Fantasy
The Fly, The Dragon And The Unstoppable Magic Of Love. Top Story - November 2022.
“What I’d give to be a fly on that wall, to be an unnoticed observer of a particular situation.” If I had a pile of dung for every time, I’ve heard that, I’d be a happy fly. Wanting to know the ins and outs of someone else’s private life, seems to be the wishes of many- but let me tell you- being an actual fly on some of these walls is not for the faint of heart.
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden4 years ago in Fiction
Mercy Kill
The eyes of the child are as luminous as the stones that encrust her skin, glowing like moons in the twilight as we share a gaze as intense and as searing as my own breath. A rich amber yellow that pierces the ever-growing darkness of the wood. These eyes know something, seem to know something about me. The pace of my hearts quickens. I should be unperturbed by a creature so small and so young…and so vulnerable. Just as she should be, were she to pick up an insect from this forest ground. Yet, she holds my gaze so intently, so unblinkingly, as if in her couple trips round the sun she has come face to face with the likes of my kind as routinely as her wingless race drinks water. And then it comes to me. The sunglow eyes, the pattern of emeralds and rubies and sapphire on her face, the sheer fearlessness. This child is the offspring of the Dragon Riders of yore.
By Charlie Botzman4 years ago in Fiction
One Day in Widderlock Valley
DRAGON INFESTATION A brief exposition on the ramifications of the sudden appearance of dragons on the flora, fauna, culture, and general sentiment of the Widderlock Valley by E. K. Bittershanks, Scholar and Historian, Sixth Order of the Chevron House, and Anna Godunkles, Current Overseer of All Things Concerning Widderlock Valley and a Few Spots Beyond.
By P. D. Murray4 years ago in Fiction
The Encounter
The festival in the elven town of Floradell was in full swing. The music hung in the air and the sounds of laughter and wonder of the townfolk could be heard through the large clearing north of the town of trees. While the adults mingled and shared tall tales and watched competions of archery and acrobatics, the chidren played in a section that was set up just for them, playing tag and capture the flag.
By doug girard4 years ago in Fiction
Dusk Dawn Flame Flyer
The cries drew his attention first, loud and sharp like a herd of goats fleeing before him. He began spiraling lower in a easy decent, searching for the sound that had peaked his curiosity. For nigh on 4 season cycles he had watched over this territory and never had he heard such a racket. In a clearing ahead he thought he saw movement. Pink white flesh next to green brown hard trees. A injured pig perhaps or maybe a cold mountain bear cub. He disregarded the last. It was the middle of the heat season on his 17th cycle and the cold sharp tall rock piles were leagues away. He tasted the air, dust and soil, decay, trees and something he could not place. Their beside a winding stream he saw it again. Not a pig he could tell but something as loud and similarly colored. He alofted on a jut of rock near the thing but far enough away to study it first lest he be the pray. A new scent reached him as he folded his wings to his sides. Blood. Lost and alone, cold and hungry he could not tell which way he had come from or where to go next. The water he found was good and he needed it but as he drank he had slipped on the slick bank and had long scratches on his hands and one long cut on his right leg. Before he knew it the tears had started, with them all of his fears came forth. Where did his parents go. Where was his sister. Why hadn't anyone found him or were they even looking. He cried out again, unable to stop the flow of tears or the cries from escaping him. A two leg hatchling sat by the water, wether it was crying from the soon to heal fresh scratches or the stick to scale mud on its face he wasn't sure but he knew it was alone. Slowly he inched forward, aware of all the sounds near and miniscule. A clacking against rock sound brought the child back to his senses. The air around became warmer as if huge lungs were taking all of the cool air away from the stream. He quieted himself as he looked around, knowing his father would have scolded him for making so much noise when wolfs or bears could be nearby. He began looking around for a rock that he might could throw or a stick that wouldn't be to heavy. He liked the idea of a stick more, for he and his sister played warrior with them. In his searching he saw a glint of orange like a fresh fruit near a rock across the stream. Curious he stepped closer, hoping it wasn't a fox like took the chickens in spring. But no its too big he thought, it must be a strange rock or maybe the sun was reflecting of the water coming over a rock. But no it was to bright and smooth. He stopped as the child saw his claw. Not even his tail twitched as he watched it watching him. What would it do. Run as it should, as all should at his coming. Stare in awe at his brilliance. He waited for the hatchling. What would it do. He froze, the gleaming orange rock had a claw. It was s big he was and way up, near the tops of the trees that were twice as tall as his home. Were a pair of sunset colored eyes peering down at him. He knew he should be frightened, should run or at least find a rock to hide behind. But instead he was angry. He was hungry and tired, he missed his family and his blanket, and he missed his sister who seemed to always know what to do. So he took up his warriors stance like he had when him and his sister had played and in his biggest loudest voice said, "You don't scare me lizard!" Lizard. Lizard. The hatchling wellp called him a lizard. Unexpectedly he growled a laugh that even the boy could recognize. This little thing that could be know more than 4 cycles old had the nerve of a snow bear and glare of a viper. He instantly liked him. Lowering his head till the boys small face was at eye level, he puffed a bit of smoke to see if he would lose his nerve. The dragons head was massive. As it lowered it head, smoke billowed from its nostrils making it seems like a sunset under a thunder storm. When it was just close enough the boy without hesitation ran under and grabbed its gowls like his father would when he played with their farm dog. The boy clang on as tight as his small hands could hold. And with a sudden glee he laughed and swung from its jaw like a branch in the breeze. He laughed and laughed as the dragon started to hum which tickled his hands and made his chest vibrate. Shocked and delighted at the sound, the boys laughter surprised him. He knew as soon as the boy had run toward him his mind was set. He would take care of this hatchling and feed it well. Where it's family was and the difficulties ahead did not matter, for this was a special child. One destined for something more.
By Gerald Davis4 years ago in Fiction
Bound and born by Flame
Dragons, the small boy vaguely thought, do not exist. That's what Papa says. The day had been bright, but the sun had gone away to hide. The boy didn't know why: he had been looking up for a while, wide eyes staring at branches leaning in and taking away all the light. Sometimes, a thing his papa called a "deer" would wander by his vision, sniffing at him, tickling him. The boy would giggle, but giggled softly, because Papa was asleep next to him, and he knew better than to wake Papa when Papa was sleeping.
By Justin von Bosau4 years ago in Fiction
And So It Begins...
Every dragon has a conscience. It may not seem so, but it's true. Even as hatchlings, we come from the shell with a knowing of what we must do. The problem is that what stirs a dragon’s conscience differs vastly from what humans think of as right and wrong. Of course, arrogant humans assume theirs is the sole notion of truth, admitting no alternate possibility. I find it odd that humans act contrary to their designated moral code far more often than any other species.
By TM Skilton4 years ago in Fiction
