Timothy and the Dragon Defenders, Part Two
A Short Story from the Archives of A.Z.K.R., author of Tales of Porcelain Thrones: Middle School Edition
The purple dragon roared fiercely. A river rushed behind it, the sun made the water glisten, peeking over what almost looked like pines. The sudden brightness pierced Timothy’s eyes and all his senses were overwhelmed at once. He was grateful for the warmth, but the sun beat down harshly on his skin.
“Good thing the basement wasn’t a wardrobe and this place isn’t Narnia,” Timothy said to the dragon. “I’d be freezing and I’ve no time for tea with Mr. Tumnus, I have a test tomorrow.”
The dragon roared. And burped. Bits of Mrs. McCracken’s jelly still lingered on the corners of its mouth.
“So you are?” Timothy asked.
The dragon burped again.
“Ok, then. I’ll call you Burp.”
The dragon shook his head no.
“Belch?”
It shook its head again, then fluttered its wings. The right wing featured a brand, or tattoo, and when they came to rest against the beast’s back again, Timothy saw the name, “Galen” etched into the dragon’s flesh.
“Galen?”
The dragon danced, a bit like the McCracken’s golden retriever puppy when someone dropped bacon on the breakfast room floor.
“Like the Greek physician?”
The dragon danced again.
“So where are we, Galen?”
Galen belched another round, evicting all the glass from the crunched Mason jars into the river as he did.
“Ew.”
The dragon seemed to shrug and began walking away.
“Hey, wait!” Timothy followed. Pebbles from the riverside massaged his bare feet, not so unpleasantly. “Seriously, wait!”
He caught up to the bumbling dragon, “So where are we, anyway?”
Galen burped, then stopped abruptly, and Timothy bumped into a tree to avoid running into him.
[Come back next week to learn more about Galen’s world…]
Timothy and the Dragon Defenders, Part One
A Short Story from the Archives of A.Z.K.R., author of Tales of Porcelain Thrones: Middle School Edition
Timothy McCracken was having a hard time. He was supposed to be sleeping, but instead of counting sheep, he was counting the taps he heard coming from the basement across the hall. Timothy’s bedroom was downstairs near the kitchen, apart from his siblings and parents who slept on the second story of the house. This suited him fine because it meant he didn’t share a room with his brother Dean, who snored like a freight train. It was also great when he wanted peanut butter sandwiches at midnight, but not so much when the dog whined at the rustling noises coming from the basement.
What was down there besides Mom’s canning jars and Christmas decorations? Did the house have mice? Were ghosts walking around in old shoes discarded in the donate bin? One could never tell after the sun went down and the moon cast shadows through the window.
He pulled his feet from under under his flannel sheets, his yellow gym shorts reflected neon stripes from the moonlight. As soon as his feet hit the cool, wooden floors, he heard a crash from below. Instinctively, he rushed to the sound, accustomed to rescuing younger siblings from their messes and broken things. The crashing of his mother’s preserve jars rang in his ears as he crossed the hall to the basement and took the stairs two at a time. He stopped abruptly at the last step, worried his bare feet might catch glass.
Curling his toes around the edge of the landing, he paused a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. As he stood there, the scent of cinnamon and peaches wafted against his nose, goosebumps pimpled his arms from the cold, but a breath of hot air pressed against his forehead.
“What?”
Slowly, his pupils caught up to the rest of his body and revealed large nostrils flaring in front of him. Purple scales pulsed as the warmth puffed against Timothy’s face. The beast turned and scurried behind the shelves of Mrs. McCracken’s jars, tongue lapping three of them in one gulp, glass and all. TImothy heard a belch and caught a whiff of strawberry currant jam.
“You like Mom’s jam?” he asked the beast, stepping closer. Surely it was safe to follow it, this must be a dream. After all, dragons aren’t real.
In a flash of light, the creature was nearly gone, a tail slithering out a door Timothy had never seen before. The door was heavy and wooden, thicker and shorter than any other in the house. The knob was made of tarnished silver. A bit of light glowed from behind the door–enough so Timothy could see that the knob was spherical and engraved to look like a globe, but with land masses he did not recognize.
As he reached for the knob, heat radiated from behind the threshold and in an instant, Timothy was no longer in his Mom’s basement.
[Come back next week to see where Timothy has found himself!]
Anakalian Whims 