ha, that was fun 🙂

I had grown up so jealous of my peers who had letters and notes written to the nuns returned to them. It was always on their 16th birthday: the day they could choose to leave and find their family or simply leave and find work instead. For each letter, I'd sneak into the group of older kids, ignoring their size and bitter eyes just to listen to the words read aloud.

We never wanted to leave her....

Please God forgive me and may she find the life I couldn't provide...

I beg you to keep her name, my mother's name: Ophelia.

That letter had left me to wonder eternally if my name was given with love or had been arbitrarily placed in convenience. With a name like Mary, I had a sinking suspicion it was the latter. I stopped stitching it in the pink thread we were given to mark our clothing. If not even my name wasn't my own, what did it matter if the right dress came back to me?

The orphanage wasn't terrible in any one way. We learned table manners, maths, embroidery, dancing. We learned to sing and read music, and if you had a special proclivity for the reading Mrs Downs would even take you on to teach you violin or piano. There was a garden with grass rather than just stone, and stray cats were attracted to the mice hypnotised by the grain store in the shed.

We learned to make our own dolls and dresses and toys and though we cleaned and cooked, the maton we worked beneath was cheerful and, if not kind, not cruel.

What was terrible was the unspoken lack of want. What was terrible was the way children affronted at birth would try to grasp at belonging: conspiring their way into hierarchies, stepping on toes and standing on others' shoulders to reach for the nuns who could never be a mother. What was terrible was the lack of smiles even amidst all the arts, the grey weather and grey skin and grey eyes and grey clothes.

"Go away!" became my most powerful words, letting me find solace. I was rarely bullied, perhaps because even when young I was tall and strong and commanding. By the time I was angry enough to make a demand, it was listened to: "Put my doll down! Leave my book alone! That's my dinner; give me my dinner!"

With little note, I became one of the older kids with weight to throw and a wall behind my eyes that let people know they would not be let in or forgiven. One day, there was only one girl older than me. With just two months left of hope for my own, she received a letter creased and yellowed, one line smudged by damp.

Let her know that the moment I saw her face I loved her very, very much.

"I knew it," the most recent girl whispered. "I knew she loved me." The others stirred and the circle of grey pinafore dresses broke apart. Some girls walked on with looks of weary hope that they would have a letter too; others, with jaded conviction that they would have no such thing. I swallowed and wondered for myself.

Surely I would have one. It was just on the edges of my memory: a thick, firm hand squeezing my own too hard, my steps stumbling as it flung me toward a nun. A letter pinned to my pinafore that tickled the left of my chin if I moved my head a certain way. I refused to believe this arrival was a dream or a half-remembered story of someone else's.

Days ticked by in seconds: thousands of heart beats and breaths slower than dying--or so I imagined.

Finally, it was my birthday. I was lined up at breakfast the same as anyone else, at the long tables dotted with plates and ticked with sets of silverware. Grey dress after grey dress covered in grey cardigans, black shoes polished against worn floors. Tea and toast steaming not from freshness but from the chill of the building.

I'd stopped eating. I didn't have the appetite as I waited and wondered. My hands were pulled into the sleeves of my cardigan for warmth, but I remained chilled. I moved through my last day of classes ghostlike. There was nothing to say. These classes would never be relevant to me again. I would either return to a family with prayers on my lips and knees ready to beg or I would strike out and find work in a factory where even if I sang beautifully, no one would hear over the crush of machines.

At midday, after lunch and during our free time in the garden, the nun finally came for me. Sister Michael Anne, habit whipping in the same wind that the younger girls screeched and jumped rope in, shoes uncovered by the flapping of her floor-length skirts.

The letter she handed me was on creamy, thick and quality paper. I could see from the indentations the handwriting was perfect, able and steady-handed. I felt for the first time joy in a rush of blood to my cheeks, my heart pumping an extra beat to warm me.

But Sister held onto the letter for a moment as though she might never give it over. Our eyes locked for a second too long. Her gaze was soft and then she seemed at last to steel herself and hand me the letter. Her other hand gripped my shoulder with a slight, surprising squeeze. The nuns rarely touched us: only as younger girls needing scrapes cleaned and plastered.

