Fiction

Refrain from mixing feelings with mixed drinks.

He has a blonde spot, I remember thinking when I first saw him. I’m going to name it Richard.

            It’s been two years since I made that observation, my mushy mind concludes, and I still don’t know his name. I’m sitting alone at the bar, with two martinis settling in my empty stomach, but I see him from across the room. My attention turns back to my drink that sits before me, my finger tracing it up and down. The condensation on the glass beads, and my finger pushes them down, down, down to meet the cool wood on the table. I see it expand on contact, and I press the pad of my fingertip onto it, feeling the cool liquid adhere to my finger.

It had been a rough day. I rub the water back and forth between my thumb and forefinger methodically as the events flash once again before my eyes. I was inexplicably fired, for reasons I will never share, and John just broke up with me before I left the office, via text, telling me that I had too many disorders and that I needed serious help. My ego had shattered into a million pieces; my mind had turned to Jell-O, and the only place I could think to go to was my favorite bar, Martre.

As I sat with my own quiet thoughts, I came to the utter realization and fascination that the only two things I knew about this man were that he had a blonde spot (named Richard), and that he always ordered a whiskey, neat. I liked that I didn’t know him. It meant that there was still a space between us; the connection had not yet fully formed.

I wonder if he has noticed me, I think to myself as I resume the tracing up and down the glass once more. I wonder if he has a special identifier for me, like, dry martini, or brunette with bangs, or, if he’s a real special guy, maybe enchanting goddess. I almost scoff at myself, at my ignorance. I can only hope he even knows what I look like. Or maybe, I thought further; he doesn’t even have awareness of my existence. I didn’t like that thought. I hated it when my brain came up with hypotheticals. I didn’t like it when it turned against me, primarily because I thought that it was the only thing that stays with me through all this shit.

Rick, the bartender and lankiest person I’ve ever met, slides me the bill. He takes my empty glass in exchange, and I reach for my wallet. My purse is small, but it still takes me quite a while to dig around for it. When I do locate the worn leather zipper wallet, I fumble with it, my fingers feeling large and clumsy.

Once I hear the satisfying zip open, my vision becomes rather blurry as I try to take out a twenty. I spit out a laugh as I my fingers fumble over the faded bills.

It takes me a good two minutes before I hand over the money to Rick, who waits patiently as he dries an already-dry glass, a flat expression etched onto his face.

“Keep the change, you,” I say and my mouth opens slightly as I wink to him. I try to be seductive, I always do, but I think I give off more of a murderer vibe. Rick gives me a meek smile and curt head nod in return, and I begin to swivel out of the barstool.

The murmurs of the customers, dim lighting, and two martinis have made the bar turn into a bubble. I feel stuck on the inside, the cheers and laughter entering my skin and seeping through my bones. I can’t see much, my vision has turned a bit blurry, but I do still see him. I see him and I see thick red framed glasses and I see a white T-shirt I want to inhale so I can smell his smell and I see a freckle on his jaw and I see Richard, sitting right there in that little patch of mousy brown hair.

He laughs to his friend, takes a swig of his beer, and his eyes track the room when they suddenly fall upon me. I stand there, mouth slightly agape, and electric currents zing through my veins, all the way down to my toes until they shoot back up to my chest. I begin to float up, up, up above the crowd at the bar.

He gives me a quick smile and a tilt of the head, and then he places the attention back to his friend. I’m still standing there, the mixture of martinis and emotional turmoil playing a sick game on my social cues.

Eventually my feet drag me forward, and I navigate through the crowd to find the door. My hand grips the cool steel knob, and I turn slightly to look back to the place where I was just standing. That place. My heart, still beating, remains there. My mouth finds the nook in my scarf, and I bow down to face the cold as I open up the door, and am greeted with the harsh reality of life and responsibility.

Allie Antonevich is a senior at Lexington High School. She enjoys writing for her school’s newspaper, The Musket, as well as her personal writing blog, In Other Words. Allie also loves obscure what-if questions, making zines, and keeping journals of her fairly average life.

I changed shape at school again. I know I promised mom that I would stop doing it. But part way through choir practice at lunch, my notes started singing out shaky and scratchy, and I felt this crawling on the back of my neck like I didn’t fit in my skin anymore.

So I hopped down off the stage and told Ms. Leavenworth quickly that I needed to use the bathroom, and she nodded absently at me.

