Friday Night Haiku #128

The truth of it is:

This is not the worst time-line;

But it’s not the best.

*

Elemental

“Because we are not just creatures of water! Even though we need water to survive, even though two thirds of our planet’s surface is covered in water, even though our very bodies are composed of about 60% water, we are not just creatures of water,”

“We are creatures of Earth. We are carbon based life forms, we came from the earth and to the earth we shall return. We live upon it and grow our food in it. We are creatures of Earth.”

“We are creatures of Air. It fills our lungs to give us life, we use it to see, to hear, to smell. Air is our medium to connect to the world. We soar through it like gods to reach far off lands. We are creatures of Air.”

“We are creatures of Fire. We generate heat, we are moved by our passions. The very components of our bodies were forged in the fiery inferno of stars far from here, a long time ago. We harness it’s energies and bend nature to our will. We are creatures of Fire.”

“We are creatures of Electricity. It powers our brains, the very bonds of our atoms. Our own memories are nothing more than electrical impulses in the tissues of our brain. We harness this beast as our source of power, to achieve magics hitherto undreamt of by our ancestors. We are creatures of Electricity.”

“We are creatures of the Void. Our ineffable selves arose from the darkness. No one truly knows what lies in the great beyond, but it is a land to which all shall one day travel. We gaze into the abyss of the universe and one day may find ourselves staring back. We are creatures of the Void.”

“All these things and more we are, in balance. We were not meant to dwell for too long within a single aspect, for to do so invites sickness of body and spirit. Tis only in balance that we can revel in our true authentic selves; to rejoice in the fullness of our being.”

“…man, all I said was that I’m sick of all this rain.”

*

Morpheus

The building doesn’t look like a fast-food restaurant, it looks like a house. Indeed, it looks like a house I have passed by a multitude of times, a mile or so from where I work.

It’s a rather nice house. You would never mistake it for a restaurant at all, apart from the big light-up logo on the front lawn. I peer through one of the large windows and see a serving counter inside.

“Huh. I didn’t know there was a Burger King here,” I remark.

“There isn’t,” The Dream King replies.

I frown, half-remembering where I am.

“That’s a shame. It would have made popping out for lunch a lot easier.”

We continue walking together, the familiar landscape of the Eastern Shore shifting to a more urban environment. It is not any city I know, but at the same time, I feel like I have been here before; my feet carrying me through the crowd as if I have done this a hundred times.

We duck into a covered passageway, take a short-cut through a fancy restaurant and find ourselves walking by a covered market. There are people everywhere, shopping, eating, existing. This is an older part of the city; the architecture is stone and cast-iron, stucco brick and ceramic tile. The streets are cloistered, arcades extend in every direction, but I can still see the sky, a dark cornflower blue of a late summer afternoon.

“I never knew this part of the city was here,” I announce. I pull out my phone and check the maps app, but it tells me what I already know; I’m in the historic district of the city near the old docks. In the satellite photo there is what appears to be a rollercoaster to the west of us. I look up and indeed, there it is, as if I had willed it into being. It towers over the surrounding buildings, jutting up from the still waters of a harbor. It looks as if it has been in a state of disuse for some time; the white paint is rusty and there are vines and other foliage growing along the track and supporting struts.

I find myself wondering why they would go to the trouble of building it if they weren’t going to use it.

I turn and find Morpheus regarding me, his face placid and unreadable. He looks kind of like the actor Tom Sturridge from his role as Morpheus in the Netflix adaptation of “The Sandman,” only with features that reflect the way the character is depicted in the original comics; taller, skinnier, paler, his eyes like stars shining out of two black voids.

I once again recall I am dreaming, and in doing so, find myself on a veranda back near the market bazaar, with no roller coaster in sight.

“Do all people dream the same dreams?” I ask.

The Dream King gestures that we should sit at a small table overlooking the courtyard. There is a band playing below, but I cannot identify the tune.

“There are as many kinds of dream as there are dreamers,” he replies as we sit. “But, having said that, there are definite categories of dreams.”

I sip my drink, which I neither remember ordering nor remember it being served to me, and nod. “Do tell.”

“Some people dream of other people. Of friends, family, lovers. They dream of doing things with these people, of having conversations or going on adventures,” He tilts his head, “or having sex,”

“Of course.” I say.

“Some people dream of the past. Places they’ve been, things they’ve seen, events they witnessed. They live in their memories, or try to escape them,” He shrugs.

“Some Dream the future.”

I cock my eyebrow.

“Dream of the future, you mean?”

“No. I don’t.”

I try to wrap my head around the implications of this, but Morpheus continues.

“Some people have big dreams; fantasy and adventure. Others have big dreams of a better life, for themselves or others,”

He smiles.

“Some people have very small dreams. Making tea. Going to work. Petting a dog. Small dreams. But no less important than the big ones.”

He spreads his hands.

“Mostly, people dream stories. They have a start and a middle and a finish, even if they don’t always get there. But there is progression.”

I swirl my straw in my drink, watching the ice dance a slow pirouette.

“What about my dreams?” I ask.

Morpheus tents his long fingers and says nothing.

I look across the courtyard. It’s surrounded on all four sides with balconies and verandas, and people. People everywhere. It feels wrong to just be sitting here, not moving. It is then that I feel an unseen force grabbing at me, the undertow of the Dream King holding me in this place.

“Do you really want to know?” He asks.

I hesitate, suddenly cowed by the Oneiromancer’s power. Suddenly being acutely aware of being in his realm, where his wishes are paramount, and his word is law.

“Yes.”

I feel his grip release and we are no longer on the veranda, but walking the streets once more, navigating the crowd. I am dodging past people with a practiced ease. Morpheus, however, walks steadily, people swirling around him like water parting way for a boat.

“You dream big, complicated dreams. You are like a dream architect, far more concerned with the concept of the world than what occurs within it.”

His features have shifted, I notice. He seems more like a cross between Lawrence Fishburne’s Morpheus, from the Matrix movies, and Leonardo DiCaprio’s Dom Cobb from the movie “Inception”. The implications are not lost on me.

“You build these grand landscapes in your mind and then transition through them. There is rarely a narrative; you simply seem to be…passing through. You often dream of railway stations or elevators, places that are a means and not an end.”

He turns to me, his eyes now hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. The reflections of the people around us are distorted, but I can’t tell if it’s a feature of the lenses or that’s just how the people actually look like. I am too afraid to find out.

“This is perhaps reflective of your waking life, of your feeling of always being in a state of flux. You don’t know where you are going, you just know you aren’t there yet,” He turns away and continues walking. “Perhaps you prefer it that way.”