Others gathered silently around me as though for mass.

"To the Sisters of St. Peter's House,"

My voice shook as I began to read aloud.

"Please take into your custody this girl child for as long as you should have the legal power to do so. She was born to my wife on May 2nd, 1896. She has been a..."

My throat closed, trapping my voice so that I could only swallow the words. Quickly, with sharp words, I folded the letter and pocketed it. The girls looked at me, shuffling uncomfortably but still too curious to leave; too hopeful that even orphans could be loved somewhere, somehow.

"Go away." I needed only to whisper. They shuffled off, slow and silent.

She has been a curse since. Her silver tongue has beleaguered this family, ending in the madness of my poor missing (dare I pray, not late) wife. She is a demon with a persuasive hold over all she meets. I hope to never see her again for as long as I shall live and have crossed several counties to bring her to yourselves that she may never return. That she remain afar as I wish to never see her again."

The memory itched at me just as that very letter once had, pinned to my chest.

A woman's hands shaking against my own. I had thrown a toy. I can remember it was red though not what it was.

"Come dear, it's time to calm."

"No!"

"There will be other days."

"No!"

I couldn't remember what it was even about, some foolish child's tantrum.

"I never want to see you again."

A sigh of hurt and exasperation alike.

"Just go far far far away and leave me alone!"

I had always assumed myself like so many others: fatherless by law, motherless by death. I had always hoped myself unlike so many others: mother and father somewhere far away, making their fortune while they awaited their sacrificial lamb's return.

I could remember her now, gaze going blank, not because she was an orphan bereft but through some stupor. She stood and walked, plodding. I could remember not my surroundings or even her apparition but only chasing. Chasing and chasing and calling and her moving only faster and further. Until those hands I could only just remember on the steps of the orphanage clamped down on my shoulders shook me told me to shut up and never speak again.

Instead of my assumptions and hopes, I was a monster. Instead, I had wished away that love which myself and those around me would have died for. Alone on the grass as the wind began to whip rain against my skin, I closed my eyes. In a life of bitterness, sometimes it is the punches that makes a person laugh.

And that was what I did: I laughed and laughed and laughed because screaming isn't seemly, because sometimes there is nothing left to do.

I laughed and laughed and laughed.

Because who in this world can say they've made an orphan of themselves?

"Well, spank me hard and call me Rhonda. That do be a good deal don it?" 'oh shit... oh no oh god.'

"Hey ignore what I just s" A sharp pain hit the hind of the young lady.

"You got a firm ass there Rhonda." The salesman said with a horrified look on his face. 'Oh lord, what did I just do? Why did I do that?!'

"uh, y... young lady I don't know what just happened there". 'Oh god, I cant even think straight.'

The young lady realized watching the reruns of the king of queens last night was a bad idea. 'Well I guess I'm getting a discount today' She thought with a shrug.

"20% off right now and add the 1 of each freebie. I know yall normally only give 1 out, but I think I deserve it after that smack?" The young lady struggled at keeping a straight face while grabbing her bag.

----

"Damn Ron, what's up with that sale? You gonna lose your spot as our top salesmen if you let them young ladies haggle you like that. Here I thought you were weak for men. "

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Np! I already have many ideas on how this story begun

I figure it would be best to leave this up to interpretation as to what happened both before and after these events, but thank you for the compliment.

Hey the creature maybe was the one in the reciving end.

im a smart boy. daddy always says so. i learned my shapes, and my numbers up through hundreanone!

I found a book! a hidden book (its a secret shh!) it told me that wizards could cast spells and make potions and shoot fire and prrrrrshhhh!

and I am a smart boy! i could be a wizard! i could make a potion! iknow where daddy keeps his potion Ingredience! i can mix 'em up nice and good, and then if I say these special words and wave my arms right (i can wave my arms real good!). i can tell its ready cause it starts smoking, like in the pikchurs!

and then I drink it up! and it burns like magic does (phwooosh!) and then I'm here! and it worked!

i missed you mommy! daddy said you had to go away last year after you lost all your pretty hair. but now im here! and we can get back to cheer daddy up for his birthday!