I was still clutching an empty sandwich bag of goldfish crumbs when I leaned my head against the cold bathroom tile and felt the world growing around me, and seconds later I was blinking through cats eyes at a sharp smelling world. I slunk out around the corner as a boy was entering the bathroom, and down the mostly empty hall. Everyone was somewhere else right then, out on the recess yard or in the library at practice or at home eating lunch.

A girl carrying a lunchbox and a book looked at me in surprise as I hurried down the hall towards the classroom. I felt her eyes on me as I slipped in the door and I waited for approaching footsteps but none came. I slunk through the legs of the desks and chairs, pushing my body against backpacks hung off the back of chairs and dangling sweaters. Then I made for the back of the room where the small bookshelf stood, and I wedged myself into the space between it and the back wall, curled up small and tight.

I felt like I needed to be safe from something. I don’t know what exactly. Mom is always asking me that. The therapist, a woman with a nice voice in a sparse office, asked me too. Everyone wants to know when I’ll stop changing and hiding. Other kids who change shape don’t do it at school, except to show off.

Other kids my age are already good at controlling it. They don’t feel like their skin isn’t fitting. They aren’t looking for somewhere to hide.

“What are you scared of, Ricky?” my mom asks when she’s tucking me in and suddenly the blankets go loose, and I am a tiny lizard, watching her with wide black eyes. I see, from a distance, the creases in her face deepening, as her expression becomes a frown—no, a look of disappointment. Is she disappointed in me or herself? I don’t like either answer.

Curled up into my little space beside the bookshelf, I tried the question again. What am I scared of? Why don’t I like being me?

I heard footsteps finally in the doorway, and wondered if it was that girl who saw me in the hall. But then I heard them approaching the corner where I was hidden, and Ms. Harris knelt down.

“Ricky?” she asked, like she wasn’t entirely sure it was me in there. The only person who always seems sure is my mom. She looks down at the squirrel on the counter and somehow she knows that it’s me. “Ricky?” Ms. Harris asked again. So to give her some indication, I uncurled a little, enough to dip my head down. She sat back, dropping from her heels onto her butt, sighing.

“Ricky, what happened? Ms. Leavenworth said you asked to go to the bathroom and didn’t come back.” I blinked at her once, and twitched my whiskers. Ms. Harris is a good teacher. She’s stern, but fair. Ms. Leavenworth is a little less predictable, but a nice choir director. She has patience for all the younger kids. I still feel like a younger kid. I worry that for me, her patience will become exhausted. My mom and the therapist are not mad at me, they’re just confused. They’re waiting for an answer. Ted C. in the grade above me, shifted into a horse once by accident, and he laughs about it all the time. He’s not scared of anything. I worry that my mom and the therapist will get tired of waiting for an answer. I promised mom I wouldn’t slip out of choir anymore. Or class. I promised her if she let me quit basketball, I wouldn’t change into anything small at recess, where I could get trampled on. Most other kids don’t have to negotiate this with their parents. Even other kids who can do what I do.

I crawled out from my corner and changed back into a human, and like pressing a reset button, my skin didn’t feel too small anymore. I didn’t feel all tingling and sweaty. I was still clutching the empty goldfish bag. Ms. Harris sighed again, giving me a smile that was sad, like she was trying to puzzle me out.

“It just happened,” I said. Ms. Harris nodded.

“It’s okay, Ricky,” she said.

“Are you going to tell my mom?” I asked, feeling my heart clench tight in my chest.

“This time, maybe we can say you just took a long bathroom break,” she said. Can you go back to choir practice for me?” I nodded, walking quickly through the mess of desks and chairs for the hallway. When I arrived at the door of the library I lingered still a moment outside, and I could hear the voices rising for the skylight inside the room, high soprano of youth ringing out in the room of worn paperbacks, metal shelves, rough carpet underfoot.

I imagined for a moment, a new shape for myself, a small songbird with emerald green feathers, the rich sweet tone my new voice would make. But I pushed open the door with small human hands and I walked into the room on human feet, sneakers with no laces. I watched Ms. Leavenworth’s eyes fall on me, and like a well-conducted choir, the student’s eyes followed. And I took my place back in the row of students, and the song soon started again.

When my skin grew tight, voice ringing up to the skylight and back to me, I stayed standing where I was, and I stayed human shaped and the songbird I had imagined in green and gold with a voice like small bells crying out, I let him fly on without me. I let him become something separate from what I am.

Penelope Evans likes writing more than any other kind of work. She studies at the University of Toronto, and edits for her college newspaper. She believes that, generally speaking, the key to good writing is adding more bears.

