The reunion of Dragons

My great grandmother used to say she came face to face with the last dragon. The very story would entrap me, mesmerized as she spun her tale of the last great beast.

“I was but a girl of ten. Knobby kneed and tan from running amuck. There were no towering buildings of glass and steel, no cars puttering by on gasoline, no roads made of tar and stone. The world was still fresh, no pollution. But I saw the dragon. Oh, praise the Sun, it was beautiful. Massive wings with scales that fell like swan feathers, A head as big as a horse pulled wagon, A set of horns that twisted and curved in a graceful arch down its head and reaching the edge of the neck. And its scales. Oh, they were majestic. Appearing soft as gossamer, they shone brilliantly like small gems. The color of jewels. It was like an angel that took a beastly form.

But the dragon was dying. I watched as it fought to stand on its tree trunk thick feet. Its body was resting halfway in the pond. Her eye, a brilliant golden red watching me back. She was dying, but she was at peace, as I kept her company. I was a bold child, walking up to her, placing my hand on her feather soft head. I listened as she crooned, a sweet song that proclaimed her sadness, causing myself to tear up and cry along.

She gave me a scale from her massive breast. A feather that, if used wrong, can slice through iron and steel. With her last breath, she bowed to me, and drifted off to her eternal slumber.” is what my grandmother would tell me, mostly as planes and trains roared by our home.

“What killed the dragon?” I asked. My grandmother would give me a sweet, small smile.

“Heartbreak. That is the only way to kill a dragon. Heartbreak.”

~~~...~~~

My grandmother is gone now. But I still remember her stories. I even own the very feather she mentioned. It was a silver and blue thing, long as a butcher knife and dangerously sharp. But it was soft too. If it was carefully touched and held, the feather would be soft as a silk scarf.

Nowadays, I keep that feather wrapped in a doeskin, placed delicately in a box of carved oak. On the box were carvings of dragons, of trees and moons and suns. I felt that was an appropriate treasure chest for the feather. I kept it hidden, as I knew no one would allow me to keep a relic of the Last One. I saw in museums massive crystalline skeletons from the Great Beasts. I saw around my town many of the elders' wearing coats of their feathers, processed so they were rendered harmless. I always felt that the processing killed the value and beauty of those beauties. Luckily my great grandmother never held a coat, just that one feather. Dragons were just stories told by our elders; lost creatures rendered extinct by the growing industry of humans.

But now there is something interesting going on about Willow Cove.

Willow Cove was a small town, where most of the business drummed up was for tourists flocking in to see the sky whales. Some come to feed the cloud fish bits of fruit, even when warned not to do so. They came to befriend deer foxes, moon dogs, and Thorn birds.

But lately, there was a small string of fires. Mostly taking place in trash bins, and abandoned homes (There were far too many empty homes now.) At times, especially at night, I see small flickers of flames moving across the road, quicker than I could catch, but brighter than the streetlights.

My moon dog, Lugosi, chuffed as one of those little sparks ran by our feet. As I ran by, I heard a soft hissing emit from the little thing.

Lugosi kept his mirror clear eyes on the fading spark.

“Enough, boy. Don’t worry about it.” Lugosi whined but obeyed.

Once home, I quickly fed Lugosi his favorite aquarium gravel, and went to relax in my overstuffed chair.

Moon dogs are a peculiar breed of creature. They are canine, at least they are canine shaped. But every moon dog has silver eyes that look like miniature mirrors. The males are very distinctive. A male moon dog with be a pale blue with a mane similar to a lion, while also have tufts of hair around their feet. Their feet were quite large, two sizes larger than the feet of a St. Bernard. Each toe was tipped with a thick claw. Female moon dogs have long tufted ears and smaller but still rather big feet, and retractable claws. A female is more of a grey color, with spots that look like the moon's craters. Gender dimorphism is very prominent.

Moon dogs also have a cheap and easy diet: rocks and trash. Their digestive system was incredible. A moon dog’s diet consists of compostable remains like fruit peels and scraps, rocks and stones, plastics of all kinds, and scrap metal. Feeding a moon dog is easy. But they need to eat around four to five pounds of their food a day. Good thing an average house does make that much trash daily.

Lugosi was crunching away, enjoying his gravel, his wispy tail wagging. So, I was startled as he lifted his head and snarled at the trash bin.

“Gosi? What’s wrong?” walking over, I noticed a faint burning smell. Grabbing Lugosi’s water dish, I flung it at my trash bin, getting equally startled as the trash shrieked. And then fell over. Stumbling out of the trash was a small...creature.

“What the hell?” curiously, I gently picked up the thing by its small scruff.

It was no bigger than a large mouse, barely four ounces. No fur, no hair, but something soft. It felt like skin, soft spun gossamer. The creature, while also covered in garbage juice, was coated with a filmy slick. Bringing my fingers with my face, I smell the filmy stuff.

“Kinda smells a bit like kerosene.” I muttered, glancing down at Lugosi who was enjoying the extra food on the floor.

“Thanks for the back up.” I turned my attention to the creature in my hand.

But I recognized it. I recognize the shape.

A tiny wedge-shaped head, two little prongs that traced down its neck, four legs that were no bigger than a dandelions stem, A long tail that was flicking like a pissed off cat, And Wings. Soft, leathery wings that were large on its frame, and as I looked closer, i can see tiny down on those wings.

It was the tiniest dragon I have ever seen...not even the exhibits in the museums had specimens so tiny.

The tiny dragon hissed at me, not fighting me, but not happy. I decided to cup the creature, smiling as I brought the creature further to my face, in awe.

The tiny dragon was a red brick with faint yellow stripes like a tabby cat.

As we made eye contact, I felt something tickling my brain.

*unhand me!* I heard a small voice in my head.

“Are you...talking to me?” I asked, in more awe. I watched as the little dragon nodded.

*Put me down! I must get food!* it grumbled to me.

“What...what do tiny dragons eat? Maybe I can get it for you?” I offered. The little dragon cocked its head.

*We eat peels. From food.* it answered. Nodding, I dug into what was left in the trash, pulling out a slimy banana peel.

“Will this work?” I asked. The little dragon made a chittering sound obviously excited. It launched its little body and tackled the peel out of my hand. The little notion made me laugh.

“Glad you like it. So, are you the little fire strikers around town?” I asked. The little dragon didn’t respond. No wonder, its tiny mouth was full of banana peel. I smiled as it swallowed and finished off a fourth of the peel.

*We hunt for food. Fire bugs eat different things. I’m red, I eat fruit peels. A blue fire bug will east fish. A greenie will eat sap and juice. A smoky fire bug eats meat. We hunt, we eat. We hunt some more.* the little drake, now known as a Fire Bug, replied.

“I thought dragons were extinct. My great grandmother was the last one to see the last Great Beast. How are you here?” I asked. The little dragon made a chitter. It was laughing.

*We never left. We have always been here. We never left.*