...why are you crying mommy? and what's that bright light?

The problem, Walter thought, was that the witch had never set a time limit. He'd been young when he insulted her, a spoiled little brat spitting on an old woman. How she could do something to someone so young, he did not know—children are often little brats, especially young princes. He knew this to be true. To turn a child into a frog, and with such a specific stipulation, though, was cruel. He had grown up as a frog, and come into his own as one. The knowledge of running a kingdom seemed a distant memory, and when a princess finally came along that could free him from his curse, he didn't spare a thought toward his current life, remembering the splendors of his royal hall, the glittering gems of his mother's crown, all of the luxuries that coming with being a prince among men. Running a kingdom was a very old skill, but he'd have to blow away the dust and cobwebs and put his mind to work.

As promised, he offered Anna a place at his side as queen. She blinked, and gave a tiny smile at the offer. "Walter, I'm sorry, but... I have never heard of the kingdom you speak of. Perhaps your time as a frog has addled your mind?"

Resting a hand on his arm, she said he was welcome to stay here and become the king of her lands, if so desired, though it sounded like the kingdom he belonged to was much grander. Perhaps he should look at a few maps?

He did.

And then he spoke to the librarians, insulted at how these maps must obsiovusly be wrong, until finally a man with a beard down to his stomach suggested he speak to a historian.

The kingdom of Sauer had not existed for about 200 years. The last king, Hugo Sauer, had gone mad with grief when his only son disappeared and died 6 months after Walter Sauer vanished. The queen had ruled as best she could, but it was not long before the neighboring kingdoms started to enclose their borders. The legends say the queen vanished, and with no one left to rule, it was not long at all before the royal family of Sauer was gone, and with it, the kingdom. The people called it a small mercy that the king had died before his wife disappeared, just like his son had.

Walter had been a frog for two centuries. Never aging, never dying. Stuck, in a pond, in a different kingdom. Every last person he knew was dead. He'd known his friends would be older, would maybe not recognize him as a grown-man, but he had dreamed of telling his cousins of his time as a frog, of sparring with his father, of telling his mother of all he had learned about flowers and plants.

He lasted a week with Anna. It was not her fault, not at all—she was not the kindest princess he had known, but she cared for her people, and it was not like he was kind either. Her father was a bit disgruntled at having a so-called prince with no kingdom set to marry his daughter, but his wife comforted him with the fact he had other sons to marry for political advantages. The castle's staff were welcoming enough. The people of Meyer were hard-working, and kind, and did not mind an addition to the royal court.

It was much like home, but it was not, and therein lay the problem.

Who would give a child such a terrible curse? Who would force them to live as a frog for so long only to return to the human realms and find the world they knew was gone?

Witches lived for a long time, Walter knew. There was a good chance she lived yet. And if not, he could find another witch, and beg them to turn him into a frog, and let him age this time.

Welcome to the Prompt! All top-level comments must be a story or poem. Reply here for other comments.

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That's so sweet!

the mention of Lyraxa only midway through the story was a little disorienting. Should I have known who she was? Is that his mother's name?

Otherwise, well done!

"Raise the dead," they said, "It'll be fun,' they said.

Ok, they never said that. The one thing they did say was never to experiment with necromancy. Surely, resurrection didn't count though, right? That's animating skeletons and liches and stuff. This should be a positive thing, at any rate.

I guess it helps to know who or what you're resurrecting, though.

Magic is hereditary, and while nobody knows exactly where it began, and sometimes an anomaly does pop up, for the most part magic runs in the blood, and it's that simple. As such family lineages go back at least a few hundred years for most, a thousand or so for a few select families. Know someone who was "descended from Charlemagne"? Chances are they're magic. Or full of it.

In any case, nobody's lineages go back much past that, and right now you were sincerely wishing they did. With a few fateful words you had brought back to the world something that should have stayed dead - that you wished had. And it was sizing you up.

