Happy Holidays!

It's summer holidays in the north, and winter holidays in the south. Either way, it's our six-monthly break from storying here at Darkness&Good (no stories are posted during January or July). Have a great month, and we'll see you again in August with more fantastic(ally unedited) free fiction every week or two! *\o/*

~Amy & Liana

Dragon Tuesday

How can you help? Heh. I’d love to know. More than you, probably. But I doubt you can. I mean sure, you’re more than welcome to try – I’m not keen on being stuck like this forever.

No, not up the tree, I know how to climb out of a tree, thank you. I mean like this, in this body.

Well yes, I suppose it is pretty, in a way. But it’s not… me. It was my great grandmother, actually.

Er, sure, you can touch the scales. If you can reach.

I dunno, they’re probably magical. I really have no idea, though. Oh look, let me tell you the whole story. Sit down.

Comfy? Okay.

It was a hot, sultry Tuesday in that month full of Dragon Tuesdays, and Sham and I were heading out for ice cream. There’s this great little parlour at the end of Beech Avenue that does the real, genuine home-made stuff.

Although we never said it, I knew we were both hoping that this time, we’d be the ones to spot the dragon – the dragon that had appeared with perfect regularity, every Tuesday of that month, somewhere around our tiny town. Seeing a dragon had become my entire goal in life. Yeah, I know. Ironic.

So, we were walking down Main, kicking up dust, laughing and joking and generally having a good time. School was out, summer was on its way, and life was good.

We hit the ice cream parlour – I got raspberry coconut swirl, just for a change – and took our waffle cones outside. There we were, licking our ice creams, giggling and hot and sticky, minding no one but ourselves, glancing casually around every now and then, just in case.

I’d gotten down to the cone and almost given up hope when there was an almighty crash-thud. A blinding flash of light shone from a side street; we ditched our cones and ran towards it.

“Dragon,” Sham exclaimed, eyes all lit up.

I nodded. A great beast, it was said to be, about the size of a wagon, metallic and boxy and roaring and blowing smoke out its end.

Right as we came around the corner, there was another almighty roar, and there before our eyes was the dragon. We were shocked, but not half as shocked as we were when there was a clunk-clunk, and the dragon’s body started opening up.

I shrank back around the corner and clutched at Sham’s arm.

But that wasn’t even the strangest: as the dragon’s body opened up, people emerged. Three of them: two men and a woman. They were wearing strange clothes that gleamed, dark and form-fitting. They stared at the buildings and murmured amongst themselves.

Mayor Francis must’ve heard the noise, ‘coz he came striding out of the Hall across the street, moustache twitching. He ignored us and marched right up to the dragon riders. “And who are you?” he demanded.

Sham and I didn’t hear their answer, so we edged closer.

They said something about there being a leak in time, where they came from, so whenever people drove through this one area, they ended up somewhere else entirely – often here.

Weird.

I think they were a bit you-know in the head, personally. Still, it was the most interesting thing Sham or I had ever seen, so we followed them. Tailed them around from sun up ‘til sundown, mostly without them knowing, while they wandered around town “taking in the sights”.

Things were great until they’d been there about a week. Actually yeah, it was exactly a week; I know ‘coz it was Tuesday again. They’d been driving around in that silver beast of theirs, which we heard them call a ‘car’, and when they stopped at the old theatre, they left the back open.

They didn’t know we was there, of course, or they prolly would’ve made sure it was locked up real tight. But they didn’t, and Sham and I knew opportunity when we saw it, so in we climbed.

We had a good poke around, bouncing on the seats and hanging out the windows – and then I found it.

It was stuffed under one of the front seats, and I saw it pretty easily ‘coz in the darkness of the under-seat, it sparkled. I pulled it out just as Sham hissed at me to shut up, they were coming, get out – and I stuffed it in my pocket without even thinking, and promptly forgot about it as we scurried away, with the ‘car’ riders pelting things at us.

It wasn’t until after dinner, up in my own room, that I pulled it out. It reminded me of the empty lizard skins I’d seen out near the creek, cast off when the lizard grew too big for it. Except this must’ve come from a huge lizar. I draped it over my shoulders, wondering for a moment what it’d be like to be a lizard. The skin was soft, flexible. And the colours…

I twirled and it swung out, sparkling iridescent in the dim evening light.

The skin closed over my shoulders; it fit so well. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world to stick my feet through the holes that appeared, to wrap it tight around me, to hug it around my chest –

Until the pain.

I screamed. I screamed until my throat hurt, and then I screamed until I couldn’t scream anymore, even though I wanted to. The pain, everywhere – it was insane. Intense. The most horrible thing I’ve ever felt or imagined.

Mum burst in and the look on her face was more terrifying than anything else.

“Oh, Chay,” she said, dropping to her knees. “Oh, Chay.”

