She irons charisma on her husband’s shirts & shrewdness along his pants’ creases. She stands behind to keep the starch in him. When he’s elected mayor, she irons elegance into her gown and wrinkles from her cheeks. For his interns, she heats up a tire iron.
In search of whimsy, a waif in velvety moss cap blithely caroled birdsong as she skipped from daybreak to nightfall, poking into cobwebs and nooks in search of oddities wherewith to adorn her slightness be it Xmas tinsel or a tender word flown free of torn paper.
The spaceships were Earth-constructions at a time human ingenuity & wizardry peaked, but no one foresaw the violence of the asteroid belt or the space beasts they called dragons. Even warded warships broke & burned like vintage matchsticks.