Sanavar, The End of Hope, among other epithets, stood before you, and when they spoke, your marrow chilled in your bones. "Greetings, my progeny." The words were... felt, not heard. "You are powerful for one so young."

Stammering you answered, not exactly knowing what you'd say as the words dribbled out. "Thank you, I'm a bit of a natural" you said, already feeling like being too proud of your accomplishments today is a mistake. Still, you babbled a bit because you knew who you were speaking to, and didn't know what else to say. "I mean, I study whatever I can get my hands on." The spell you'd pulled out from the abandoned magical library lingered in your mind. Casting your eyes to the floor, if only to break the gaze of Sanavar, you fumbled behind you to bring the scroll forward, the thought of a way to undo this passes over your mind.

Seizing upon the dusty parchment and bringing it around in front of you, you look up and suddenly realize Sanavar towers directly in front of you, and they reach out and snatch your wrist. "Old magic indeed," a voice of flame and smoke reverberates in your mind as they appraise the scroll, as your wrist feels frozen and smoldering at once. "This place is a source of immense power, and you were wise to try this ritual here. By our wisdom we shall make of you our Emissary to this world, and you shall bring them under my heel. Kneel, progeny."

Wrist still in an iron grip, you do as commanded. A hand that seems to shimmer in reality, there and not, reaches out to touch your forehead. Your free hand behind you, and with all your concentration, you make a symbol that your master taught you, something to be used in direst emergency. Finishing not a moment too soon, you feel an inrush of seeming incomprehensible thought, and the realm around you swims and shifts.

"Rise," commands the voice of terror. Shakily clambering to stand, your vision swims violently in a manner you've never contemplated. Behind the unholy being a light so bright it causes you disorientation and pain explodes into view, a luminous being emerges. Hearing your name as if from a great distance you wince and double over, only feeling the aftermath of what happened.

Sanavar roared as the blast of magic impacted them, and you felt the blastwave washed past you. Glimpsing him from between Sanavar's legs, your old master and grand master of your order completed another spell lifting Sanavar off the ground and into the wall behind you. Scrambling to your feet you summon what energy you have and steady yourself as Sanavar prepared to counter attack.

Remembering a spell you'd once read through the brain fog, your master's blast was caught and deflected by Sanavar as if he'd sent a training flare. Adrenaline slowed your perception of time and seeing an opening, you unleash a swarm of razor-like voids in space. It tore at Sanavar's flesh, and over the sound of pain, in your mind you hear that darkest voice in rage and shock, "You dare to attack with my own magic, progeny!?!"

Mid summon, your master was staring at you in something between appraisal and horror. Focusing to clear your mind and appreciating what had just been said, you realize you never studied that spell, or even heard of it.

Like a splinter in your mind, a spell calls to you. A brief flick of your wrist sharpens your recollection, the memory of the scroll you'd had before clarifies. Sanavar, seeing the curl of your lip, takes a defensive stance, ready to deflect your spell. A complex twisting produces a burst of electricity in the air. Directing your motion directly at The End of Hope, the deflecting spell starts, but stops as quickly as it started. A gentle gust of wind enters the room through boarded up windows, and Sanavar fades to mist.

"Master, I..."

"We will talk about this," he says sharply, but then, softening, "after some rest."

"And much more," you think to yourself, without meaning to.

Your master's eyes widen in shock.

twist: it DID bind Horus to Ezra, but in such a way that so long as HORUS lives, EZRA lives. The catch being that it does NOT go the other way. Horus leaves Ezra for dead, and he is dead, sort of, but his body just works to heal him, and he wakes up a few hours later, no worse for wear

Day after day, night after night, for months, her pride, imagination and excitement had been her fuel more than any food, water or air. But for the first time for a long time, she felt her resolve waver. Time was running out. It had always been the case that any dragon which might be trained would imprint upon it's rider, for life, within weeks of emergence from its shell. As mid winter and new year beckoned, hope gave way to worry. If these remaining four dragons should not take to her, she would be the first in generations to be rejected by the dragons but above all, they would be 'released'- Put to the sword before their predatory instincts kicked in the absence of commanding imprints. They simply would be to unruly, rebellious, dangerous to release. As she held out her hands to receive a playful leap from a hatchling, glorious lime green scales dappling orange fire light about the room, the dragon instead bound towards its batch mate. And Tamaine began to mourn.

