#YourNextFavoriteAuthor Writing Prompt Challenge


By Grantscharoff (Own work) [CC BY-SA 3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0)%5D, via Wikimedia Commons

And you thought dragons didn’t exist….


Glass shattered, buildings shook, and people rushed out to the streets for fear of being trapped in side.  Everyone expected to see planes overhead, but the skies were clear.

Then the ground shook.  Not like an earthquake shake, but like a stampede was pouring your way.  I had joined the general exodus out to safety.  Now I wondered if that had been the wisest choice.  What was going on?


The ground continued to rumble, and everywhere I looked, I failed to find any sign of a stampede.  Not dust trail, no sound of lowing cattle or neighing horses.  Not even the high yipping most cowboys give when they’re in pursuit of  a herd-gone-wild.  The new sounds added to the cacophony with about as much directional information as the first explosion.  In other words – none.

With a shrug of my shoulders, I gave the heat shimmers created by the sun beating down on the pristine sand one more look, then retreated back to the dim coolness I called home.  To hell with safety.  If this place was going to collapse, it would have done so already.

I double checked that I’d cleaned off the table from breakfast, and that the cabinets were still closed.  What little flatware I had I intended to keep.  Getting the good stuff was hard out here.  If it didn’t get broken in transit, the kids that roamed the town like wile hyenas like to play “bull in the china shop.”

Done with my chores, I settled into my favorite chair, and propped my feet up on the sandstone block that served double duty as my desk and coffee table.  Knowing it would be too hot to get out and that everybody else with sense would be retreating from the heat as well, I settled in for my daily siesta.

VROOOM! rata-tat-tat, rata-tat-tat

I was jerked awake as I hit the floor, crawling instinctively for the nearest heavy cover – between the bed and the back wall, where my home was dug into the cliff face.  What in hell below God’s green earth was going on?   This was a no-fly zone!  I’m not the only ex-military out here who relies on the quiet and lack of air traffic for my sanity.  If anything, I’m one of the few who could have potentially moved back to civilization years ago, except I liked my little piece of the desert.


What the ….?

More scared than I’d been in a long, long time, but needing to know why the fracking hell those SOB pilots had chosen our area for bombing practice, I forced myself to the door.  I’d have looked out the window, but that’s one of the things when you’re on government subsidies – the idiots on top always go the cheapest route they can – and windows cost money, so I didn’t have any.  So I cracked the door to look out.

That humongous monster waddling down my street made me think I’d become delusional.  Nothing, and I mean NOTHING is that big.  Or has that many colors in it’s armor.  Or has scales for armor.  Or has wings that look like a bat’s wings.  Our boys were trying to drive it off, but every bomb they landed on this thing just made it madder.  And, the madder it got, the more certain I was about where the feeling of an impending stampede came from – this thing danced like it was at a square dance, and played with the bombs that were dropped on it.

I know what myth says a dragon looks like – and I know dragons aren’t real.  However, this thing looked an awfully lot like what the myths said, and it was very much real.  Maybe I should reevaluate my belief in dragons – once I survive this thing’s play time.


Comments and questions welcome.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s