He was always tapping his foot. Everyone his whole life suspected he would turn out a little strange like this. A little too tall, a little too ugly. On the perfectly smooth skyrail, his tallness and ugliness was especially obvious. Connor Hall, assigned mechanic by the Employment Council, looked out of place standing inside the skyrail. Below his tapping foot, through the glass floor, the city zoomed by. Since he lived in one himself, Connor could practically hear all the noises of the expansive one below. The latest technological development, the robotic newscasters, always predicted the news hours before they actually happened. He could already hear their sickly automatic voice boxes delivering the sunny weather with metallic monotony.

To pass the time, Connor began to whistle. He tried hard to remember a song, but nothing came to him. So he made one up himself. His too-tight uniform didn’t allow for much breathing room, but grew used to it over the past couple weeks. He accepted that uniforms simply weren’t made for someone of his height. The whirring of the skyrail engines and the hushed whispers of people around him weren’t enough to dilute the loudness of his off-key tune. But, Connor thought, at least I know how to whistle at all. Most people can’t! As far back as Connor could remember, the Education Council had always mandated that children at the age of five were required to attend Council-sponsored schools, where they became subject to intense curricula intended to drive out any remnants of annoyingly childish fantasies. Like whistling. Somehow, however, his record skipped and he’s been stuck with the childish habit ever since.

Ahead of Connor sat two young women dressed in freshly pressed business attire, their facial expressions as stiff as their clothes. They glared daggers at Connor while talking loudly amongst themselves, doing little to hide their blunt opinions.

“That’s just unnatural,” the first remarked, her lips pursed in annoyance, “and he’s not even performing correctly! Only the Council Choirs are allowed to perform musically.”

“Well,” began the other, hair taut in a perfectly calculated bun, “for every litter there is a runt, isn’t there? Even at that height.”

The two synchronized chuckles that followed sent pangs to his heart, so he stopped whistling. Seeming satisfied, the women returned to their usual conversation, remembering to check their watches impatiently. The skyrail docked at the Station, where Connor was commissioned by the City Council to fix some underground pipes in the heart of Una City. At first, he was excited about the mission; he would finally be able to prove his worth to his Engineering Department back home. He would have liked to be assigned to the Council Choirs at 16, but wishful thinking was already drained out of him by then. The Employment Council was wise in picking him for the mechanic career. He wasn’t good at anything else, after all!

Outside the station, Connor swathed his lungs in musty city air. His mind was enveloped in the chrome, steely tones of the metropolis: Beeping machinery, chugging steam vehicles, hissing technologies and hissing people. The city moved like a clockwork model.

Connor walked with a light cadence, his feet carrying him to the center of the city square. The people of Una City were strangely quiet here. His eyes wandered, taking in the various gaits and languages the people practiced. After looking on at a few older, slower moving gentlemen, Connor stared at little shell-like objects caressing everyone’s ears, no doubt feeding them the news for tomorrow. Connor felt in his pocket for his own shell. It was cold.

Around a corner, he discovered some tempting fruit vendors and decided to indulge himself in an apple before getting to work. He walked around the square to the very last vendor in the row of salesmen. The old man lounging behind the apple stand seemed friendly enough, so Connor picked out the juiciest looking apple of them all, his mouth watering at the prospect of indulging himself in fresh fruit rather than his typical bland mush. The old man smiled at him and presented his open hand to Connor. When he placed a coin in the vendor’s hand, however, the man recoiled his spidery hands, his face scrunching in disgust.

“Is that not enough? I’m sorry. Here, I have more-” Connor fished through his pockets and presented a few more smaller coins to the vendor. But when he looked directly in his eyes, Connor winced at the sight. The man’s eyes were a cloudy haze, an unnatural whiteness that stared blankly at random directions. He was blind. Connor had never seen a blind man before. It just simply wasn’t the way things were. He felt sympathy for the man, and almost brought out more money to give, but he was quickly interrupted.

“Begone! Horrid creature!” The blind man raspy voice spat, “your hands. They’re unclean.”

Though he was indeed blind, Connor could sense the venom in his eyes, the blistering anger that bored right through him.

“Unclean! Unclean! Unclean!”

The blind man groped madly at Connor’s wrists before he could pull away, the apple dropping to the floor unceremoniously. The man turned Connor’s palms over and shoved them in his own face. The man’s grip tightened, his crumby fingernails digging into the soft underside of his arm, turning all fingertips involved red. People started to crowd and mumble around him. Connor clenched his jaw and managed to pry the blind man’s claws from his wrists amidst his wails. The man burst into a final teary fit, throwing apples randomly in a seething, all-consuming rage.