“Well, they do say it’s about the journey and not the destination,” I counter.

“A journey is only a journey if it actually has a destination. Otherwise it’s just…” he gestures around him, “aimless wandering.”

We’re walking alongside a river now. Small boats putter in both directions. The perpetual sunset casts a golden pathway down the center of the river, broken only by the shadows of bridges which criss-cross the water at various intervals. Morpheus turns on to one of these.

“I do not know what it is you are looking for,” he says, striding up the gentle incline to the center of the bridge, “but you are unlikely to find it by just drifting along, and hoping to bump into it some day,”

“I don’t know where to begin,” I tell him.

“Pick a focal point. Then walk towards it.” He replies, swinging one leg over the railing of the bridge.

“But what if it’s the wrong direction?”

He shrugs. “Then find a new direction,” he says simply, “The point is, you’ll never find out until you start moving.”

He hops off the bridge, but doesn’t fall. He starts walking along the pathway of golden light, heading towards the blinding sun.

I shake my head, squinting.

“Hey!” I call after him. “Why do I feel like I’ve had this conversation before?!”

I can no longer see him, his form eclipsed by the burning sun, but I can hear him as clearly as if he is still standing next to me. He is laughing.

“Perhaps you dreamt it!”

And then I woke up.

*

Monopoly

“Y’know, I’ve always liked Monopoly,”

“That doesn’t really surprise me,” I reply, picking up the worn dice and rattling them in my hand before casting them down on the old board with a satisfying clacking sound. A three and a one. I move my piece, the battleship, four spaces. I land on “Income Tax. Pay £200.”

“Nerds.” I fork over the play money (that I had just received for passing GO!) to my opponent, who is the banker.

“I mean,” I continue, “considering you kind of own the sole real estate option at the end of everything.” I grin. “Gettit? Sole? Soul?”

Death grins, but that’s because he is a skull in a dark robe and has no lips. I imagine he’s heard those kind of jokes a billion times before.

“True,” he concedes, “I am the single service provider to the Great Beyond.”

He picks up the dice in his skeletal hands and they rattle in a way that sets my teeth on edge.

“But what I meant was that I enjoy the game for what it is. There’s challenge for sure, and it does require skill, strategy and so forth. But luck plays a big part too. And you can play just for fun.”

The dice spills from his hand, clattering to the board. A five and a two. He moves his token, the Scottie Dog, and lands on a Community Chest square. He picks up one of the pink cards from their place in the middle of the board and reads it aloud.

“”You have won second prize in a beauty contest. Collect £10”. Ooh. Very nice.”

He pays himself from the bank.

We are playing the classic UK version of the game, a mid-20th century edition. It’s just a friendly match, so we’re playing the speed-run rules; no hotels or houses or nothing, just whoever owns the most properties wins. I am lagging a little behind Death with 8 properties to his 12, but I have both Utilities and two stations, with the other two still up for grabs.

I throw two fours, and move my piece. I land on the Electric Company, which I already own.

“It’s a double, so you get another turn,” Death reminds me.

“Oh yeah,” I throw a three and a four and land on Vine Street. “I’ll have that.”

Death hands over the property card in exchange for £200. I frown at my dwindling finances. I was going to need some more cash soon, but so far Death hadn’t landed on any of my big money-makers.

Death sighs as he takes his turn.

“Man, I miss this.”

“What?”

He gestures at the board.

“This. Playing games.” He tosses down the dice, an unlucky throw that lands him on Kings Cross station. “Damn.”

“Pay up.” I gesture. He hands over a fifty.

“Back even as little as, what…forty? Fifty years ago? People were always challenging me to games. Great Fun. Never amounted to anything of course, they were dead! But I guess it gave them time to come to terms with that.”

I take my turn and land on a Chance space. I pick up a card. It’s a little frayed at the edges.

“”Advance to Go”. Sweet.” I shift my battleship around the board and grab £200 from Death. “Bet you played a lot of Chess.”

“Yes. Chess. Chequers. Risk. Battleship. Scrabble. Connect Four even.”

“Cluedo?”

“No, I never play Clue. I always end up as the murderer.” He sniffs. “Besides, it’s not really a two person game.”

He picks up the dice and throws a pair of sixes. It lands him on another Community Chest.

“”Bank Error in your favour. Collect £200”,”

“Wait, aren’t you the bank? That sounds like embezzlement to me,” I joke.

Death doesn’t reply, but instead just tosses the dice again. A six and a five lands him squarely on my Water Works.

“Ooh, that’s ten times the amount on the dice you owe me, thank you kind sir.”

Death hands over £110. I’m nice and solvent now, though of course that could all change very rapidly.

I glance up at him as I roll the dice. His fingers are tented and he looks thoughtful. Or maybe pensive? It’s hard to tell when all you’ve got to go by is a bleached skull.

I land on the Angel Islington. One of Death’s. The rent is only £6 though.

“Six quid for your thoughts?” I ask, passing the thin yellow papers over to him.

“Hm? Oh, nothing. As I said, I just miss playing games.”

“People don’t challenge you much any more then?”

“No.” He sighs, and there’s a strange weariness to it.

He sits back, game temporarily abandoned. I take the opportunity to put the kettle on.

“You want to know what the most common thing people say when I greet them these days?”

“”Aaahh!”?” I guess.

“”Oh, thank fuck.”,”

“Come again?” I fish out two clean mugs and pop a tea bag in each of them.

“It’s relief. It’s the sudden release of the burden of life.” He crosses his bony arms across the front of his smoke-coloured robe.

“People are happy to see me. They are ready and willing to be off.” He picks up one of the unused playing pieces from the box, an old Boot, cast in sterling silver. I vaguely recall the piece having been retired in newer versions of the game, replaced by a T-Rex, of all things.

“They used to fear me. Used to try and run, or fight, or bargain.” He mused, regarding the tiny footwear. He shrugged. “It never offended me. I honestly empathized with them. People should want to keep living, should be fearful of not knowing what comes after.” He replaces the boot and sighs.

“Now they’re just ready to go.” He glances up at me. His eye sockets are darker than Vantablack. You could lose entire galaxies in a darkness like that.

I turn and busy myself with making tea.

“Why do you think that is?”

“Life. It’s progressively getting more stressful, more demanding. People are constantly bombarded with information. Late Stage capitalism is constantly pushing people to work harder for less reward, social media is constantly giving people an unreachable bar to work toward.” He grabs a handful of fake money and waves it around.

