I may as well start with the dragon. A load of shit happened before this, and a whole lot more happened afterwards. I could write a novel. An epic trilogy in four parts. But fuck it. If I was in a movie theatre expecting to see Dave’s Dragon or whatever, and after an hour a whopping great flying lizard still hadn’t materialised, I’d be like, Hey, I paid good money here. I even bought the nachos with extra fiery chilli peppers. This bitch best not be allegorical or I’m out of here.
Anyway, the dragon: it was big, and black. Wait, that was terrible. Rewind. It looked like a mountain with wings, iron oxide scales gleaming like oiled armour plates. It tried the usual intimidation strategies: stretched its wings, cracked the sky with a thunderous roar, toppled telegraph poles like dominoes, etc. I wasn’t scared, though; I had the ring (long story short—tear in the fabric of reality, hairy old wizard, mystical McGuffin, reluctant hero, yada yada). I was more pissed off that the freak had fucked with my Wi-Fi. Bastard.
It turned, slowly, and shot a white-hot flame in my direction. I jumped out the way and retched into my mum’s daffodils, just like my dad after a heavy session. I couldn’t help it. Trust me, if you took a lungful from a dragon’s turd cutter, you’d paint the town yellow as well.
My dad keeps a replica Kill Bill sword by his bed. Yeah, right. Like he trains as a samurai between collecting welfare and getting shit-faced at Big Sal’s. I unsheathed the blade when the dragon peered into my bedroom. What else was I supposed to do? Prophecy my ass. This was about survival.
The dragon shuffled around. I ran in a half circle, away from its butthole. I took the last hit of my joint and flicked the roach into next door’s garden. Fuck that honey trap and her yellow roses—mum would approve. I read in the Aphasia Annals (that’s Annals, and don’t ask) that dragons have a weakness between their legs, an unprotected spot that just so happens to be the perfect size for a well-timed legendary arrow. Or a sword.
I ducked under the dragon’s flicked tail. A picket fence splintered behind me. Rose petals filled the air—ha, bitch! I looked up at what I hoped was its stomach, but I couldn’t see a damn thing. I grabbed my phone, hit the torch. It buzzed in my hand. Fuckballs, she has a talent for this. Always when I’m watching porn, or about to get an all-time PB on Flappy Bird. Any pivotal moment of my life.
Hi, mum. Yep, yep, cool. Everything’s fine. The trash is out. I know, I know. The sprinklers are (duck, crash) fixed. Yep. What? Oh, nothing. I’m watching a movie. Er, Dave’s Dragon. Yeah. Allegorical. Fighting his demons, that kind of thing. Yep, OK, you too. See you soon. Bye.
Torch. OK. Where is it? Nope, nothing. Wait. Holy shit, X marks the spot. I plunged my katana up to the hilt into the throbbing, swollen spot that pulsated like a cracked heart. I expected the beast to scream, or spout lava, or fly off dripping blood like engine oil. I didn’t expect it to explode. Guts and brains and blood everywhere.
I turned around; something green and wobbly like ectoplasm slid down my fringe and splatted onto my sneakers. Nice.
The dragon was gone. The fact that the roses never recovered was an added bonus.
I survived, just like the daffodils.
Christopher M Drew is a writer of s(h)orts. He lives in Sheffield, UK, with his wife and two children. His work has appeared in various places in print and online, but he won’t bore you with the details here. If you’re interested, you can check out his Twitter profile @cmdrew81. He has to admit this is probably one of the worst handles ever created, but unfortunately it’s too late to change it. One day he would actually like to write an epic fantasy trilogy, but this will have to do for now.