—

The fire had died with Tamaines hope and spirit. Cold was the stone beneath her knees, the taste of salty tears crossing her lips on her tongue. Cold too was the rained soaked fabrics of flags enveloped around four still forms, their dank smell a poor cover for the coppery odour beneath. The fire had died with four young dragons, released before their time for their own good. For what was life without obedience to a rider? Snapping jaws, soaring heights, searing flames…

Soaring heights. They would never know what it was to soar. To roll and pitch, to feel the wind beneath their patagium. To hear their bellowing roars echo back through the valley, to catch the light of the sun when they break through clouds and to fill the night sky with streaming fire. Things they could do without her, or with her, which added another level to her grief. She had learned so much to give them their best chance as she swore in summer she would. Her and her dragon. Tamaine and Tamador.

Now no-one would speak their name, nor would they speak of these dragons. Her dragons.

They would be forgotten and she would be forced to live her life in the pity of the village - they would not give her the opportunity again, history taught her that. She could recount those of the Sworn-less even before her lessons, the list of those unfortunate names to which now people could add her own. Next to these dragons though, nameless and young, that meant nothing.

She could feel them beneath the material of the standards - still warm. As adults, their blood would run cold while their bellies would heat them, the gift of the fire granting them vitality. In youth, their blood would run hot in the veins but now, it ran tepid and thick around their throats. She felt this of the nearest dragon; with a gentle caress, she felt the narrow stretching cut across it's leathery skin, her fingertips given a slickness as the life blood there continued to vainly clot. She withdrew her hand and, from the dying daylight leaking in from the smoke light in the ceiling, observed the burgundy fluid upon her digits through tearfilled eyes as her sobs racked her again. Her throat burned, her anguish choked and grated her inside so she could only painfully, quietly shake. Alone. She forgot the touch of a comforting hand as soon as it had left her, whenever that was. She didn’t need any pity or comfort or anything anyone could think of giving her. Though Tamaine herself would have given anything to have these beautiful dragons playing in front of her again; even if they never answered to her names, however long she tried. She would try anything to that. Anything.

At that moment, at that joyous time in summer, she recall the words of that voice. Not the comforting exciting words, the shocking words which made the fire rise and her skin crawl. She stared in the flames because she knew she must, her Ma and had taught her that. But her ears had heard every word, eyes remembered the hearth and the dark words burned into her memory like dragon fire. Tamaine raised her hand again to regard the vital liquid in the light, before drawing it upon her face from forehead to chin. With several steadying breathes, she swallowed and opened her mouth to speak into the silence, above the dying coals.

'Iyyaak bluueh maste, maste inn dyuuk a baak, Iyyaak bluueh maste, maste inn dyuuk a baak’ she whispered, ‘auuborivi aaeuh iyya beete ilyyaak teeuk' she continued- words she had never spoken nor heard before formed on a her tongue, contorting in ways it never had before.

Foreign, strange syllables started in her throat and ended beyond her lips, into the stirring air of the yurt. The coals of the fire began to glow anew, taking on ethereal shine as bright as distant starlight, the blood marking her face grew slick and ran as if from a fresh wound, dripping like rain upon her knees and the stone beneath; so to did blood run afresh from the dragon whom held Tamaine's hand upon it's split neck. It's unsplit neck, as the flesh closed and swelled, breath expanding the creatures form, beginning a familiar rumbling purr. The flag cover ruffled and drew back as the dragon gently rolled, it's head dragged across the stone to crane towards Tamaine. The words died in her throat as its eyes met hers for the first time. 'Tamador' she said to the lime green dragon. There was no answer as it watched her gaze but it’s tail began to gently skitter across the hard stone floor.

