This was written for Bradley Ramsey’s Flash February. This was for the Day 5 Prompt.
I was not born in this limited form.
Once, my strides on the land shook the earth. My widespread wings let me own the skies. And my brothers and sisters were always with me.
But our strength –- our power –- was envied. And we were hunted.
So many died, their wisdom and kindness — their souls — lost pointlessly for the greed of a people. Of a king.
It became clear that we could not win. Not if we were to remain who we are as a people.
So we changed. We hid.
We diminished ourselves.
I live among the dwarves now, sharing their form and its limitations. I sacrificed my strength and my flight, but those were small costs in the hope of showing our enemies that we are not what they claim — that we need not be enemies at all.
I also sacrificed my connection to my siblings. And that loss hurts everyday.
But that was the price to be able to pass among the dwarven people. Few of us were left when Avexa suggested this plan — to confine ourselves and join the enemy so that we might teach them the truth. Perhaps from within their culture and community, we could change their minds about the dragons. Maybe we could help them to reach a new enlightenment.
Maybe we could survive.
Five of us agreed — Avexa, Laenia, Bromo, Vivil, and me. So few were willing, but we could only hope it would be enough.
Each of us joined a different dwarven community, hoping to spread our wisdom and our message far and wide.
That was over a hundred years ago.
Some days I struggle not to lose hope. The longing for my siblings — for the connection we shared without effort — grows daily. But I persevere. I committed to this approach, and I will stay the course.
Today I got up and baked bread, like every other morning. I let my mind wander as I kneaded and shaped the dough into the perfect knots, shells, and balls that my customers expect.
While the bread baked, I began my special project, carefully crafting marzipan and chocolate morsels into small dragon shapes to be hidden inside the special pastries I create just for the children.
This is my latest attempt. The dragons I carve are soft-edged, with kind eyes and gentle features. Sometimes the most sensitive among the children hesitate to eat them, because they look so friendly.
It’s a small thing, but I must view it as a positive sign. And so I go on.
Today when the children arrived after school, I greeted them with smiles and floury hugs. Just another day. They all gathered around the table where I sat with a pot of tea and a bevy of mismatched cups.
“Come sit, my lovelies. Let’s have our tea and cakes, shall we?” I said with a smile as I settled into my usual chair.
Bria was first to her seat, as usual, hopping into the chair closest to me. “Will you tell us a story today, Miss Rhona?”
As they claimed their chairs, the others chimed in, their voices like little bells echoing in the small shop.
“Oh yes!”
“Please, Miss Rhona!”
“Won’t you, please?”
“No dragons this time,” grumped Froyd.
I chuckled, “Fine fine. I’ll tell you all a story. And no dragon stories today, Froyd.”
I busily poured tea into the small cups clutched in eager fingers, then as they all sat eagerly watching, I carefully placed a single pastry on each child’s plate.
They all knew the rules — no one eats until everyone has been served. But as soon as the last pastry touched its plate, they attacked like small sharks. Some bit directly into the pastry to find out what was inside. Others carefully lifted the small baked lid and peered into the hollowed-out core.
But they all exclaimed with surprise and delight at what they found.
Except Froyd.
“You said no dragons!”
My smile was patient, but also firm. “I won’t tell a story about dragons today, Froyd. But I’d already made today’s treat. If you don’t want yours, I’m sure one of the others would be happy to take it.”
He couldn’t mistake the gentle warning in my tone or the slightly sterner one in my eyes. Froyd’s gaze dropped to where his fingers had involuntarily clutched the pastry to his chest. “I’ll eat it. Sorry, Miss. Rhona.”
“It’s fine. Just remember that we should always be grateful for gifts given freely.”
Lessons could be taught and learned in many ways.
They all nodded and their little voices were a chorus of thank you’s for several seconds. As the settled in to the serious eating of their treats, I sat back to begin my story.
It was a tale I’d told before — they all knew it. The story of the mouse who dreamed of a life beyond the walls of his village, and the fear all mice had of the ‘vicious’ cats that lived outside. The mouse ventured out, rescued a cat, and the two became lifelong friends — their communities learning to support one another and live in harmony.
It was an obvious parallel in my mind, though I’d seen no sign that the children fully made the connection.
As always, they recited with me at key parts, and cheered when the mouse rescued the cat. They played their part — but did they learn the lesson? I was never sure.
But as the story came to a close, the smallest child in the group — Leelee — said thoughtfully, “I wonder if there’s other scary stuff that isn’t really so bad?”
My breath caught in my throat.
It was a start.
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‼️ If you liked this, you may want to check out some of my other fiction.
Did this story make you laugh, cry, or think? Buy me a cup of existential dread, and I’ll keep the stories coming.
Jen, this is so wonderful & magical. Omstars. I love this. 💝💝💝
Oh wow, the premise here is amazing! I love the idea of shape-shifting dragons that blend in to avoid total extinction. Your creativity once again astounds me, my friend. This was awesome!