We asked our readers to write a short piece of creative writing related to dragons. Here is one of the entries. It has not been edited.
There was nothing but darkness. I heard a sound behind me and turned, and came face to face with my great fear, the one entity I had hoped not to see.
A dragon master. My mother had told me stories of the demons, the enslavers, the evil that curses our lands. Fyordia was ours, just as the humans had Europe. Or Asia. Or Africa. Relentlessly I had asked my mother, why? Why had the humans come? Why did they take what was ours? Every time, she did the same thing- lowered her jeweled eyelids, and held me close with her tail. Never an answer. Never a reason why. The curiosity gnawed at my soul, ate at my being
It was a long time since then. Mother has been gone a long time, and in that moment I yearned for her to hold me close once more. Dragon masters were the epitome of terror. They had inspired the tales of the greats, elder dragons who had survived the horrors of the imprisonment. We young dragons were always convinced that humans were bad, dragons were good. Black and white, no in between. But as we grew our wings, our imaginations followed. And we began to wonder- are they all that bad?
So at the dawn of New Year (that’s what the humans called it), when the dangerous ones light the sky on fire with bright colours, when most dragons cower in the shadows, I lifted my wings and took off for mountains. As I took off, I noticed an unusual swish beside me. I turned my head and flying beside me was Gwendolyne, my childhood companion. Always there for me. When mother was taken? Gwendolyne was there for me. When I flew for the first time? Gwendolyne was there for me. And right then, when I needed her the most, she was there.
The sky darkened as the human’s fire died. We flew together across the river. We thought we were alone.
A lone firecracker whistled up from the ground, crackling as it burst aflame. The light from it threw a humans face into sharp reality, along with a hefty loaded crossbow. As the fire died like so many others, the bolt flew out from him and buried itself into Gwendolyne’s wishbone. Her tortured shriek pierced the night silence, and she plummeted like a stone into the thrashing water below.