“The rich keep getting richer and the poor keep getting poorer. No one’s investing in infrastructure, or healthcare, or social services because there’s no profit in it. The privileged keep the masses down in order to support their decadent lives. Keep everyone distracted with their On-Demand entertainment and Internet videos and the latest manufactured outrage. Keep everyone distracted from the literal murders happening in the streets, or the fact that the planet is dying.”

The kettle whistles and I self-consciously unplug it. I pour the boiling water over the tea bags and leave them to steep.

“Not that it matters to me, you understand?” He uncrosses his arms and picks up the dice again. “I’ll see everyone, sooner or later.”

He shakes his cupped hands, the dice rattling off his bones. I wince.

“But whether it’s a growing lack of religion or just a spiritual drought,” he says, tossing the dice, “People think death is the end and that’s it. Game Over, welcome to an eternity of nothing. A relief.”

He lands a one and a two. It lands him on Regent Street, narrowly missing the “Go Directly To Jail” corner. He buys the property.

I fish the tea-bags out of the cups and toss them in the compost.

“Milk?”

“Just a splash, please. No sugar.”

I place the mug down next to him. It has a simple drawing of a smiley face on it and the legend “Life is Good” scrawled across beneath it.

“And what is after death?” I ask innocuously

Death grins his rigor mortis grin.

“Spoilers.”

He sips his tea. How he does this without lips is completely beyond me, but I’ve learned not to ask.

“The thing is,” he says, handing me the dice, “I just don’t see the point.”

He picks up one of the tiny plastic green houses from the box.

“Sure, you can make the game more difficult. People like a challenge.” He puts the house down on the table and takes out another one. “It’s fun to discover loopholes. It’s satisfying to overcome certain odds.” He lines up the next house to the first one, aligning it carefully with a nudge of his index distal phalanx, before adding a third and then a fourth.

“But it’s when you give yourself all the advantages, and/or deny any to the other players, that you start to lose sight of the point of the game.”

“Which is?”

Death opens his hands in an expansive gesture.

“To have fun, of course.”

I consider this before throwing the dice. A three and a one. This lands my battleship in jail.

But, of course, I’m Just Visiting.

We play for a few more hours, mostly in silence save for the odd comment, or to read out a Chance or Community Chest. I end up in jail for real which gives Death a chance to hoover up several choice properties, including a railway station. At that point we’re just chasing down the last few free properties on the board, but there’s no way I can catch up so I concede defeat.

He stands to go, both a towering presence in my kitchen and yet, at the same time, looking like a Halloween decoration that had been pulled out of the cupboard a few weeks early.

“What shall we play next time?” I ask.

“I don’t mind. Maybe something that doesn’t drag on for hours.”

“So not “Settlers of Catan” then?”

“Fuck no.”

He starts to fade out, going slowly translucent at the edges.

“Hey,” I call after him. He raises his head.

“I had fun.”

He tilts his head, then nods.

“Until next time.” And he disappears.

As I leave the kitchen, I take a small dry-erase marker and add a talley mark on a small whiteboard that’s stuck to the fridge. There are more marks under Death’s side of the board then there are mine, but that’s okay.

Not everything has to be Life or Death.

*

Dog Days

It wasn’t exceptionally hot, but the air was thick with moisture, heavy and still. It sucked the energy out of even the most enthusiastic of park goers, so the entire place had a lethargic feel to it. Even the shade provided no relief, and everyone who was in the park that afternoon was sweaty, sticky and wretched.

Winter hated it.

This was the antithesis of everything she was, simply being here was an anathema to her. She wasn’t even supposed to be here; her duties currently had her in the Southern Hemisphere.

But she owed Summer for that incident with the soup, and Winter had been trying to make an effort to connect more with her sisters lately. So when Summer had invited her north to spend an afternoon together, Winter had accepted.

If she’d had know just how humid it was going to be, however, she might have reconsidered.

She spotted her sister sitting on a bench by the café which sat at the top of the hill and commanded excellent views of the park and the woodland beyond. Summer wore a bright yellow sundress and a pair of dark sunglasses. In contrast, Winter wore a dark cotton loose fitting jumpsuit and a large brimmed straw hat, although she also wore dark sunglasses too.

If anyone had taken the time to observe them, it would have been immediately obvious the two were sisters. Of the four of them, Summer and Winter were the most alike in appearance. They both had long, slender limbs, slim, round faces and long, luxuriant hair, albeit Winter’s was the color of the night sky at the winter solstice, whereas Summer’s was the bright gold of endless waves of grain. If you could see their eyes, hidden away behind their dark glasses, you would see another difference; Winter’s eyes were an icy light blue, cold and hard, but Summer’s were a darker, deeper blue, the blue of an infinite sky or the unfathomable depths of the ocean.

Summer noted her sister’s approach and proffered a lazy salute.

“Wotcher,” she drawled lazily. Sitting next to her on a bench was a medium-sized dog, dark but with patches of white on its underside and paws. It had powerful neck and shoulders and a blunt snout, which it raised to sniff the air as Winter approached, but quickly regained its prone position on the bench; too hot to concern itself with the newcomer.

“Sister,” Winter greeted, panting slightly. The hill was steep, and the air was stale. “At risk of offense, I must say that I find the conditions here to be…” she paused, searching for the appropriate word.

“Offensive.” She finished, weakly.

Summer shrugged.

“What can I say? Summer’s a bitch.”

Winter frowned.

“I would not go quite so far; you surely have your place and merits…”

“No, I mean literally, look-,” Summer held up the dog’s tag.

“This bitch’s name is Summer! See?”

Winter blinked. Sure enough, the dog’s ID tag had the name “Summer” engraved upon it.

“Why, pray tell, is there a dog here?”

“Ah, it always happens bout this time of year.” Summer, the anthropomorphic representation of the Season, scratched Summer, the dog, behind the ears. “Minding my own business, then boom,” She snapped her fingers, “I got a dog following me around. Never the same one twice.”

“Ah yes,” Winter nodded as she sat on the bench, on the opposite side of her sister to the dog. “The so-called “Dog Days of Summer”.”

“That’s it.” Summer agreed cheerfully. “Summer here is some kind of pit bull or something.”

“Staffordshire Bull Terrier, unless I’m mistaken,” Winter said, who rarely was.

“If you say so.” Summer shrugged.

“She appears to only have three legs.” Winter observed.

“Ey, that’s one more you or I have got.” Summer pointed out.

Winter didn’t know how to reply to this, so didn’t.

