There are stories that surround us, family stories, those told to us by friends, read, watched and listened to, accidentally or with purpose. These stories are the echoes of those who went before, who up until now have been unseen, unheard but now remembered through the cathartic rambling through history’s back lanes and pathways.
Sometimes, those stories still have life, continuing alongside our own daily lives unseen but still sensed, releasing a second-thought provoking moment that checks us in our ever so busy stride into the future. Could this be the reflection of time before or did something linger to walk with us, accompanying our footfalls and watching the paths we take, as darting swallows in the dusk of a setting sun, more sensed than half seen and heard.
Everybody seems to have them, believers or not, sensing the weird that engulfs the quiet, dark corners of our lives. Some may shout, relishing the attention and glamour, others shy away from the limelight, nervous of mind or reputation. One thing lasts – the stories we tell, in whatever form we choose. These are those stories, sought out, collected and told to a new world, whilst the old world looks on from those faded shadows of time.
These are the stories of The Hidden Rabbit, and the long hidden tales from The Burrow.