A Fortress is a fortress is a fortress

I walk into the house just as the smallish bandits, pirates, and cowboys dash through the living room brandishing colorful weaponry.

Some tend to be softish, others–bullets made of foam, none lethal, although all inspire the requisite awe in the dogs, certainly held at bay.

There is a formal request for pillows to be requisitioned for a fortress.  The Quartermaster readily assents, asserting that a fortress is a fortress is a fortress.

Suddenly every camp, garrison, base, castle, encampment, barricade, stronghold in the annals of history forever bound to this laughter, this moment of joy, this pillow…


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