Summer (the three-legged Staffordshire Bull Terrier) just panted, her long pink and black tongue lolling out of her mouth.

“Unexpected canine occurrences aside, must it really be so…wretched?” Winter wiped her brow with a silk handkerchief. “This humidity is unbearable.”

“Alright, hang on. I’ll see if I can just…”

Summer furrowed her brow in concentration, and a light breeze blew across the hill. It wasn’t much, but it took away a little of the mugginess.

“There. Best I can do, I’m afraid.” Summer shrugged. “As I say; it’s that time of year.”

Winter sighed. “It is a mild relief.”

“Hang on, I got an idea,” Summer stood up and went inside the cafe, leaving Winter with the dog.

“I really don’t know why I bother.” Winter muttered.

Summer looked at her and whined.

“Yes, I know she’s my sister, but you cannot ignore that we are literal opposites. We are simply not built to exist in each other’s realms.”

Summer barked once, a low huffing bark. Winter frowned.

“That is neither here nor there.” She sniffed.

Summer whined again, then went back to panting.

“Here we are,” Summer had reappeared with a pair of ice cream cones and a bottle of water. She handed both cones to Winter before producing a small collapsible plastic bowl from a yellow canvas tote bag that had been sitting on the bench next to her. She popped it open, set it on the ground and poured the water in to the bowl.

“Go on,” she said, and Summer jumped down and started lapping gratefully, if a little messily from the bowl.

“I started carrying that around ever since the dogs started showing up.” Summer said, indicating the bowl. “Humans, eh? What will they think of next?” She took one of the cones back from Winter and took a long lick.

Winter tasted her own. Chocolate. The cold ice cream was a welcome relief from the heat, and the flavor put her in mind of the mugs of hot steaming chocolate that were so popular during her months, and that was a comfort of itself.

The two sisters sat on the bench for a while, each engrossed in their own cone. Summer’s ice cream was beginning to melt rapidly in the heat and she hurried to eat it before it began to drip all over her. Winter’s cone, on the other hand, hadn’t even begun to sweat.

“Have you, uh, have you heard from Mother recently?” Summer asked suddenly.

Winter frowned.

“No. Should I have?”

“No, no. I know how she keeps to herself. I was just…y’know. Curious.”

Winter paused in eating her ice cream and turned to look directly at her sister, whose gaze was fixed somewhere over the trees.

“You have almost never shown much consideration for Mother in centuries past. What brings this up all of a sudden?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Forget I said anything.” Summer stood and tossed the remains of her cone into a trash can.

“Summer,”

“It’s just…” Summer started, and then caught herself.

Winter waited. Winter was nothing if not patient.

“Y’know. I’ve been speaking with Spring, and Autumn, as I’m sure you have,” Summer continued, “and…look, we like people, okay?”

Winter was puzzled. “Y-yes?”

“Like…we used to just…exist. Be. And then people showed up and built their lives around us. Planting. Sowing. Harvesting. Y’know. All that stuff.”

Winter tilted her head at this.

“Okay, okay, not so much during your months. But still.”

Summer gestured loosely at the park.

“They lived, they died, they progressed. Developed new technologies. Learned to survive in spite of us. But they still live their lives around us, still need us, even if not as much as they once did.”

Winter blinked. Summer was standing there above the hill, still wearing the same yellow sundress and sandals. But Winter could also see another Summer, an older Summer, standing impossibly tall in a long white robe, flowers in a crown around her head, holding court above field after field of golden grain.

And then the vision vanished, and Summer was just another young woman in a sundress, her shoulders gleaming with sweat in the bright afternoon sun.

“And that’s okay! It’s okay to just let them…enjoy us. And I enjoy them enjoying us. People are fun! They do fun things! Interesting things! The richness of their lives is so much deeper, more expansive, now that they don’t have to spend all their time toiling to survive.”

She sat back down on the bench, letting her long fingers search gently behind the dog’s ears. Summer, the dog, yawned, and shook her head, but allowed Summer to keep scratching.

“But we can’t ignore that they are taking control away from us. I feel like I am slipping away from myself, like I am becoming something else. Something more…volatile. More…I dunno. Extreme.” She glanced up at her sister above the rims of her sunglasses. “I’m sure you’ve felt it too.”

Winter nodded.

“I…I’m just worried that Mother is just going to keep letting them make things get worse, let them…”

She laughed suddenly, a short, bitter laugh.

“Sow the seeds of their own destruction.” she finished.

They sat in silence, broken only by the sound of Summer panting. Winter felt a bead of sweat run slowly down her back, which made her shudder.

She sighed.

“Mother has always said that she’d never go against the nature of things. And that Humans are as much a part of nature as anything else.”

Winter let her own fingers lightly caress the back of canine Summer’s head. The dog shivered. Winter sighed again and withdrew her hand.

“But aren’t they destroying her?” Summer asked.

Winter smiled a wry smile.

“Humans cannot destroy Nature. They can change her, they can make it so they cannot exist within her any more. But she will continue on, regardless of whether Humans are here or not, until this planet reaches its eventual end, billions upon billions of years from now.”

She slipped her own glasses off her face and stared Summer directly in the eyes. And Summer felt a chill in her bones that she hadn’t felt in eons.

“We were here before the people came. We will still be here when the people are gone.”

Summer frowned.

“I don’t want them to go.”

Winter sighed, and her demeanor softened.

“No. No, I don’t suppose any of us do. But we cannot change who we are, any more than we can change who they are.”

“I know that. I know that, dammit.” Summer growled. “I just wish…I just wish there was something we could do.”

“I know.” Winter reached into a pocket and pulled out a small flower. “But, as Spring reminded me earlier this year, maybe the best we can do is simply…” She held out the flower and placed it gently into Summer’s hand. It was a cherry blossom, frozen perfectly in bloom.

“…enjoy them. While we can.”

In Summer’s hand the flower suddenly dropped its petals, pink confetti whirling away in the slight breeze. The remaining bud rapidly grew deep green leaves, and there was even a couple small cherries that suddenly popped into existence.

Summer said nothing, but continued to frown.

Winter leant back against the bench.

“Or,” she said light-heartedly, “you could always talk to Father.”

This invoked a reaction.

“Pfft. That’s a joke. The old man’s even more obstinate and unreachable than Mother is.”

Winter said nothing, but a small smile tugged at her lips.

From over the fields a faraway voice could be heard calling.

“Summer!”

The staffie’s ears pricked up and she jumped down off the bench. She turned and looked at the two sisters.

