For this contest you must write a story with a dragon in it. Now I want the dragon very well decribed in this story and I'd rather it not be the normal boring dragon. I want interesting dragons, it doesn't matter what type, medeval(sp?), Chinese, Greek, whatever, just don't make it boring.
Prizes(everyone loves prizes!)
1st place: I wil read/comment/and rate three peices of yours, or one novel. (The novel will take a while, so if you choose that as your prize be patient)
2nd place: I will read/rate/comment on two of your pieces.
3rd place: I will read/rate/comment on one of your peices.
Rules(yes there are rules):
The story must be entered here by Nov. 20, when the competition ends.
You can submit two peices, however only one of those peices can get a prize.
Pieces already posted to TennInk are allowed.
Anyway have fun!!! Enjoy writing!!!
((this is an excerpt from one of my longer stories))
Ava spat on the ground, watching the moisture seep and sizzle into the reddish brown dirt. It was hot out- the twin suns glared like a giant, burning eyes laughing at the sweating inmates. Out of all the community service duties, she hated Flizard collecting most of all.
Just get enough to fill a bucket, then you can go back to air conditioning.
That’s what the warden had said. Like filling a bucket full of those little lizards was gonna be easy. She kicked the dirt, watching carefully for any scampering movement. There was one. With a quick stomp she killed it, and stooped down to pick it up. It was still hot, even through her leather work gloves she could feel the heat waning from its little scaly body. This one was a baby, not yet ready to fly. It was brownish-red, just like the dirt it lived in. Its little wings were tiny, shriveled, and partially torn from Ava’s boot. It pretty much looked like lizard with wings- a flying lizard- a Flizard. Ava tossed in her bucket.
One down, a gazillion more to go.
Ava heard someone scream nearby as she batted another Fliz out of the air.
“Must’ve got bit.”
A guy next to her said, grinning a toothy, oafish smile. Ava nodded, moving away from him. The fewer people nearby, the faster she’d fill this bucket.
Another one buzzed in front of her, and with a snap of her wrist it fell to the ground. It was a beauty- plump, goldish, and half the size of her bucket. She smiled as she fingered its spiked tail. This would save her a lot of time. A big hand shot in front of her view, grabbed the Flizard and shot back. She grimaced and was tempted to shout back, but what was the point? The warden certainly wasn’t going stop the guy and make him give her back her prize.
She grumbled, brushing a strand of dark hair away from her eye. She trudged on, shuffling her way across the cracked, dry ground. Dirt. Dirt, Dirt, and more dirt. That’s all that her life consisted of. Lots and lots of dirt.
Her train of thought broke as a singeing pain ran up her leg. She looked down to see that the ground under her leg had collapsed. There was only one thing that could mean- a nest. So this is how she'd die. She could picture the headline- "girl dies on prison planet of vulcan, nobody cares.".
She tried not to scream. If anyone noticed, they’d take her find. But the pain was bad. It felt like little coals had been poured down her shoe, eating away at her foot. Gingerly, she removed her leg from the miniature sinkhole, plucking off tiny flizards as she did. She looked down into the nest. The mother was still there sparking tiny flames from her pointed head. She grabbed her first, and then attended to the rest. There were hundreds of eggs and a few hatched ones, each about three inches long, and half of then crush by her accident. She shoveled them into her bucket and looked around. People began to notice. A couple of them called out.
Grabbing a few more until her bucket was full to the brim, Ava sprinted towards the warden’s car, the translucent, elliptical eggs rattling and cracking as they jostled up and down. A few people ran after her, while a couple went to investigate the site. She could hear some yelling, and ran as fast as she could, her leg screaming for her to stop. She slid up to the car just in time.
“Hi. Better douse’m fast, they’re about to hatch”
She breathed. The warden didn’t hesitate, and dumped the closest bottle of water on her bucket. The eggs sizzled; steam almost erupted from the bucket. The warden nodded, and made a gruff motion for her to get in the old pickup. Ava laughed, the crowd of angry inmates shouted behind her, but she didn’t care. She had almost even forgotten her leg.
I stargaze, and it is well known to my neighbors. They don't understand it, and often they call my parents and ask why in the world their daughter is standing out in the middle of the road staring at the sky. My parents shake their heads and reply, "She loves the stars," which is true. I do love the stars. But few have ever figured out why...
As I watch the constellations shine down on me from above, I can practically see them dancing and trotting across the midnight sky. One constellation in particular always catches my eye: the Hydra.
It is a mighty dragon with swirling heads that snap and blow twinkling fire at their enemies, for with seven separate minds, its moods are somewhat unpredictable. It comes to life before my eyes, with scales of gleaming alabaster and its snaking necks arching and knotting around each other. Its tail is spiked with the streaming tails of comets, its eyes glittering in the inky, endless dark. It contrasts greatly with its surroundings for one short moment, thrusting its glittering claws in the air and stretching its silver, webbed wings to soar over the sky. In that moment, though, it ceases to take off, and it fades back into the other stars before it can fly off.
