Solace

 A small dragon does not pillage, nor does he raze landscapes, eat virgins, or get up to other shenanigans oft thought to be perpetuated by the larger of the species. In point of fact, small dragons often enjoy small pleasures. One dragon in particular happened to enjoy a rather robust, fragrant cup of tea. He did so, as often the case with perfect pleasures, to the point of routine. 

    In order to have his ready routine, he specialized in the best of tea leaves, flying across continents to gain the finest of specimens. There were always new varieties to be found, always new perfect cups of tea to enjoy. Always as the sun went down. Always alone.

    To supplement his tea drinking, he traded in tea leaves, regularly collecting enough to keep him well-stocked in his own tea and in books. A perfect evening, the small dragon always thought, lay in books an tea. He could think of no finer pleasure. Though, this consideration was put to the test on the day the villagers heckled the village witch.

    His apartments on the upper floor of a town house, the dragon could see the attack from the attic window that looked down into the town square. There were shouts and spits. Fists were raised. Small rocks were thrown. And larger ones held in palms. At which point the dragon flew out of the window and placed himself in front of the witch. Enough now, his body said. One by one the villagers left. Until all that was left to do was invite the witch inside.

    He made her a perfect cup of tea, having nothing to do with convention. It was what he knew how best to do, and so he did it.

    'This,' she said with a raised brow after a single sip, 'Is indeed a perfect cup of tea.'

    'Yes,' he said, for he had no pretensions; he knew what he had made.

     The witch nodded. 'And what a thing it would be with a piece of perfect shortbread. I, myself, make a perfect shortbread.'

    The dragon was skeptical of this, the witch could tell.

    'I shall only be a moment,' the witch said.

    Before the dragon could worry about her out in the village, she had returned. Witch's magic, he knew, though it was a thing to witness a body there and back again without many breaths in between.

    The dragon ate the shortbread. He sipped his tea. His own brow raised. The witch was not wrong.  

    He sighed, as did the witch, content in their solace, as they did every day in the days after. In that way, the witch was less troubled by the frequent undulations of her position, and the dragon learned of a finer pleasure: perfect tea and perfect shortbread in company.

Popular posts from this blog

A Little Story About Cake

 There was once a man who baked a cake once a week. He used only the finest ingredients —rich orange egg yolks, creamy yellow butter, crunchy golden sugar, whole cream, and fine-sifted flour. Mixed together, the batter was itself a thing of beauty, but when it came out of the oven hot and cooked all the way through it was nothing short of perfection.     Though the man dearly loved to eat cake, his love was only a memory of time gone by, for he had never had a slice of his own cake. Instead, each week, he would cut the cake into seven slices, and wait to see what opportunities arose. Perhaps someone would come to tea, or a little girl would come to borrow an egg. Sometimes, especially in winter, the birds that had stayed too long would look particularly hungry, and so a slice of cake would be laid out for them, too. And, more often than anything, several slices each week would go to the old woman who lived at the end of the lane in the ramshackle house with the broke...
Read more

There Be Witches

 There was a witch. And she was young and lovely.     This was a problem, of course. Witches should not be lovely. They should be old and haggard, however benevolent their heart. There was a witch. And she was old and haggard.     This was a problem, of course. Witches would do better in the general public eye if they are young and lovely. There was a witch, and she was tired and on the bitter side of sweet.     This was a problem, of course. Witches are always better taken with when they are robustly kind. There was a witch, and she was jolly and good.     This was a problem, of course. Witches are always taken more seriously if they show how hard they've work with a piercing gaze.  There was a witch.     This was a problem, of course. There were witches. There still are.     As it happens, they eat problems for breakfast.
Read more

The Shadows

The light shown on Anya’s fingers. It curled around her palm and danced. This, she thought, was the sheer pleasure of having magic.       But in the midst of her play, a shadow grew.   It was not unexpected; it was the cost of doing magic, for it always begot shadows.   But it never ceased to offer discomfort.   If she could find a way to practice her craft and leave behind the adjacent darkness, she would.          Anya was not fond of the dark, or shadows, or of the sense of unease that grew whenever she let the flickering brightness dance.   But, too, there was a feeling of wholeness in her work.   How could that be, such fulfillment when darkness lay about her?   A constant wonder—the weight of it only born by extinguishing the light for a time until she could bear it again.       Today was such a time.          Anya took the light, and threw it at the darkness....
Read more