“G’wan pooch, get outta here. Thanks for the company.” Summer waved her hand at the dog.

Summer made a sound that was half-way between a growl and a whine.

Winter bowed her head.

“I shall take it under consideration.” She said.

Summer turned and loped off down the hill, her gait unencumbered by the lack of a leg.

Summer turned to her sister with an incredulous look on her face.

“You speak dog?”

Winter shrugged. “You do not?”

“Oooo-kay, I’m done. It’s too hot for this nonsense.” Summer stood and started to walk off down the hill. “Thanks for coming sis.”

“Summer,”

Summer paused and glanced back.

Winter looked as if she was about to say something, but then, shook her head.

“Thank you. For the ice cream.”

Summer rolled her eyes but with a smile.

“Ey, you’re welcome. Any time. Don’t be a stranger now.” And she strode off down the hill and into the woods.

Winter sat there a while longer. She had duties to attend to, it was true, but nothing that demanded her immediate attention. Instead she just watched the comings and going’s of the few who dared come out to the park on this sultry afternoon.

Watching them.

And, slowly, maybe even enjoying them.

*

“

Disturbed

The sound of wailing penetrated his consciousness. It was not a cry of pain; it was more plaintive, and very insistent.

Grigor grunted, lifting his head up to locate the source of the sound.

Ah yes. Of course.

He rolled over onto his feet, his knees and hips stiff from sleeping on the bare floor of the cave. He wasn’t old, unlike the Elder Dragons of the Clan who counted their ages in triple digits, but he was starting to feel the strain of his years. No longer the rash, young pup he once was, always on the move, able to sleep anywhere with no ill-effect. Until recently, he preferred to sleep on his rock, and he had rarely, if ever, left the valley.

“Well,” he thought to himself, “I have more responsibilities than when I was younger too.”

His had had to abandon his favourite sleeping rock when the Clan had started to outgrow the main nest last season. This happened once or twice a century; once the population had begun to exceed the ability of the territory to support it, a sufficiently experienced dragon was promoted to be a new Alpha and they would lead a faction of individuals off to find a new nest and establish a new splinter clan, still loyal to the main clan, but self-sufficient and self-governed in a new territory.

Grigor had been fortunate (or unfortunate, depending on how you chose to look at it) enough to be designated the Alpha of this splinter clan, which meant he had have to leave his home behind and strike out to find a new nest. It had been exhilarating and exciting at first, but days had turned to weeks, which turned to months and they had still yet to find a suitable territory. They had eventually holed themselves up in a small cave network near the Plains, a temporary lodging whilst his Scouts searched for a more ideal locale to establish their Clan.

As such, he had not yet found a new place that he could claim as His Rock, and thusly had been unable to get a good night’s sleep since they left the main nest.

And to make matters worse, it was Hatching season.

Grigor extended his serpentine neck into the nursery chamber. Sure enough, one of the hatchlings was mewling, loud and determined. He removed his head and stuck it into an adjoining cave.

“Talaith,” he rumbled. “The hatchling is crying again.”

“That is what hatchlings do, Grigor,” replied the female, without raising her head from where she lay. She sounded tired. “I suspect even you wailed in the night as an infant.”

Talaith was the same age as him, born in the same brood, but she had been working in the nurseries since about the time she could stand. When the time had come to set up a splinter clan, it was obvious to all that she should be designated as Den Mother, with absolute authority over all matters pertaining to hatching and raising every dragon born to the new clan. As such, she stood and spoke with him as an equal, for although he was the Alpha, without the nurseries there would be no clan.

Grigor grunted. “It is…disturbing the others.”

“You mean it is disturbing you,” Talaith replied, still not moving.

“Am I not others? Regardless, I cannot perform at my best if I am fatigued.”

This did cause Talaith to stir, rolling over to face him, her moss green scales glittering in the dim light of what had been a fire, now just embers, smoldering in the corner of the chamber.

“Oh,” she said, appraising him languidly, “You mean to tell me that the mighty Grigor, son of Gorlassar the Fierce, Killer of Rocs, Scourge of the Griffin, and Nightmare to all and sundry, cannot perform if he loses out on a little beauty sleep?”

Grigor growled, but Talaith just flicked her tail at him.

“If it bothers you so, mighty Alpha, you can go calm the infant yourself.” She rolled back over away from him and tucked her head under her wing, signaling she was done with the conversation.

Grigor growled again, but knew better than to push the issue. Talaith was smaller than him by a tail-length, but her claws were sharp, her teeth were pointy and she always gave as good as she got.

He stalked back to the nursery chamber.

The hatchling was still whining, it’s cries not yet disturbing the other infants in the nursery, but there were signs one or two of them were beginning to stir. There were a few nurse dragons in there too, but all were asleep, exhausted, and none had heard this individual yet. It didn’t have a name; Dragons didn’t acquire a name until they were old enough to be of service to the clan, and this hatchling was far too young.

Grigor tried to nuzzle it in the way he had seen Talaith do, in the way he remembered his own den mother doing when he was but a stripling, many, many decades ago. He felt awkward and clumsy and, perhaps picking up on this, the child began to wail louder.

“No, no, no little one. Shh, shh,” he rumbled softly, trying to be gentle, to be soothing, but to no avail. He felt foolish, embarrassed. The crying got louder, more insistent, more grating on Grigor’s tired nerves. He was starting to lose patience.

Why was he doing this? He had no experience with hatchlings! He was versed in hunting, combat! Not catering to a mewling whelp! He was the Alpha for Draco’s sake! He commanded, they obeyed! Others quivered before his might, his authority! Men-folk fell to their knees, birds took wing, even other dragons scattered at the sound of his roar!

“Enough!” He growled, “QUIET!”

He threw his head back and roared. It was like a giant fog-horn, the sound of every wind instrument playing the same discordant note as loud as they can at the same time, the sound of a thousand nails being run up the strings of a million harpsichords simultaneously, the fury of ten thousand thunderclaps tearing the sky asunder in the same instant. It was a wall of sound that reverberated and amplified in the long, narrow cave system, echoing out across the plains in a cacophony of pure noise. Everywhere for a hundred miles animals started, birds flinched, humans awoke with a cry. They even heard it in Gwyr, fifty leagues away.

The sound ebbed out of the chambers, the air still faintly thrumming with residual vibrations, and then, like magic, all was quiet.

Grigor sighed, allowing the blessed peace to wash over him.

It lasted all of five seconds. With a deafening screech, every single hatchling woke up, wailing like the banshees of Iwerddon. All the nurse dragons, already startled awake by Grigor’s roar, all turned at looked at him, a mixture of outraged confusion and tired resignation in their eyes.