With a disbelieving gingerness, she traced an unsteady hand down the bumpily scaled nape, over its boney shoulder and along it’s fledgling wing, between spine and thin membrane. This one, this drake, lived. He would be Tamador. So she was so sure. But for the others, this was just the start. With a loving hand resting a moment on his snout, she ambled around the fire to the next dragon. With cautious enthusiasm, she dropped next to the rose shaded body, took blood from its throat and lined it again across her face. With her eyes upon the hearth, she chanted the words again; her heart skipping as she felt the process repeat and dragon stir to life. Tamador joined her, nudging her flank, coughing and calling through rasping breathes for the dragon to join them in the yurt from the otherside. And Tamadira did.

The fire now well and truly ablaze kicking hot embers over the stones, hope and energy rushed through Tamaine as she pulled her dragons back to life, one by one. Where once sobs and sorrow rocked her body, she shook as a chorus of laughter burst forth from her mouth. Laughter seemed as foreign from her as the darker languages. It did not occur what they make think outside, if anyone should wander by. Nor did it occur to her what they may think when they discover her like this, under bloodied madness and four dragons summoned back to vitality. What did occur to her was the only problem now on her mind; what was she to name these dragons?

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Summer solstice in the valley of Sempa heralded many things; the festivals of splendour and colour, the fresh water fish migrating upstream and trading caravans hauling the freshest of goods across the valley bowl. Most of all it heralded the coming of the highest, proudest creatures of majesty outside the race of men; the dragons - a time the sun reached its zenith and the warmth and love of all the daylight poured through the seasons bounty of eggs, giving the little dragons in their little shells their little heart beats. With that, the years expectations turned from the human young of the village, their hopes and smiles in their hot blood and fair skin, to the yet-unborn offspring - that of the dragons in their bumpy, oddly rubbery casings. In the lit hours, this seasons eight eggs rest upon thatched thickets, basking so serenely under the sun, drinking the starlight greedily.

However, by the night, they are hosted by the adolescent women of Sempa, positioned lovingly beside a roaring coal fire inset of a stone hearth at the heart of large yurt. The heat of the flames gave the eggs their comforting glow ; a nurturing gift from nature, but to Tamaine, whom was the first every night to tend to the eggs, it gave her stifling conditions and sweat upon her brow; not that she minded at all- this was her year. Her season. She was getting her dragon! Just like her Ma before her, and their Ma before them! The beginning of the rest of her life as a dragon rider, a defender of her valley, a hunter, an entertainer. A true daughter of the sky. As she adjusted her last egg, she paused to wipe the sweat from her forehead and a little wetness from her eye; forget the fire blazing inches from her face, she had never felt so full of pride in her life and that fire licked and filled her from head to heart to toe. Sitting back onto her heels, knees feeling the stone a little through the deer hide on the floor, she continued her revelry as often she had; Dragon names.

There was something of a tradition in her family to take the initial letters of their name when their dragons were entitled. Her mother for example, named Sumaine and her dragon Sumador. Her grandmother Terraine and her dragon, Terador. But while she rested, she knew already what the line was likely to be at their debut in The Great Reception, 'step forwards in glory; Tamaine and Tamador!' She wasn't opposed to Tamador but it was fun to fantasise. Firedor? Granidor? Strawidor? Perhaps the naming tradition wasn't a bad thing after all. As fine as she was at carving decals and murals (including those handily crafted around not just the hatchery cradles and yurt but also around their village), she was admittedly poor as a scholar, though she was determined to do her best in the riding training in the future. Better than her brothers at the very least- they had been stuck as smith mates for years as they enjoyed drink and womanising more than they enjoyed learning to hunt. Utterly shameless. Not her though, she was going to be the best of her year, better than the rowdy feminine rabble whom loudly, tactlessly yanked aside the yurt's flapped opening and filed in.

'I knew you'd already be in here, you're always in here' Maudny muttered striding to the furthest of the eggs, dropping to hold it in a deep embrace. 'Trying to make sure they imprint on you first? As if, we'll end up sharing them before they come to you'. Tamaine grinned toothily- she wished they would.