Connor skirted around the narrowed eyes and pursing lips, the white-hot wash of shame cloaking him in a horribly visible aura until he finally lodged himself in an alley of disquiet.

Emotions welled up inside of him, things he hadn’t felt before, or at least in a very long time. Somehow, this was freeing. His heart was racing and fluttering, as if it had grown wings, leading his feet where they wanted to go instead of where they needed to. Hoards of people scowled at him as he ran back out, and Connor immediately stopped to compose himself. He didn’t want to attract the attention of the police for disturbing the peace. So, Connor put his hands back into his pockets and aligned himself back on his engineering mission, frowning. He should have torn the apple away from the blind man’s stand when he first came up to it.

He stood above the large manhole and waited. Someone was supposed to have moved this already. Looking around, Connor saw none save the occasional rat. In this back alley, the streets seemed darker, the formerly perfect angles of the buildings tossing shadows all around him with reckless abandon, layering darkness upon shade. The air was thick with a living silence, and Connor drew a breath. Deciding not to wait any longer, Connor adjusted his tool belt and bent over to dig his fingers into the manhole cover. The silver inscription on the manhole read:

WARNING. DANGEROUS. PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

PRAISE THE UNA CITY POLICE DEPARTMENT FOR KEEPING US SAFE.

His nerves riddled his mind with excited doubts. He wasn’t entirely sure he should be doing this. Then, his heart again gained wings, feathering blood rapidly through his veins. Never mind all that, he thought.

I want to do this.

Connor’s hands shook, the exerted force threading miniscule sweat beads over his pores. After some effort, he managed to toss the manhole aside, exposing the pitch-black sewer entrance. Curious, he lay on his stomach and peered down through the hole, panting. The blackness of the plunge below complemented the gray midday shadows above. Barely visible rusty rungs invited Connor inside. Grasping the first with his hands, Connor swung his legs down into the expanse and lowered himself into the sewer. His palms itched with a strange current.

One foot after the other, Connor gradually lowered himself further into the pit, eyes fixed on the gray sky above, a small slice of the increasingly disappearing world. Connor breathed in and comforted himself with songs he did not know. He sang random words, sentences for himself and the sky above, eventually settling for a simple yet invigorating melody.

Ooo-ah

His voice echoed throughout the chamber, sending sound waves back to his own pleased ears, encouraging him to go on..

Doh De La ah…

Suddenly, he stopped. Chills echoed through his body. No one could hear me calling for help. He gripped the rungs tighter and looked back up. The sky was barely visible now. He must be almost there. No turning back now.

La Lee Lo…

His voice quivered.

Connor’s foot touched down on slimy ground. His muscles relaxed and he sighed. Letting go of the rungs and wiped his hands on his trousers, he ahead at the tunnel. Once his eyes adjusted, he could make out vague black shapes tucked in the sides of the tunnel, hunched silhouettes that gave Connor a feeling of old, of ancient things that hadn’t been seen or touched in ages. He spent time standing and wondering if any person has even been down here before. Eventually, Connor reasoned that the sewers were waste, and nobody ever wanted to confront waste. It just wasn’t the way things were done. He ran his fingers along the course tunnel walls, feeling out the brick and rough mortar, the blood circling round his fingers cooling and charging with the same mysterious energy as before. A strange wind whistled by his ear into the darkness beyond. Connor followed.

When he came upon the shapes he saw earlier, he realized they were just heaps of garbage, waste dumped into more waste. Connor cracked his knuckles with his thumbs, almost disappointed by the discovery. What if he was in the right place after all and this is just another job? Just another assignment to do, to go home and report back to the Department, to eat and sleep and work day in and day out, over and over…

No.

That wasn’t enough. It never was. To him, it just wasn’t the way. His way. He thought of the chuckling women in the skyrail and closed his hands into fists, his knees starting to feel weak. I’m not waste, he concluded. His bottom lip started to tremble, so he bit it sharply.

The slippery floor propelled him forward, gifting him a foward-facing momentum. There must be something here for him. He could feel it, could hear it calling out to him from deep inside the tunnel. It was here. A shape. Almost…

Connor stopped, blinking at what stood before him. He reached up and rubbed his chin raw, curious yet confused. In the center of the tunnel laid an old, rotting contraption. He approached it, his humid breath filling the space between him and his discovery.