“By Y Ddraig Goch, were you hatched this stupid or was it a skill you worked hard to acquire?!” Talaith screeched, bounding into the nursery, her wings and hackles raised.

Grigor, stunned by the sudden cacophony and increased hostility in the small space, could only stammer.

“I, I just, it was just…”

Talaith whipped him with her tail.

“Get out, and don’t show your snout in here again if you know what’s good for you!”

Grigor took a step back before catching himself. He was the Alpha, right? He reared up, wings flared in a show of dominance, but Talaith was having none of it.

“GET! OUT!” She roared, bright hot flame accentuating her words. She whipped at him with her tail again, snapping her jaws, and this time he took the hint.

He scrambled for the cave mouth, his large wings beating until they caught purchase in the air, and he took to the skies.

He glided aimlessly for a while, watching the night sky begin to brighten on the eastern horizon as dawn approached. Later on he would realize, in hindsight, that his actions had indeed been foolish, and he would seek to make amends to Talaith and the others, but right now his mind was too addled by the sudden violence and ongoing exhaustion. He just needed a few hours uninterrupted sleep!

He was so tired that he didn’t notice his flight path had gotten dangerously low until his feet brushed through a hedgerow. He tried to course-correct, but he was too slow and plowed through another hedgerow and ploughed into the ground, his belly scales tearing through grass and mud.

He came to rest in the middle of a large field located beside a gently flowing river. He lifted his head and realized he was not alone. Occupying the field along side him was a rather large herd of sheep. They had initially scattered at his violent entry, but had started to gather round his prone form, hungry for the fresh grass and ignorant of the apex predator in their midst.

“Huh. Must have never encountered a dragon before,” Grigor thought idly. He did notice a human figure sprinting out of the field like the hounds of Hades were after him. The Shepard, Grigor guessed. Whilst he might have never encountered a dragon before, he was sure to have heard the tales, both the true and the exaggerated, and was almost certainly off to raise the alarm.

Grigor had no interest in taking on a contingent of armed humans, but the gentle bleating of the sheep and the trickling sound of water were soothing, and the soft earth beneath his belly were comforting. He lay his head down and soon was fast asleep.

It would take over an hour for the shepard to get word to the local fortress about the sudden appearance of a dragon in their lands, and a further two hours for a contingent of the Guard to mobilize and make their way to the field by the river. Until then, however, Grigor had the most satisfying nap he had ever had since leaving the Main Clan.

*

Yozakura

Maruyama Park, located in Kyoto’s historic Higashiyama District, was usually a prime spot for Hanami, the Japanese practice of gathering to view the blossoming of Cherry Trees in the early spring. Typically the park would be filled with people, accompanied by food stands and copious amounts of drinking.

This year, however, the park was subdued; the stands were absent, and only a few people gathered in small groups, and they didn’t linger. The COVID pandemic had hit Japan as hard as elsewhere in the world, and the current threat of mutant variants of the virus had rather put a damper on the usual Spring celebrations.

So there wasn’t really anyone around to see the woman sitting on a bench beneath the park’s famous Gion Weeping Cherry Tree. The sun was a faint suggestion of colour in the sky above the trees, and the tree was lit up by a variety of spot-lights and lanterns, the blooming cherry blossoms held in stark relief against the rapidly darkening sky.

The woman was wearing an insulated parka the colour of lavender, her hair was long and dark, flowing from beneath a woolen beret. Beside her on the bench was a pair of convenience store bags filled with a variety of food stuffs and beverages. Had the park attendants noticed her, they probably would have moved her along, but Winter was never one to be hurried.

As she sat, another young lady approached the bench. She had a round, youthful face, bright, wide eyes and hair cut almost to the scalp. If you looked closely enough, you would have sworn the remaining fuzz was the colour of green grass. She was wearing a long flowing white dress, her arms and shoulders covered with a woolen shawl. Most notably, her feet were bare.

“Hey,”

Spring hailed her sister with unusual pathos. Her normal demeanor was energetic and joyful; it was disconcerting to see her so somber.

“Well met, Sister,” Winter responded. She indicated the bench next to her and Spring slumped into it.

To say that Winter and Spring were close would be inaccurate. Despite occupying adjacent dominions in the seasonal calendar, they hardly ever saw each other. Winter was the oldest of the four; quiet, reserved, diligent in her duties. Spring, on the other hand, was the youngest, usually exuberant and hyperactive, though no less diligent.

So when Winter had summoned her out of the blue and invited her to a mini viewing party here in Kyoto, Spring was surprised, to say the least.

There was an awkward silence.

“Might I offer you a refreshment?” Winter broke the impasse, opening the bags next to her and proffering a can of beer. “I understand this to be a traditional beverage for cherry blossom viewing.”

Spring took the can without a word and cracked it, foam spurting from the top. She sucked down the froth and lent forward, elbows on knees, the dripping beer hanging from one hand.

Winter opened her own beer, being careful not to spill, and took a long draft.

The silence stretched on.

“Might I offer my congratulations? The sakura seem to be both healthy and plentiful this year.” Winter indicated the boughs of the tree above them.

“Hmm?” Spring glanced up. “Yeah. Thanks, I guess,” She took another swig of beer. “Not that it matters.”

“Oh?” Winter glanced over to her sister. “I was under the impression that you counted the Cherry Blossoms as one of your crowing achievements.”

“I guess. Whatever. Like you even care. You’re never usually awake to see them.”

Winter sat up a little, which was saying something considering she always had impeccable posture.

“Am I detecting hostility?”

““Am I detecting-“,” Spring mimicked mockingly, “Mother Earth, can’t you say anything without sounding like a, a – dang robot all the time?”

Winter’s eyes narrowed. The few patrons of the park pulled their coats about them tighter as the temperature suddenly dropped a few degrees. Spring noticed it too.

“Oh really?” She said, “You’re gonna make a scene-”

“I will not allow myself to be spoken to in that tone of voice.” Winter’s tone was even, measured, but edged with steel. “Not even by one of my kin.”

“Alright, alright, I’m sorry. Ease off will you? Not all of us brought warm jackets.”

Winter’s expression remained the same, but the air grew mild again. When she spoke, her voice was softer.

“Please, Sister. I know we are not…close. But I have sensed that you have been…withdrawn as of late. I was hoping that I could offer counsel, should you be willing to accept it.”