'They'll try and eat you with that face' another added with a sneer, her woven shawl embossed with Umera in gaudy red thread. 'They'd rather die than be stuck looking at your face'. Tamaine drew her eyes towards the fire, avoiding any further eye contact with them. They were always like this but her Ma had told her how to handle them. They will be bored before long, just look to the fire instead she had said.

'You'll be like one of the mad ones - them with the blood on their faces trying to bring back the dead' Keeta whispered sinisterly from her left. The girl had covered her pale face and her egg with her flowing hair, black as pitch. As dark as her humour, even for a girl so young, as snippets of a snarl could be seen between the colourless curtains.

'Iyyaak bluueh maste, maste inn dyuuk a baak' the last of the wretched group began to utter, quietly at first. 'Iyyaak bluueh maste, maste inn dyuuk a baak, auuborivi aaeuh iyya~' she continued, her voice rising, willing and pulling at Tamiane's attention, fixed upon the fanned flames reaching higher towards the ceiling.

'Who is that? Ilamen, is that you!?' a shrill call came from outside the yurt, halting the girl from her foreign chant before the flushed face of a woman parted the flapped material and delivered a scouring stare. 'I have told you before, you are not to read aloud your brother's transcriptions - It is a dangerous hobby.' The late evenings humidity blew in a fresh as the lady drew in, lording over the room and the girls the same. 'The bloodied mad ones are mad for a reason and your brother would do well to remember that.'

'Oh Miss Denty, there is no dead here, why are you afraid?' Maudny complained. She had never feared the Hatchery Keeper, but rather through obnoxious ignorance than bravery - it had probably never crossed her mind that at some point, the portly woman could bar her from the hatchery, and so end her ambitions as a dragon rider.

'Because Maudny, the ground itself is built upon the dead and this is a place of life. Beside these eggs, your future' she emphasised with vim, 'those wicked words have no place.' Silence hung in the air, a piercing gaze cast at the naïve faces around the fire dared them to question the Keeper further. No questions were forthcoming. 'Now enough of this. Are the eggs tended? Then away with you. And apologise to Tamaine also, you mustn't tease her so harshly, you girls can be so unpleasant' she muttered bitterly, ushering them outside into the late evening mugginess. All but the smiling Tamaine whom did not hear the apologies but the words she was always so excited to hear - Beside these eggs, your future.

—

The future came quickly for the adolescents for come the winter, with its blankets of snow, it's biting chill and the baring of trees, the eggs had hatched successfully and eight dragon fledglings joined the Sempa community. One by one, the dragons had broken free of their parents birthed embrace and had taken to embracing their human holders - Ilamen first, with her perilous knowledge. Then Maudny and Umera with their ugly tones and words and finally Keeta, her cruelty on show as she had sneered down her nose at Tamaine as she left with her charge. This left Tamaine safe within the barrier of the yurt away from the antagonising bunch with a quiet broken only by the yapping of the juvenile drakes playing on the floor.

They had hatched not long after that time in summer, before the autumn began and the valley turned from a luscious green to auburn, red and gold. The wind turning cold and stripping the trees bare - The process turning the clocks forwards to now where in Tamaine sat along with the remaining hatchlings. Joyfully and raucously, they nipped, flapped and chased amongst themselves. What fun they had, batch brothers and sisters so new to the world, skittering with petite claws over the stone and hay; the hearth light bathing them still with a comforting embrace to bask in- oblivious to the adoring love of Tamaine, sat on her haunches as she had been for months, waiting and watching with hope as her company, that one might soon turn to her when she called Tamador, or any name she could think. Every time she spoke it were as if they were struck deaf. They lived as if their food, water and milk happened upon them by fate.

​

Continued...

This was a really great piece - had me enthralled the whole way through. I love the ideas you came up with for the future society, and especially A.T.L.A.S.’s and Destiny’s POVs.

Great writing. I hope to read more of your work in the future.

MOARRR!!!!