It was old, very old. In fact, he didn’t even think he recognized the materials it was made of. It was in a state of decay, its curvy body rotting away, bathing in the musk of the muggy environment. At the front of the object lay ivory rectangles separated by smaller charcoal ones, the small planks aligned in a perfect line. Intrigued, Connor approached it, his head pounding in apprehension and excitement. It was in terrible condition, but he grazed his hand against the body anyway, the frame of the object still achingly beautiful. Its smooth surface was softened by layers of dust, dirt and sewage. Some rectangular pieces were missing and it stood on only three legs, but yet the craftsmanship of the thing displayed that it was once greatly taken care of. Suddenly, Connor’s foot slipped on the sticky floor and his hands pushed into the keys. A loud resonance rang throughout the chamber, electrifying Connor’s nerves. A smile stretched across his face, heart now thumping madly. It felt as if his heart wanted to burst out of his ribcage and land directly onto the instrument in front of him. But he could do better. He moved his fingers around more delicately this time. Deep and high sounds broke through the barrier of stillness, leaving Connor’s fingers outstretched and trying to reach the outermost keys.

He played individual notes. Then multiple at once. Some sounded fragile, others deep and rich. Not all of the sounds Connor produced were beautiful, but was nonetheless organic. And so, here in this sewer, Connor played. He formed a simple melody and sang along, passions alight. His heart skipped beats, but he wasn’t keeping time. Maybe, Connor decided, the world above was decaying. But here! Here there was music! Who would want to live in a world without music?

Connor’s physical body melded with his sense of sound, creating tangible, fleshy harmonies that seemed to only be extensions of himself.

In the next few weeks, Connor Hall visited his symphonic sanctuary regularly to “maintain” the underground pipes. He still tapped his foot incessantly, but now, when he whistled along, he planned new melodies that he might play. The stares were more frequent now, and he adored them. Many thought him to be mad, and he welcomed them to think so.

One day, when standing above the entrance yet again, Connor instead felt pangs of sadness instead of excitement. He looked back at the streets bustling with people, then back at his tunnel. It couldn’t be enough. He couldn’t go on hiding in waste to become waste itself.

He never returned.

All around him droned robots and robotic machinery, an opera of gilded chrome. He could hear all the deafening mechanical jargon. Connor shoved his hands in his pockets and felt for his earshell. For a moment he held it like a helpless fly in between his fingers, but finally broke it with a satisfying crunch. He looked up at the skyrails and the building above. I want to see the sky, Connor thought bitterly, I want to see the clouds. Pushing through the waves of automaton zombies, he felt hot tears slide down his cheeks. He was moving faster now. He remembered the music he created. The discoveries he had made. The beauty of it all. The passions he wanted to share with the world. The passion of free will. He no longer thought of his job, the blind man, or the stares gawking at his oddities. He was free.

Connor finally reached the grand city entrance. Looking out onto the green world, he saw in the distance small villages and even smaller cottages, areas he had neither seen nor heard of, there all the time. He looked back at Una City to shrug away that world. Not his way.. He turned back and faced the unknown ahead, whistling a tune of a song he did not know. There was more to this life than some Council telling him where to go. He wanted to find out all about it.

Connor ran.

James Vaughan is a young writer studying English at university. His passions for reading and writing have earned him many awards in the past, forming a reputation as James has won numerous local contests.

It was dark. It was darker than dark. It was pitch.

Then the light lit between my mother’s fingers. The match flared, reflecting off her eyes, Mother watched it, smiling. I could never know what she was thinking in these moments, in the silences that came before words. Her head seemed in an entirely different world.

In the cavern we sat, breathless, as she held the fire up, up until we could see the tips of the dripping stalagmites clinging to the cave’s ceiling far above.

And so she began, as she did every time the village was attacked, speaking in a hushed voice. Her words a song.

“Children,” she murmured, “remember the old days.”

She suspended the newly lit match in the air. It flickered minutely, perfectly balanced in the thick darkness of the cave. The rasping sound of a match being lit burned the air, and Mother held up another flame to set by the first. She repeated the action until we were surrounded by a circle of flickering fire. Warm light settled across Mother’s features, bathing them in a soft glow. It was then that the story came tumbling out of her chest like some great river. It came to life off of her tongue and from the depths of her being. We listened, awed.