“Why?” Spring rolled her eyes. “When have you ever cared about what I do? You preside over the dead months, yours is the time of stasis. I’m responsible for bringing everything back to life, for getting it all moving again.” She drained her beer.

“Not that you ever make it easy!” She turned suddenly, glaring at Winter. “You always take forever to go to sleep. Just when I think I’m safe to get the daffodils blooming, you swing by with another cold snap! I’m crushed between you and Summer and it’s always a mad rush to get everything done in time!”

She grabbed another can from the bag and cracked it open with a flourish.

“It’s hard enough trying to accomplish all that, even without climate change messing everything up,” she said, “but I always thought it was worth it, y’know? Seeing all the colours, seeing all the new life bloom, seeing all the people getting excited to be living their lives again. I was proud to be the herald of a new year; it brought me profound joy to be welcoming everyone back from the darkness, to invite them on another trip around the sun. To see the life in their hearts, to see them live…” she broke off, staring off into the distance. She was breathing hard, deep, raggedy breaths.

“Spring – ” Winter started

“Winter…Winter, we lost so many. So many,” she turned to face her sister, and in the lantern light tears could be seen in Spring’s emerald eyes. “So many people never got to see another spring-rise. So many people who never got to experience another Easter, never got to witness the world coming back to life again.” She gritted her teeth as the tears began to stream down her face. “Never got to see the- the-,” she sobbed, gesturing broadly at the blossoms surrounding them, the words failing her. She balled her fists into her eyes, her shoulders heaving with grief. The can of beer clattered to the ground, its contents draining out onto the concrete.

Winter reached out a slender hand and rested it lightly on Spring’s back. The gesture was so gentle and so unlike Winter that Spring almost stopped crying from sheer shock. She sniffled as Winter, apparently as uncomfortable with physical intimacy as Spring was surprised to receive it, took her hand back, and gestured to the blossoms.

“This festival, Hanami, is about enjoying the cherry blossoms, is it not?”

Spring shook her head, mostly from confusion about the sudden tangent Winter seemed to be heading off on.

“Uh, yeah,” she sniffed, “The Sakura only bloom for a matter of days, so people come out to see them before they’re gone.” She shrugged. “I dunno, I guess someone somewhere along the line figured it was a good excuse for a party.”

“So, one could say the significance is not in the beauty of the blossoms themselves, for there are a large variety of plants blooming this time of year, each with their own intrinsic beauty,” Winter said, “but instead it lies with the fact this time is fleeting; their beauty is ephemeral, transient. It is because they only exist for so short a time, and that they use that time to live so intensely, that their very impermanence shines almost as brightly as they do themselves.”

Spring still looked confused. “I guess.”

Winter turned and smiled at her, a strangely warm smile. “Could we not also say the same about people?”

Spring, startled by the smile, said nothing.

“Their lives are short, their existence is fleeting. And yet, they take some time, of which they have so little, to appreciate the momentary beauty of a blooming flower? They make music and art and poetry dedicated to something as insubstantial as love? They live their lives brightly, passionately, bringing their own beauty into the world and to what end? To what cause? They will one day be dust and gone, but whilst they live? They live with the brightness of a thousand suns.”

She stood, and faced her sister, taking her hands into her own. Spring’s hands were rough, like the hands of a gardener. But they were warm too.

“There was nothing that we could have done to stem the losses that humanity has suffered this past year. It had nothing to do with us, as these things have never had anything to do with us, throughout human history. Their affairs are their own, as they always have been. We should not mourn their loss. Instead, we should celebrate that they were here in the first place. And bring joy and hope to those who continue to live in their place.”

A gust of wind blew through the park, shaking the branches of the trees. Thousands of tiny petals broke loose and began fluttering slowly to the ground, like snowflakes in the cool night air.

“My sister,” Winter pulled Spring to her feet. “I must apologize. You are correct in that sometimes I take longer to cede power to you than I should. You have a difficult job, perhaps the most difficult of all of us, and I do not envy you of it.” Once again, Winter smiled, and Spring found it to be strangely infectious.

“But, please,” She continued, “Never forget who you are and what you mean to the world. Never forget your pride, and your joy. Celebrate those who have been, those who are and those who have yet to come.”

Spring smiled back, and for a moment, every cherry blossom in the park shone with an unnatural vividness. The few who were present to witness it said it was if the very trees themselves were shining with light, if only for a moment.

“I…I honestly thought you didn’t care.” Spring said as they sat back on the bench.

“If I might make a confession; I do not think I did either,” Winter reached out her hand as a petal as it drifted slowly out of the air and came to rest on her palm. “But I think I am beginning to appreciate what you and our sisters see in humanity.”

Spring rummaged in the bags and pulled out two plastic containers that held a variety of food.

“Yeah, they’ll surprise you. Like the variety of food they’ve managed to come up with. Can I offer you an onigiri?”

“I would be much obliged.”

They didn’t talk much after that, but instead ate their food in silence and admired the cherry blossoms. And Spring had to admit, they really were her crowing achievement.

“We should do this every year,” Spring said as they tidied up the empty food containers.

“I think I would like that.” Winter replied. Spring beamed.

They did not hug goodbye, as it was not their custom, but lightly touched fingers to one another.

“Until next year then,” Spring said.

“Indeed. Farewell, Sister.”

“See ya.”

Even if you had been looking directly at them, you wouldn’t have registered their departure. One second they were there, the next, they weren’t. But you would have felt in your heart a strange mixture of hope and joy and been glad.

*

Jarred

“Have you ever had those nights where you sleep so deeply that time and reality lose all meaning?

“Where you feel like you were dreaming but your mind was so far under that any dreams are just sensations at the edge of your perception? Like seeing broken sunlight dance upon the water from the bottom of the ocean floor?

“Where your very sense of self becomes transient and ephemeral?

“And then, all of a sudden, an alarm rasps into your awareness, and your body responds automatically, shunting itself from asleep to awake, but your mind is too far gone and for a second or two your body is lying there, awake and alone, unaware of who or what it is, bewildered by its sudden state of Being…

“And then your mind catches up, your spirit comes crashing in with the full weight of You and you remember where you are and all the things you have to do and you get up and start your morning routine and start being a Person again…

“But that moment of disconnect lingers, like a bad dream, and you’re not quite sure if all of you made it back from where ever it was?”

“…shit, man, most people respond to “how’s it going?” with “fine, thanks.”

“Don’t ask if you don’t want to know.”

*

The Game

“I can’t decide what depresses me more,” I say, taking a sip of my tea before deciding what move to make. The game piece in my hand is old, but shiny from regular use.