I watch the pale shine of its scales become more shadowed and covered by the cloak of night, its body becoming just another few stars, out of every star in the expanse of the universe. I have to smile when its misty, silver eyes train on me before they, too fade away.
I turn toward the neighbors' houses, where they are surely all dialing up my phone number, reporting my odd behavior. But they don't see the Hydra with its magnificent neck arched and spewing a starry blaze, and they don't understand that magic that can be found in a few scattered stars.
The beast moaned, its hot breath seeming to singe the air. The smell of smoke and metal filled the night. The dragon was still, its fervid, blazing eyes staring into the darkness, pondering something.
It was a beautiful creature; its skin was like stained glass, lit by the internal Heat that burned with such fervor. If you looked hard, you could make out its skeleton, surrounded by fire. It was as if the whole dragon were made of liquid, pulsing flame. Its wings were like blankets of sparks, its tail like the trails of so many fireworks. And the most striking thing about it?
It looked sad.
The deep look of melancholy lingered in its eyes, a misunderstood, hopelessly sad stare, as if it were looking for something it could never find. With a mighty sigh, a dragon’s tear dropped on the ground, a tear of fire. The flame seeped into the ground, spreading into the grass, the rocks, the trees, and finally into the sky. The landscape swirled with that hypnotizing, destructive yellow glow, shifting and twirling in a sparkling inferno of light.
The dragon looked up into the stars and roared. The roar, although a guttural, deep and churning sound, was sweet. Like the call of a whale or the trumpet of the elephant, the roar echoed into the darkness, calling out to someone, anyone.
But no one heard.
It was alone, hopelessly alone. There was no response, no second cry. The dragon was forsaken, a single creature in a world lit by his own fire. A majestic, dazzling monster.
The last dragon.
I leaned in close as my grandmother rocked back and forth in her old, wooden chair. Her silver hair was swept back and held in place with wooden knitting needles, and the occaisional creak of her chair was rhythmic and lulling, like a slow, sad song with a tune parallel to her stories of the old days in Serpenat, Land of the Dragonlore, when dragons still roamed the wild.
"I was stepping on the tips of my toes, careful to avoid the dry leaves that were scattered across the barren, winter earth. Though I'd always had a way in the woods, even I could not escape the crackles beneath my feet, springing to life like a fire with every step I took." She yawned suddenly, tapping her feet as she rocked.
"Go on," I pressed. "I have never heard this story before." I pushed my dark brown hair out of my eyes and focused on grandmother's old, wrinkled face and the thin rims of her reading glasses.
"Well, all right. I'll go on," she agreed, but I knew that she would have continued the story even if I hadn't asked her. Still, my requests put a light into her eyes as she spoke, and an eloquence into her voice that was not present otherwise.
"And then I heard the throaty roar of Old Shadow, clear and deep, piercing my eardrums, deafening me for the moments it lasted. The cry was legendary, and anyone who continued on their way after hearing it was considered a courageous warrior. Knowing that, of course I kept walking.
"It was only after the darkness passed over the sun, casting the world into nighttime, that I realized the full extent of my foolishness. I heard the cry again, so close to me that I believed it to be speaking to me, right into my ear. Rigid with shock and fear, I looked up.
"The beast landed directly in front of me, so close that I could see the whites of its diamond-shaped eyes, slitted furiously, piercing my body and seemingly looking into my very soul. I could not make a move, nor a sound, and Old Shadow was so dark that could hardly see a thing."
My eyes were bugged as I stopped her mid-sentence. "What did it look like?" I inquired excitedly.
It was as black as death itself, and he appeared to be made of smoke rising over the dark side of the moon. His scarlet eyes said to be made of blood were keen and sharp, and contained a menacing wisdom that was spread throughout the forest when his four taloned feet touched the ground. An occasional scale could be spotted through the ebony mist that cloaked his body, his webbed wings bursting through the fog, batlike and propelling the shadows into my eyes. I shut my eyes tightly, hoping Old Shadow would have mercy on my, but when I opened them, he was gone."
"I never saw him again, and nor did anyone else, though legend says that when his being does not strike fear into the heart of a hunter, when someone passes him and does not flee in terror, then his body will deteriorate, and all that is left of him will be the foreboding shadow for which he is named."
"How?" I thought aloud. "How could he disappear?"
Grandmother shook her head slowly. "I do not know. The only traces of him were the dire cries that resonated from his throat, echoing in the slight wind.
I could almost hear them, the low roars and awful shrieks that turned every hunter from the forests of Serpenat, and as grandmother finished her tale, a shadow seemed to pass over the village, and though we saw no creature soaring over the town, it was the silhouette of a beastly dragon.
Since you have only 4 entries, why don't you extend the deadline? Cos if there was more time, I would enter :)
((OK, sorry for being late. I'm saying that Old Shadow comes in first place. And Vulcan come sin second. So, Athena, please put the three peices you want me to read here(or teh novel). And Ethereal, please post the two articles youw ant want me to read/rate/comment on.))
YAY! thank you! could you look at my pieces "keep looking" and "circulate"?
Could you read Fire and Ice, Sanity, and The Death of Life: A Creation Myth. Thanks!