“Any last requests?”
Flames licked the dragon’s scaly lips as she leered at the knight splayed beneath her talons.
“Just one.” The knight tossed his golden curls. “Try not to singe my hair.”
The notice hung from the cathedral gate:
Funeral Service Tonight
For Sir Primpsalot the Vain
Lady Devon the Thoughtful has never met a dragon but doubts one would be inclined to humor a pretentious knight.
I watched bemusedly from above as the young man climbed towards the opening of the dragon’s lair.
“Oh, look. Another man has come to save me from you…”
I caressed my dragon’s snout and grinned as he prepared to show another hero just how much I did not need saving.
MeLisa has always loved stories, and has recently decided to tell some of her own.
“Halt, dragon!” called the knight.
“Who are you calling a dragon?”
“Oh, pardon me,” said the knight. “You looked like a dragon from behind.”
“How rude! I’m just big-boned!”
“I’m terribly sorry, gentle lizard. How can I make it up to you?”
“Don’t struggle,” said the dragon, and ate him.
Darla’s commute was awful: it took two hours to get from her downtown apartment to the wastelands, where she hunted the secret dragons.
Her friends thought she was a paralegal. They might ask uncomfortable questions if she moved to the suburbs, and it was already hard enough hiding the scars.
There once was a dragon named Scott Davidson. The higher-ups liked him, a real go-getter. He was destined for the top.
One day, he was covering for Robert, the hiring manager. An applicant walked in and screamed, “HOLY MOTHER OF PEARL! IT’S AN UGLY DRAGON!”
Scott ate him.
Ebon Wumon originally submitted this story as an entry in the Mere 50 Words contest.
Cliven dove head first into a bush.
He heard snuffling nearby, the sound of a predator searching out its prey.
“Dear Lord,” Cliven prayed, “I know my pet dragon started this whole thing, but… Could you stop the zombies from eating my brain? Please?”
The snuffling stopped.
The zombocalypse didn’t.
Cliven followed the zombie dragon and the pudgy princess until they finally alighted on a rooftop.
“Nogard!” cried Cliven. “Come down! Please don’t hurt her!”
Nogard shook his head playfully, turned, and very gently nipped Emeldatine on the shoulder.
The princess started to cry.
Then she turned very, very pale.
Cliven ran frantically through the streets. Where had Nogard gone?
If I were a baby zombie dragon, he asked himself, where would I go?
Before he could answer, he heard a whoosh, a shriek, and a giggle.
Nogard flew by overhead, trailing flames, carrying a pudgy six-year-old in a tiara.
“Bad Nogard!” cried Cliven. “Bad!”
The Veterinary Cleric writhed on the ground, clutching his charred intestines.
Perching in the shattered window frame, the little dragon licked its lips with a serpentine tongue, flames hissing through its dilated nostrils.
Cliven wagged his finger. “Do you want me to get the muzzle?”
“I won’t let you kill my dragon!” cried Cliven.
“He’ll become a zombie!” insisted the Veterinary Cleric. “Hundreds could die!”
“I don’t care!”
Nogard shuddered in Cliven’s arms. His eyes rolled backwards, and all his muscles went slack.
“No!” Cliven screamed. “Is he dead!?”
“Well,” said the Cleric, “kind of.”