“Remember when magic still ruled the earth, and dragons were the crown of heaven.” Her voice was mellow and smooth. Outside our ring of matches, the adults of the village grew closer, searching for my mother’s voice, just a whisper among silence.
“And a dragon ruled this land, for where we stand is a powerful place, laced with magic.” She smiled down at us. She was lovely, my mother, with downy hair like that of a baby raven and eyes that could pierce your soul. But this story always turned her weary, and lost. She was the only one with her gift in our village, perhaps the whole world. The rivers of magic were close to running dry.

“Our ancestors were foolish, however, and although dragons are peaceful creatures, they believed this one wanted to devour them.” Mother paused. “And so, they vowed to kill it, and rid the beast from their land.”

The girl ran, raced through the forest, leaves and branches stinging her bare arms and cheeks. Her eyes were streaked with unwanted tears. Her face was red and defiant. She put her hand to her waist every other moment, securing the knife dangling from her belt. Her breath came in short gasps, her chest heaved. She stopped, then heard again what had made her flee. A roar, a bellow, and a splitting of the air and earth came rumbling across the mountains.

“The dragon folk were quite peaceful,” Mother mourned, “that is, until provoked.” We looked at her apprehensively. “The maiden, sent out to kill the dragon with her magic, hid in a well, terrified by the fatal beast chasing her through the forest. She calmed her nerves and tried to steady her pounding heart.”

She stood very still at the bottom of the well. The stones were covered with moss and damp. There was a suffocating silence. And then again, a growl as loud as thunder. She was shaking. Water lapped calmly at her ankles, cold and unforgiving as the truth. Truth said she would have to kill the dragon, or it would kill her. The shattering roar grew closer. The girl’s heart turned and twisted sporadically. Her hand hovered above her knife, eyes flitting from place to place. She was trapped by her own fear and all she could do was wait.

“It was then that the dragon looked down the well with its terrible red eye, and spotted the maiden. The young girl knew the only thing left to do was fight. And fight she did. The dagger was sharp, fresh off the grindstone. The girl knew this. She knew many things, but she was still so blind to many things. She did not know how much she would come to regret her choice.”

The girl flung the weapon straight into the pupil of the dragon, straight into the endless depths of knowledge and power held in its gaze, and the silence was broken.. The dragon howled in tortured agony. A thick viscous mist poured from its eye. His bright scales shimmered as he bucked and bowed, driven mad in rage. The girl took her chance and scrambled up the side of the well.

“The maiden reached into her vast supply of magic and tore the beast’s heart in two,” Mother said quietly. Her eyes grew dark and misty, remembering.
The girl was shattered. Her magic was powerful, powerful enough to kill something wise, majestic, and beautiful. The dragon lay still and unmoving, its fading soul fluttering away on a breeze like a scrap of mist. It shimmered, drifting away tranquilly, almost peacefully. Its end had been anything but peaceful, and the girl fought the urge to cry. Her heart screeched. Her heart was the one being split in half. Her mind was the one driven mad by pain. The girl sobbed because life would go on without the magnificent creature now lying on the ground. She lay in a pool of the dragon’s crimson blood and screamed for the unfairness of life. She cried herself to sleep on the dying embers of its bones.

“The maiden returned the next day, sore and soaked with blood. Some say she died of grief. Some say she was reborn as a dragon the following day. We will never know.” We sat in silence. The matches flickered. Mother sighed, a long contented sigh. Then her tone grew dark. “What we do know, is that ever since this tragedy took place, we have been at war, an unjust, unneeded war that selfish men think is necessary. I want you to know that dragons were once peaceful, once our friends.”

We nodded, clinging to each other tightly.

“Now, children, sleep,” she murmured. And we did.

The next day we stumbled out of the hiding cave. There was a boat coasting out on the smooth bay, white froth churning up behind it. The clouds were bird feathers and the heavens were pale like watercolor and seemed almost transparent, stretched across the dome of the sky. We watched the sun rise higher, then slowly made our way back to the village, frightened of what we might find.

The dragon was gone, leaving behind them the remains of our village.

We slept on ash that night, looking up to the stars for comfort.

“Goodnight, dear ones,” my mother said quietly, “and hope for a better life, someday, hope for golden days and nights, hope for peace.” And as I looked over, her eyes flashed with fire. Then it was gone, as quickly as the wind.

Norah Brady lives in Boston with her family, two cats, a typewriter and many, many books. She has been published in Stone Soup, her school’s literary magazine and Write the World’s collection: Young Voices Across the Globe.