“What?” I tried to say. “What is it?” But it came out as a strange sort of rasp. Panicked, I looked down at my hands – only they weren’t hands. They were claws. Like a lizard, only bigger and a shining, rainbow iridescence.

Just like the skin.

So Mum took me down to the kitchen and explained: my great grandmother had been the last of the real dragons, creatures half the size of a horse with wide, barely visible wings and a long scaly tail.

When she’d become the last dragon – when her husband had been murdered – she’d done the only thing she could: she’d shed her skin and taken the form of a human. She’d remarried, had my mother – and my mother had had me.

And I’d somehow gotten my hands on the skin. And because my grandmother’s blood flows through my veins, the skin was able to transform me.

Mum told me all this, and for a moment I was shocked. Then I was just plain horrified. I raced away, half running, half flying, an odd sort of skipping gait that was mostly a stumble. I didn’t have any idea where I was going; I just ran, maybe hoping I could outrun my fate. I’d wanted to see a dragon; not become one.

In my panic, I ran right into the strangers. They took one look at me, and started screaming and hugging each other. “Our dragon!” they shouted. “We found it after all!”

Something even scarier that learning I was a dragon? Learning I wasn’t the only dragon hunter in town.

My heart pounded and I raced off again, barely ahead of them and losing ground. The woman snatched at my tail and I leapt into the air in fright – which is about the time I realised what my new wings could actually do. I flew, circling up and away, and their cries died down behind me.

I could have flown away right then. It might have saved poor Sham if I had. But maybe not. And anyway, I didn’t, so never mind.

I hid that night in the barn out of the back of my house. From up in the loft I could see the light in the kitchen, and every now and then Mum’s silhouette passed by, and I could see her, and feel a little bit like I was home.

I was drifting off when I heard the door creak open, and with my new night vision and sense of smell, I could tell it was Sham. I opened my mouth to speak – but another voice beat me to it.

“Where is she?”

It was one of the strangers, the tallest man – the scary one.

Sham froze. “I… I don’t know.”

“Come now,” said the woman, slinking over to him. “We know it’s her we want, and you know it too. Just tell us where she is, and everything will be all right.”

Sham twitched.

Please, no, I thought desperately. Don’t tell them.

He didn’t. He stared back at them, fists clenched, and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t know nothing.”

I thought at the time he was pretty brave. Now I’m not sure if he was brave, or just a little stupid. But either way, the man had enough. “We saw the dragon!” he yelled, right in Sham’s face. “We recognized our skin! You stole it, you and that girl. We know you’re friends; we know you know where she is, and you’re going to take us to her. Right. Now.” He hit Sham as he said those last words, smashing a sparking rod across his head and shoulders again and again.

Right then, I realized how much I’d loved having Sham for a friend. He’d been there for me when no one else had, and hadn’t even laughed that afternoon when he’d seen me in my skin. He’d been the best friend a girl could ask for.

And if they didn’t stop soon, they’d kill him for it.

I shivered, wanting to do something, but knowing I was too small and powerless to do a thing. I couldn’t even cry as I watched them beat him to a pulp.

He didn’t get up again.

We shouldn’t have hunted the dragon.

That… that’s it, really. After what I’d seen them do to Sham, I was pretty keen that they didn’t find me, so I ran, and I flew, and I hid. And I got lost.

And so here I am. A shiny little dragon, the very thing I always wanted to see, hiding in a tree, with no friends, and no future.

So, can you help me, or not?

Why are you laughing? It’s really not that funny.

No, it isn’t!

Um, I think you should put that down. No, I really think you should put that…

A Conversation

The set:

A moving vehicle

ten over eighty

on a sunbright morning

a steel grey afternoon

a shining, shimmering night.

The cast:

A husband, thirty-five;

competent driver.

A son, three and five

weeks, back seat critic.

And me. Observer.

Recorder.

The script:

“Go faster, Daddy! Go faster!”

Ten, we recall, over eighty.

“Can’t, son. The policeman

would tell me off.”

A pause. Consideration.

“The policeman would tell you to stop?”

“Yes, son, he would. And

if a policeman tells you to stop,

what do you do?

“You stop, Daddy.”

“You do. The policemen are there

to help you.”

The observation:

My heart

crumpling in my chest

crushed because

my son is white.

For him,

the policemen will always help.

As Long As I Live

I didn’t mean to abduct the king. Honest I didn’t. Especially after he’d told me that if I fed on humans again he’d send his knights after me. After that, I’d meant to be good, meant to keep my oath of fealty to him as long as he still drew breath.

It wasn’t my fault he’d chosen that day to be out in a paddock full of cows. I’d just snatched up the first thing I’d been able to reach, assuming it was one of nearly a hundred practically identical black beasts.

Honestly, I think I was more surprised when I landed back at my lair than the king was.