Matilda checked both directions before entering the crosswalk. It was strictly ceremonial; citywide autonomous driving systems were so good they could stop blocks of moving vehicles before even one would strike a pedestrian, but her grandfather’s lessons still echoed in her mind. The parkway is not a playground. Keep your head on a swivel.

By age fourteen, she’d accrued many lessons, mostly from these visits to her grandfather in the senior living center located across from her middle school. The visits were nice breaks when she had a free period. Moreover, they counted towards the school-mandated community service hours. It wasn’t just convenient, it was profitable. Students paid a premium to join her for the easy credit.

As Matilda stopped at a streetlight, she spotted her partner running out of the school. “Come on, Eileen! We don’t have forever!”

Eileen held down her floppy hat with one hand as she sprinted over. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ferris wouldn’t shut up!” she said between quick breaths.

Matilda started walking across the parking lot to the lobby without her. Inside, a few tenants watched her from wheelchairs and well-worn couches. Oldies played from hidden speakers. She walked to a large formidable desk and an equally imposing nurse. She’d met Nurse Powell dozens of times and yet the greeting was always the same.

Powell’s gravelly voice cut through an instrumental version Closing Time. “May I help you?”

“I’m here to see my grandpa. Mr. Horn?” Matilda replied as Eileen pushed through the entrance. “We both are.”

They signed the guest book and headed down the hall. As they passed the open rooms, Matilda observed the collections of turn of the century antiques like trading card games, CD players and singing plastic fish adorning the walls. She cataloged the ones she thought were valuable and kept a mental list like some kind of superspy. Reaching her grandfather’s room, she knocked on the steel door. “Anyone home?”

“Nobody but me,” said a tenor voice. Mr. Horn sat on the edge of his bed watching something on the holo-screen. Sunspots dotted his face like blotchy brown islands in a rippled sea. He turned and recognized her, his face brightening. “Hey peanut!” he said with arms wide. “Who’s your friend?”

“Eileen Girrard, sir. I’m, uh, a good friend of Matilda’s from school.”

“Lies, you just need the hours,” Horn snickered and waved his hand. “Doesn’t matter. Screw their rules. I’m happy to see you both at any rate. How long can you stay?”

“Only an hour,” Matilda said. “So, what do you need help with today? How’s the computer? Still buried under Spam?”

When he opened the ancient laptop, it sounded as loud and obnoxious as Nurse Powell. “Works fine.”

Eileen pointed at a pop up message on his calendar screen. “What’s Ska-xercise?”

The old gen-Xer frowned. “It’s–pardon my French–bullshit. Some idiot’s idea of a good time for old farts like me. Anything to keep the grim specter of Death off our doorstep so they can keep milking my pension!”

Matilda remembered. According to him, anyone under 21 was an idiot. Anyone older was a sellout. “You know grandpa, this could be fun. Eileen’s never heard that music before. Maybe you can show her how you used to, what, cut a rug?”

“I’m not that old, peanut. Fine. Pass me my porkpie hat and chain wallet. We’re going in style.”

The three of them walked to the multi-purpose room where the event had already started. A loudspeaker no larger than a shoebox belted a caribbean rocksteady beat that filled the room.

“It sounds overblown!” Eileen shouted.

“It’s supposed to! It’s how it used to be played on the island! Come on, let’s dance!” As they each found their own personal space to bounce and sway, Matilda looked at everyone else having a good time. Life could be so easy, once you’d reached the twilight years. But she was here, and yet so far from that dream. She clenched her jaw for a moment before signaling her grandfather. “I forgot something in the room, I’ll be right back.”

Matilda made quick work of pilfering the Pokemon and Magic decks before anyone noticed. As she stuffed them into her backpack, she thought of another of her grandfather’s lessons: Don’t live in the past.

When she returned to the hall, Eileen was marching and fist pumping in place with a giant grin on her face. “What’s this song?” Matilda asked.

“The World is New,” Horn replied.

Matilda could not agree more.

Oh wow... this is incredible! I didn't expect a world fell to ruin. You wrote this beautifully! Will there be a part two?

Maybe you can post it to your personal subreddit like some writers do after a while?👀

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