“What?” My opponent asks.

I make my move, the piece placed on the board with a satisfying click.

“The knowledge that we could be better, as a collective species, but choose not to; or that I, as an individual, could be, but it wouldn’t make any difference,” I sigh.

My opponent pauses to consider their options. Neither of us are experts at the game, so play is slow and neither of us are getting the upper hand over the other.

“Elaborate.” They say.

I sit back, the chair creaking softly beneath my weight.

“In the first instance, I believe that we could, as a species, as a culture, could overcome the troubles that plague us if we all made the concerted effort to,” I waved my hands to accentuate the point. “We could solve, y’know, world hunger and poverty and the demands for energy and reverse the negative effects of climate change, if we really wanted to. We could all just agree to do it; everyone do their best and we could save…well, ourselves.”

My opponent tilts their head at this, but says nothing.

“But of course,” I say, “There’s always going to be self-serving people. People who won’t do their best to save the planet, because there’s no profit in it. Because some people just need to have power over others. Or, as that one movie succinctly put it, some men just want to watch the world burn.”

My opponent finally makes their move, then sits back against the faded cushions of the oversized wicker chair in which they recline. I am perched in a similar chair, the small table between us. We are on the veranda of the tea-house that is located at this fork in the road. There are fewer people than I expected, but still a steady flow of traffic is coming up the main route before branching off either one way or the other, or, like myself, stopping to take refreshment at the teahouse.

“So?” My opponent asks.

“So,” I reply, draining my cup, “So, it doesn’t matter? Like, people have always been this way. They will always be this way. We have the potential to change our very reality, our very existence! But we always, always get in our own way. Deliberately, even.”

I signal a waitress, who disappears into the interior of the building.

“Quite depressing,” my opponent agrees, “But you were of two minds?”

“Well, there’s the rub,” I say, accepting a fresh hot cup of Earl Grey from the waitress who appears silently at our table. The smoky aroma fills my nostrils, and I breathe for a moment, taking it in.

“Even knowing that it’s pointless, should I just give up? Should I be fighting every day for social justice, for climate action, for peace in our time? I know that as an individual my contribution is next to nil, but if everyone is thinking like that, then nothing will ever get done.”

I pick up a game piece with my free hand, think about moving it, put it back.

“It’s just too much for one person, y’know? I know that. But isn’t doing nothing as bad as actively trying to destroy the world?” I sipped my drink, trying not to scald my tongue.

“I don’t know which battle to pick; I don’t know which fight to choose. And ultimately it’ll be pointless anyway.”

I sink back into my chair, the old wicker fibers groaning beneath my weight.

“So I guess the question is, is it more depressing that it’s all meaningless, or is it more depressing that I know it’s all meaningless and have given up already?”

I stare at the road. Always people coming up the road and picking a path. One way or the other. It only just occurs to me, sitting there on the veranda, that I never see anyone going in the opposite direction.

My opponent strokes their chin with the long fingers of their hand.

“If you’ve given up,” they say, “then what does it matter which is more depressing?”

I sit up slightly, not expecting the conversation to take this turn.

“Sounds like you’re just waiting for someone to come in and do the work for you,” They continue. “Or else, just waiting for it to all collapse.”

I say nothing. The truth can silence just as well as it can hurt.

“It is a privilege to do nothing. To absolve yourself of the responsibility of, for want of a better term, living,” They look at me directly in the eye and I feel something twinge in my very soul. “Do you really think you’re that special?”

They take a long sip of their drink, some heady concoction that smells of flowers and spice.

“It matters not what particular banner you rally under. What matters is that you rally at all. As once was said by John Wesley;

“Do all the good you can, by all the means you can, in all the ways you can, in all the places you can, at all the times you can, to all the people you can, as long as ever you can,”

I shake my head.

“That sounds exhausting.”

They shrug.

“Even if “all that you can” is simply putting the out the recycling, then that’s more than doing nothing. These things aggregate.”

“But why bother, if it’s all pointless? If it all, ultimately, doesn’t matter?”

“”Ultimately?”” They cock their head. “Ultimately everyone ends up in the same place anyways. It’s just how you get there that matters.”

They gesture loosely at the road.

“And that, of course, is a matter of choice.”

They turn back to me and indicate the board, the worn pieces waiting patiently

“It’s your turn,”

I bite my lip, then make my play, a bold, decisive move.

My opponent smiles (at least, I think they do. It’s hard to tell under all the robes.) and move their own piece in a similar fashion.

“Checkmate!” They cry.

“What?” I frown at the board, then look up. “We’re playing Backgammon.”

But my opponent is gone. Only the faint smell of flowers and spices remain.

I pack up the game carefully, noting that my erstwhile opponent actually had been on the verge of winning.

I am not ready to resume my journey, but I will be, soon. But for now, I am content to sit and think about what has transpired, and to enjoy another cup of tea. And that is a choice, in and of itself, too.

At the crossroad between Hope and Despair there sits a tea-house, waiting for you, should you require a rest.

*

Fairy Tale #9

“Jason! So glad you could come.”

“Thanks! It was a bit of a struggle to find the place.”

“It can be difficult to find. Can I take your coat?”

“Thanks.”

“Well now…welcome to my humble abode!”

“It’s uh… cosy.”

“Thanks! It wasn’t much when I moved in, but a little bit of elbow grease, a few womanly touches and it’s a home. Would you like a drink?”

“Yes, please. It’s, Uhm…it’s a tad warm in here.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Comes with the place, y’know?”

“Stace?”

“Yes Jason?”

“I…I gotta ask. Why are you living inside a Dragon?”

“Why not? The price was great, the payments are low, no heating bills, excellent security…”

“But you’re inside another living creature…”

“Oh, Fangorn doesn’t mind, do you Fangorn?”

“Woah…that’s loud. He can hear you?”

“Yes. Don’t understand a word he’s saying. The realty guy said he hasn’t moved in nearly half a century and probably won’t for another half, but he’s fully awake and aware of what’s going on. Here you go.”

“Thanks. And he just let you build a small cabin inside his throat?”

“Well, he is the size of a small mountain. I don’t think it bothers him at all.”

“That’s wild.”

“I tell you, there’s nothing quite like having a quiet cup of coffee in the morning, watching the sun rise over his incisors. True, the smell of brimstone ruins it a little bit, but you get used to it.”

“Well, I don’t think you’d catch me living here, but I’m glad you’re happy with it.”

“Thank you. Now can I freshen up that drink?”

“Please…I think my ice has already melted…”

*