If I were a dragon I think my treasure would be books. Old and new; piled high beneath my scaly wings. I’d perch atop them and select a new one to read each day. I’d keep them dry in my dragon-cave with my fiery breath and keep them safe forever.
If I were a dragon my hoard would be friends. Each person special to my heart protected from danger by my ferocious roar. My bat-like wings would fly them from trouble and curl around to keep them warm.
If I were a dragon I think I would keep a collection of outcasts like gold. All those who think they are not good enough, not strong enough, not enough. I would crown them all as fair princes and princesses and keep them in my tower. Not as prisoners but as new friends.
If I were a dragon I would never hurt a soul. I would collect my books and my friends and my lost souls. I would treasure them all like a parent placing a drawing upon a fridge. They will be my hoard; my cave of wonders. It will be lit with the sparkle of fairy-lights, not gold and gems. It will be kept warm by the heat of love and it will strike fear only into those full of hate.
There are a small hoard of stories that I started and never went anywhere. Maybe one day I'll finish them. I put the number 1 in case I decide to post more of them in the future.
“What a palaver.”
“Are you fucking kidding?” Laurie looked out at the train station from her vantage point on the crossing bridge. “I don’t think palaver’s the right word.”
“I didn’t mean this.” Mark gestured at the bodies that littered the platforms. At least a hundred, probably more. “I meant them.” He pointed out at the SWAT team in the car park. They had no one to point their guns at so they were just standing around looking bored.
“Still think you’re missing the point.”
I'm not really sure what this is.
It was the beginning of the green hour, the sky darkening rapidly. Emily scampered inside to avoid the twilight minutes before the street lamps flickered on and illuminated the deep emerald of the sky.
The birds had begun chirping somewhere in the middle of the pink hour, relentless in their demands for food that she could not provide. She had spent the intervening few hours picking scraps from the floor and placing them into a small, ragged bag. She had barely enough when she sprinkled it on the floor of the cage. The birds were on it immediately, fighting over the meagre crumbs she could scrape up from outside the bakery.
When they said she was stubborn they had no idea how true that would be. Once Mary got an idea in her head she would not let go, like a sloth hanging from a branch she would not budge.
It had got her into trouble plenty of times, the time she learnt about boxing and promptly punched a classmate in the face maybe hadn’t been her best use of her tenacious application of knowledge but it certainly stopped him from looking down her top so she wasn’t too bothered.
The first snow of the season came earlier and earlier each year until summer seemed only a few weeks long. Every year was like a shortened version of the last until it was inevitable that the snow season would never end.
Tales written from a prompt in just 10 minutes.
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