Its pace—its glow!—a perfectly poised performance of calculated competence. The usual cacophony of bird cries adorned the air, the occasional shriek shattering eardrums at the same rate