Short Story
Dragons!
“Damn it was cold, like really cold, the kind of cold that hurts when you breathe. I still don’t really know why I was out there in that kind of weather.”
Kris GriffithPublished about a year ago in FictionThe Legend of Noctewood
Through the thickets and brambles of a dark and mysterious wood, seeps the whispers of a legend. It rides on the wind, drips like blood, lingers like a sickness.
Logos and the Babe
'What, in the name of the Sun Goddess, is that smell?' grumbled Logos, as he slowly stretched the slumber from his enormous frame. His matte gray scales, which had long since lost their argent luster, were dappled with clinging brown leaves and a few fallen branches. He emitted a low groan, as his skeleton realigned, bones popping into place with cracks and muffled thuds.
J. A. RossignolPublished about a year ago in FictionDragon and Child
Caladriss was a dragon. The smoke shouldn’t burn her eyes, but tears fled the corners, brushed away by the cold wind that raced past her.
Joy MuersetPublished about a year ago in FictionTell Us Again
“Tell us again, Gramma!” My twin sister Helena and I squirm into our narrow bed, clutching stuffed animals and rumpling the blankets.
Eliza RaddishPublished about a year ago in FictionQuetzalcoatl
“Teta, we do not have time for stories.” “This one is important!” his father protested. “I would like to perform it for the Speaking of the Elders tomorrow.”
Sophia GeorgesPublished about a year ago in FictionFlame Touched
The dragon watched as a little girl emerged from the bushes. It had been many centuries since he’d been welcome in a settlement, but he'd spent enough time around humans, to guess her age was around two or three. He wondered where her parents might be, to let a child so young wander off on her own. At two years of age, a dragon was already hunting for its own meals. But human children were different; slower, and weaker and lacking the cunning that made their elders so formidable.
Flora NickelsPublished about a year ago in FictionHEART OF A DRAGON
I witnessed the atrocities and horrors of war. My small village was an idyllic oasis nestled among the forests and pure waterways and greenery of the countryside. We played as children do, uninhibited and free in the beautiful natural environment gifted to us by our forebears.
Guinevere's Dragon
"Guinevere..." The name comes as an otherworldly whisper to the child, floating about in her mind like the puffy white seeds of her favorite wishing dandelions. It is her name she hears, but who could it be? Mommy and Daddy are right there beside her, taking turns holding her hand as she walks between them on their weekly family hike. It is her name she hears, but it was not either of them who spoke it.
Amanda McCarthyPublished about a year ago in FictionThe Way of Things
Drae watched the thing for longer than he should have. The long shafts of sunlight cut through the trees like slices of fire. It would be dark soon, and his mother would expect him home. He was supposed to be practicing. But he didn’t want to stop watching the pink thing wandering around the glade.
The Nature of the Beast
Motherhood Yrsa awoke to a faint cry. The sound was distressing, tugging at the deepest parts of her being. She sniffed the air, locating the source of it. The dragon let out an absent-minded growl, almost a response, before dragging her large body through the trees in the direction of the cry.
Danny KamijouPublished about a year ago in FictionRum Jungle Jam
Apple crumble happily bubbling in the oven. Wine glasses scattered across the table. One hour to go until the Rum Jungle Agricultural Society began buttering up Harold Jones. It was Georgie's idea. She wrote the letter to the head of the Uranium mine, inviting him to our committee meeting tonight, promising all kinds of “epicurean delights”. This gave the letter, a touch of glamour and reminded Jones of his city home. A person like Jones doesn’t relocated to the isolated upper tip of Australia unless he’s going to make a bomb! A financial bomb, I mean. And the RJAS wanted a bit of that filthy lucre to stay in Rum Jungle.
Bec FletcherPublished about a year ago in Fiction