“How dare you!” the king blustered. “I told you! If you so much as even touch another human being, I’ll have you slaughtered for meat and magic!”

I ducked my head, embarrassed. “I really am sorry, your Majesty. I was aiming for the cows.”

“I don’t care what you were aiming for! You picked up me! I’ll not kill you yet, but you will pay for this.” He turned on his heel and marched away, but over his shoulder something sleek and dark and dangerous fluttered.

I shrank back, but the glittering darkness homed in. It enfolded me in its silken folds, and I shrieked as my wings tore to shreds.

The darkness lifted. The king threw me one last look over his shoulder. “You’ll never fly to search for prey as long as I live, dragon. It’s over. Curl up and die.”

Usually, I would have done. For a dragon, I’ve been pretty obedient to the king, ever since he took my egg from my mother and left me in my cave. But not even for him was I willing to starve to death.

It was the obvious solution. I pounced.

He tasted pretty good, even if my wings did itch a bit as they healed.

Regeneration

The metallic scent of blood reached him first through the sharpness of the snow. For a moment, his heart leapt and he thought the battle was still raging, cries of dying men filling his ears and stopping his senses; but no. The mountains up ahead were the foothills of home, and there was no one else around, no sounds, no battle cries.

Easing his shoulders under their heavy mail – he hadn’t dared leave it behind, not when old Tom would curse him halfway to the grave if he didn’t return it – he trudged on.

The path crested and he spotted the source of the blood-scent easily: a great dragon, rear half fully skinned, muscle and sinew left exposed to the elements. Blood had seeped into the snow around it, tinting it pink.

He ran a hand over his face. He’d been at battle for nine and a half months. The war was supposed be over; coming home was supposed to be the end of all the carnage. But no, someone had to drop a stinking great dead dragon in his path. He gritted his teeth, hefted his pack, and trudged towards the beast.

Halfway there the bushes off the side of the path rustled. He barely had time to check that his sword was still in its scabbard before five scruffy-looking bandits appeared, three bearing equally scruffy swords covered in nicks and dings. The other two held rough-hewn bats, and one tried for menacing as he tapped the bat against his free palm.

The soldier sighed and eased his sword free. He could take the five of them on with his eyes closed – but probably not if he tried to keep them all alive. Gods, he was so tired of death.

The leader of the bandits swaggered forward. “Come t’ steal our dragon, have ye?”

“Put your sword down, mate. All I want to do is go home.” The soldier shifted his grip on his own sword in case the bandit lunged.

In response, the bandit sneered. “That’s what they all say.” He turned to his lackeys. “All right, boys. You know what to do.”

He gave them the nod and as one they advanced towards the soldier.

Gods preserve us all. The soldier adjusted his stance and let his pack slip to the ground.

A creaky rumble sounded, and before anyone had a chance to react, the great dragon’s tail swept right through the midst of the bandits, knocking them all off their feet. Three were immediately rendered unconscious, and without hesitation the solider leapt forward to follow up on his advantage, knocking out a fourth with the flat of his blade.

The fifth – the leader – cried out and lunged at the soldier’s shoulder, but the soldier ducked and let the stroke go past him. He dodged left, dropped to one knee and drove upwards with his sword, aiming for the bandit leader’s chin and intending just to knock him out. But the dragon’s claws caught him around the leg, destabilised him, and the sword drove point-first into the bandit’s throat. Arterial blood spurted, red and bright, life gushing from the man before his eyes.

War cries sounded in his ears, the smell of blood blocked out thought, and the pounding of a thousand warrior feet shook the ground.

The soldier barely even felt it as the dragon shifted its grip and dragged him closer. The smell of rotting meat on the great carnivore’s breath mingled with blood until it could have belonged to week-old bodies decaying on the fields, and the pain that lanced through him as the dragon bit down was the piercing of swords.

A moment passed in rippling pain, and the soldier realised he was on his feet, facing the great dragon while blood dribbled from his shoulder. He clamped down on the wound, noted that the dragon’s skin now covered nearly three-quarters of its body, and gazed up at the great iridescent eye.

The dragon turned its head, staring pointedly at where the bandit leader lay dead in a pool of his own blood.

Guilt stung the soldier’s chest, and he gulped down air like a man drowning.

Gently, the dragon nudged him with muzzle whose nostrils wafted smoke, and the soldier fell down beside the bandit.

What? he shouted in his head. What do you want from me?

But the dragon simply stared, waiting.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, the soldier gathered up the bandit in his arms. Yes, he’d initiated the attack, and yes, he was probably responsible for causing much loss and harm to other people; there was no doubt the corpse in front of him had belonged to a bad man. But still the soldier couldn’t shake his frustration at the senselessness of it all.

He’d had enough of senselessness. He pressed his forehead to the bandit’s. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t want you to die.”

