Do you remember was it was like, centuries ago, being a great and powerful creature of myth? When only men were made of flesh and bones? Perhaps a mighty dragon, sitting atop your gilded hoard of little self-proclaimed treasures- a library tucked underneath your wing, a litter of gold your bed hay. Fangs and claws sharp as knights came to call, leaving nearby kingdoms with a taste of fear and awe.
The winds tussled your hair as you howled an ode to the moon, sharp canines that tore through whatever soft came their way. Heightened senses picking up your prey's racing pulse as the smell of blood floods the area. Or perhaps a faery- leading unsuspecting youth deeper into the wolf's mouth in the forest, a jingling in your step as they followed behind the path marked by wild flowers.
Do you remember a time, centuries ago, when fae blood wasnt watered down into the veins of a young girl singing a solemn dirge in a rundown chapel? How odd that someone seems to brighten up the day just by smiling, and how your friend calms stray animals merely by voice. Your neighbor's plants never seem to wither, and the dying are brought back with ease.
Do you remember what it was like, being magic and alone?
YOU ARE READING
Back to Writing
General FictionWelcome to my somewhat self-patronizing, mostly self-guilt-tripping attempt to get back into the swing of writing creatively (hopefully) every day after four plus years of nothing but research papers and essays. It's going to be a ride, please bear...
