Go to my Look and Listen page to hear Canadian Poet Jacqueline Belle read this story for an amazing experience!
In the icy winter night, the dragon circles high above the sleeping village. Her great leather wings beat the air. Her shiny-scaled body twists, the ridged tail curling and lifting to sweep the stars.
She tilts her head, emerald-green eyes scanning the forest below. She dips for a closer look, skimming the black ribbon of river which flows between banks of frosted trees before blending with the vast oceans.
The dragon rises, heavy, burdened with the weight of the treasure clutched against her soft belly.
Weariness settles in her bones. So many years of circling and watching, waiting to fulfil her destiny, to confer the treasure as was prophesied aeons past.
Three conditions are demanded:
First, the need of the receiver must be great.
Second, they must receive this best of gifts with humility.
Third, their talent must be equal to the gift bestowed.
The dragon flies along the ridge, one eye on the village nestled into its forested slope, the other on the dark waters stretching south.
Silvered waves caress the cliffs. Nothing else stirs.
Excepting – the rolling tears of the midnight-awake writer, sat at the great desk of carved oak for which worldwide fame has paid.
He stares into the blank maw of his computer screen.
Another wasted night. Another deadline missed.
The writer thinks of the sleeping pills on the table by his bed, beside the half-empty bottle of whiskey.
The dragon wheels a great circle in the starlit sky and comes to rest on the roof of the writer’s cottage. She stretches her long neck over the leaf-filled gutters and peers into the room where the writer stares into the maw of despair.
She breathes a fiery breath …
The writer brushes at the tears on his cheek and blinks at the screensaver which suddenly fills his screen.
A dragon, shiny-scaled, emerald-green eyes. And spilling through its talons, a glittering horde of goblets, crowns, rings and bracelets of gold and silver, all glowing with diamonds, rubies, sapphires and tangled in coils of creamy sea-pearls and jewel-rich chains.
The writer’s heart pulses hard at such beauty, and at the talent which has created it.
He shakes his head, humbled. Who is he to think he too can create such beauty?
He reaches out a finger to touch the screen.
A breath, soft and warm as a summer cloud, brushes his neck. The glittering hoard dissolves and the writer cries out.
The jewels re-form, tumbling, re-shaping into letters and words and a billow of thoughts and notions which surge from the screen to the writer’s whirling mind.
The writer’s cry turns to joy.
The dragon takes a last, lingering look at the hunched writer, pecking feverishly at his keyboard.
She lifts her head and gusts fire to warm the frosty stars. She lifts herself, lighter, treasureless, from the roof. Her long body curves, her tail flicks. She flies higher, silhouetted against the white winter moon.
The prophecy is fulfilled.
This story is the title story for my 2021 slim collection of award-winning tales – find it here.
HE STARES INTO THE BLACK MAW OF HIS COMPUTER SCREEN
Unbelieving, he stares into the black maw of his computer screen.
“Where has the document gone?” It’s almost an unconscious utterance.
“No! All that work. Surely it cannot disappear without a trace!” Frustration and anger are beginning to take hold.
No matter how many buttons he pushes, nothing appears. Something has obviously happened – a major system failure – to trigger such a catastrophe.
Weeks of work, the result of months of painstaking research, gone in an instant.
Greg picks up the computer and shakes it vigorously, hoping for a miracle. Still nothing.
“The boss is never going to believe this,” he mutters furiously. “What on earth am I going to do?”
He reaches for the telephone and calls the company IT expert.
“I’ve got a presentation in the morning and without this I am screwed,” he begins.
The technician listens patiently to Greg’s expletive-ridden explanation and promises to be in his office as soon as possible.
Greg returns to the computer on his desk. The screen remains black. Not even a flicker of light to provide the smallest glimmer of hope.
Hope this guy can do something, he muses, otherwise I might as well look for another job.
Pacing the floor and gazing out his 12th floor office window does not alleviate Greg’s mood.
“Why do these things always happen to me,” he fumes. “Never smooth sailing. Problems my entire life. And now this – and it has to be the day before I’m due to give the presentation. Why couldn’t it have happened last week? At least then we might have had time to do something about it!”
Half an hour later, the IT technician appears at his office door.
“Hi Greg,” the technician greeted him.
“Hello,” Greg responded, by now a nervous wreck – perspiration glistening on his forehead.
“So, what appears to be the problem?”
“Black screen. Was all right one minute, then absolutely nothing. I think it must be a system failure.”
The technician moved to the desk and began thoroughly checking everything.
Greg heard him emit a wry chuckle.
“Works better, you know, if you plug it in,” he volunteered, holding up the loose chord end.
It’s happened to all of us!
A lovely fantasy tale. He is lucky to be the recipient of so many wonderful treasures – and it removes his writer’s block at the same time. Fantastic!!
Will contribute something hopefully tomorrow.