The bandit stirred in his lap, head tossing, eyes twitched beneath closed lids. The wound in his neck ceased bleeding; the skin began infinitesimally to seal.

The soldier’s gaze flicked to his own shoulder, where the bite mark had nearly closed beneath the tear in his chain-mailed shirt, then to the dragon, who was now fully clothed in skin again but for its tail.

“Oh,” the soldier murmured, eyes wide. “Thank you.”

My Grandma Carries A Machete

My grandmother carries a machete.

Really, it isn’t anything cool or exciting. She doesn’t fight crime or monsters. It’s just a gardening tool. And once you see the garden you realize what she really needs is napalm.

The garden of terror that requires a machete to hack your way to the center of started life as a discreet herb garden on the side yard of the house. It’s older than my grandmother, planted by some pioneering ancestor with more enthusiasm than gardening skill.

Planted by someone who didn’t realize that those small plants in tidy rows would grow so that the rosemary now resembles a small tree and the parsley is dense enough that small tribes of toddlers have been lost in there.

Perhaps the planter thought the Texas heat would be enough to keep the garden from taking on a life of its own.

Certainly it’s a theory that works for the rest of Texas. The easiest way to kill a plant is leave it outside during the month of August and wait for the plant to shoot itself in despair. Even cacti wither and die under the unrelenting heat of the Texas sun.

But not in grandma’s garden.

You can ignore the garden, walk away for months at a time, leave it unwatered for years, drop weed killer on it, curse it, exorcise it, even burn incense over it and yet the garden grows.

My great-grandmother tried giving the plants away. She uprooted the mint and gave it away to everyone who made eye contact. During the worst of Texas droughts you can tell who has the monster mint.

The media dubbed it the “Glenwood Mint”. The scientists at Texas A&M are still studying rogue clippings trying to determine how a plant can live with four inch roots and no water for two years.

That’s why Grandma needs the machete.

Every spring, around about March, she pulls the polished weapon from the cupboard over the washing machine, dons her gardening gloves and sandals, and marches into the backyard to see what damage has been done.

This year was different.

She sat in her rocking chair on March second, a tear in her eye as she watched the snapdragons bloom along the front walk. “I can’t do it this year,” she whispered to me. She raised a papery hand, set it on my knee. “Jenny. Go get the machete. It’s your turn.”

With a sense of impending doom I walked into the mudroom. I pulled on the gloves and the sandals. I pulled the machete from its case, put my cell phone in my pocket in case I needed to call for back up, and marched into the living room and out the back door.

“Grandma! There are tomatoes!”

Grandma moved with blazing speed to peer over my shoulder. “Good googlymoogly,” she breathes. “I forgot about them.”

“We haven’t planted tomatoes in two years!” I choke back fear. Four lush plants sit with their red fruit tempting the sinner like the apple in Eden.

“Get the pots!”

There are four burners on the stove, each large enough to hold a twenty-two gallon stockpot. We have two slow cookers, and each can hold sixteen gallons. I plunder the tomato orchard; the abandoned plants have grown well over six feet tall, they droop with heavy fruit, and spring upright as I pull the tomatoes away.

Stuffing the tomatoes into pots, and piling the excess on the long kitchen counter, my grandmother pours water over each set and turns on the heat. “Get garlic,” she orders. “You’ll find it behind the roses.”

I shudder, grab the machete, and stalk into the herb garden of terror.

The rosemary bush towers over me, a fragrant giant. Thick stalks of parsley reach to my knees. And all I can smell is the mint.

In the far corner I see the rambling roses that cascade over the front fence in a shower of red and pale pink. Beneath those roses the fresh garlic grows. I heft the machete in my hand. With grim determination I set out, hacking, slashing, pruning with fervor that is nigh on religious.

I bring the slaughter to Grandma: rosemary twigs as long as my arm, bunches of parsley, enough oregano to stuff a piñata, garlic, wild onions that I found tucked in a corner next to the lavender.

“Tell your cousins to bring garlic bread,” Grandma instructs as she stirs the six pots, tasting, testing, and adjusting the flavors until they are perfect. “Call the in-laws, we need extra noodles!”

I go back to the garden to trim yellowed leaves that have never seen sunlight. I slip on fresh loam; my cell phone flies. I scream as my cell phone slips between the thorny canes of the roses, another casualty of the garden of terror. From my prone position I see a miracle.

Basil!

“Grandma! Basil!” I hold the aromatic leaves up for her perusal.

“The mint must have insulated them from the snow this winter.” She rubbed the leaves between her fingers, releasing the scent like a lover’s perfume. “Perfect.”

The next day, as rosy-fingered dawn reaches out to her fleeing love, I roll out of bed and reach for the machete.

My machete. I have a cell phone to save and a legacy to keep. The garden must be tamed.

“Holler if you find a body!” Grandma calls.

I walk out the door.

I carry a machete.