dragons overdose

They told each other stories over stale beer when everyone else left to catch the last train home.

She told him about a lonely magical warrior princess cursed by an evil king to a life of seclusion in a tower build of books and broken records. She would cry her throath raw at night, shouting spells and incantations into the night sky out of the only window, but as hard as she tried, the stars never send a sign down. They were cold and distant, tiny specks light years away, too far to hear her voice.

He told her the story missed dragons. He said his had more dragons.

She gunnafed, choking on her beer and he laughed. She took his offered napkin and nodded. Let's hear about the dragons then, she said.

There once was a boy who liked to play his guitair. But the dragons were jealous of his music. They found tiny ways to stop him from playing - tearing at his strings, hiding away the guitair, stomping on his fingers to make sure he could never play another note. But the boy never gave up. He held to his guitair and played into the night and under the gentle hum he could almost drown out the cackling dragon laugh.

The dragons made smoke.

From their nostrils? she asked.

Yeah. Obviously from their nostrils. The smoke soaked into his clothes and hair. It clung to him like a cloak of misery - this cloud of deadly dragon smoke. His lungs couldn't take it most days. Most days he ended up coughing into his pillows at night. It pleased the dragons when he coughed. They could punish him if he did. Tearing out the strings and pulling apart his books - they breathed out smoke into his hair and laughed when he fought back - this stingy, dishevelled boy pushing his small fists againt the dragon's rump, no sword or lance in sigh.

One night after they tore his strings he decided to run. There was a place - a magical big place far away where faeries put up flickering lights to keep the dragons away. He saw it in the books they tore and heard about it at school from the other boys and girls. It was a pool.

Her eyebrows puckered in confusion. Are the dragons going to drown in the pool?

Don't be silly, he said leaning in to push a strand of red hair out of her eyes. Dragons don't drown. They lose their houses and cheat on their spouses and use their kid's college fund to buy more drugs and eventually their overdose.

Dragons sound awful. Almost like Kings.

Kings and dragons are almost the same. Except kings have money to buy tall towers to lock up warrior princesses in. Dragons are more prone to destroying things than building them up.

Her lashes fluttered as she considered this, nodding slowly. In the silence he counted all the freckles and moles on her face. He forgot the number as soon as he finished and started over, watching her sway to the music.

There was a troll in my class today, she commented finally. Strange. So far away from a bridge. Maybe he hired a bridge-sitter.

Oh those are expensive. Can't imagine anyone with enough money for that to hang around the pool. What did he look like?

That troll type. Round head, she counted on her fingers now. She had nice fingers. Long and slightly crooked, finished by rugged nails covered in peeling black nail polish. Thick neck. There was a thick silver chain around it with the key to his bridge gate hanging off it. He wore a leather jacket. It was 25 degrees. The height of the summer in the pool. Most of her schoolmates were sweating, using their college ruled notebooks to swat at their faces. They looked like butterflies.

They were outside sudently.

She was holding a cigarette to her lips and her eyes shone brightly in the lamp light. The hand holding the cigarette kept flying through the air. He imagined a crooked dogwood magic wand. He imagined brilliant sparks cutting meaningless sigils into the indigo night.

As she watched the troll, pushing his wide shoulders through the too tight door frame, strolled over to a small forest sprite. She was pale in the sunlight, almost translucent. She wore stylishly ripped jeans with pockets wide enough to hide her white hands, adorned with treasure's of long lost kings.

The troll stopped before her, wawing his huge hands.

The sprite told him this was not the right place to settle this.

The other forest creatures watched the exchange, hiding behind college ruled lines. Wolf, foxes, huge wild boars, all of them sat in their places, not daring to approach the troll. The sprite looked up once for help, but seeying the animals turn their heads, nodded and returned to the exchange.

Now she fell silent, staring up at the skies. Through the light polution the stars flickered weakly, dying embers in a black forge.

Did someone chase him off? he asked, kowing the truth.

No. Trolls do not get chasen off. They overdose, she said simply, pushing the toe of her combat boot to kill the butt of her cigarette.

He nodded and went to hold the door open for her as she slipped in. She stopped to look up into his face. There were twelve freckles and seven moles. Her eyes were hazel brown. Her breath smelt of beer and peanuts.

I wish there were no kings, or trolls or dragons.

He traced his finger along her jaw connecting one mole to the next. Eight. There was one near her ear. His voice sounded weird in his head. Like fabric stretched too tight and tearing at the seams. If there were no dragons that would just leave bad people.

She seemed sad but didn't say anything.

He followed her back inside, their shoulders brushing.

He wished he could say something to make her feel better, but he didn't want to lie.




Fragment, May 2022