So, what does that mean? Well, each day, I'm going to tell you about a dragon - a dragon inspired by a name that I generated randomly using a name generator (I haven't looked up the derivation of any of these names, I have just run with how they make me feel, their sound on the tongue).
I'll tell you all about my Dragon of the Day, and share some flash fic about their lives. Any genre, any character, any look - prepare to be surprised and (I hope) entertained by my dragonly inspirations :).
~
is for Myron
Myron likes his life. Some of his colleagues at work think he is boring, but he prefers the sure and steady way. He’s an accountant at Lloyd and King: he likes numbers, they are absolute and he knows how they work. He doesn’t socialise much with the rest of the office, in fact, he finds the company of his mother much easier to deal with. She understands him, and they live together very amicably.
Myron believes in what he can see and what he can calculate, he is a man of limited imagination, and he knows that, and he is content. Life is nice and simple for him.
Or so he thought.
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I'll tell you all about my Dragon of the Day, and share some flash fic about their lives. Any genre, any character, any look - prepare to be surprised and (I hope) entertained by my dragonly inspirations :).
~
~
is for MyronMyron likes his life. Some of his colleagues at work think he is boring, but he prefers the sure and steady way. He’s an accountant at Lloyd and King: he likes numbers, they are absolute and he knows how they work. He doesn’t socialise much with the rest of the office, in fact, he finds the company of his mother much easier to deal with. She understands him, and they live together very amicably.
Myron believes in what he can see and what he can calculate, he is a man of limited imagination, and he knows that, and he is content. Life is nice and simple for him.
Or so he thought.
~
The Talk
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Sitting back from his desk, Myron smiled to himself as he viewed the completed spreadsheet on the computer screen. It had been a long, hard slog of a day, but now all the right figures were in all the right places and everything balanced. The work was ready to send upstairs and he rubbed his hands together gleefully. That is when he felt it, the rough catching of his palms together, a little like his skin was covered in drying glue. A little uncomfortable, he glanced at one palm whilst reaching for the tissues with the other. He didn’t touch the tissue box, because he froze mid-reach: the skin over the base of his thumb was no longer pale beige, it glistened, making him wonder where he’d managed to cover himself in glue, but then he realised that the glisten was in fact the surface of his flesh.
Pushing his glasses up his nose, he squinted at his palm. It took a little waggling in the bad strip lighting of the office, but then he realised his skin had blistered into tiny little almond-shaped lesions. Yet, the skin wasn’t sore and the raised marks were more purple than red. Tentatively, he touched the deformations with his opposite index finger. Stroking downwards, they were smooth, barely discernible, but upwards, his finger caught on their lower edges. It felt very strange, and, shivering, Myron stopped touching.
He stared at both palms, which were mirrors of each other, for another few seconds, then, not liking what he was seeing, he scrabbled for his backpack that was under the desk. As quickly as possible, he grabbed out his cycling gloves and pulled them on.
“Mummy,” Myron called as he took off his cycle helmet and walked into the hallway of their home.
“Darling,” his mother returned his greeting and appeared from the lounge into the hall; she was smiling as she looked up at him, but then recognition of his anxiety flickered onto her face. “What is the matter?”
Myron sagged as his mother put her hands up onto his shoulders. He had been worrying for the rest of the day and he told her in a rush, “I think I have an infection.”
He yanked off his gloves and showed his mother the hives that were growing darker. He was not expecting her to take hold of his hands and, smiling, rub her fingers over the strange patches.
“Oh, darling,” she gazed back up into his face and her eyes were glistening, “come and sit down, we need to have a talk.”
His mother did not let go of his hands, but she turned and gently pulled him towards the living room. Confused, he just went with her guide. She sat him down on the sofa, and, sitting beside him, took in a deep breath.
“Myron, my darling boy,” she began, her voice rising and falling in a very strange manner that worried Myron. “You don’t have an infection."
“How can you know?” he denied sharply, drawing on the deep vein of hypochondria he had been nursing all his adult life.
His mother continued to smile, although part of the time she looked like she was almost crying too: it was all rather worrying.
“I know, sweetheart, because your father warned me this might happen.”
“My father?” Myron checked, his voice small and his pulse speeding up, because they never talked about his father, ever.
His mother nodded.
“When your father abandoned us, I was very angry with him, and I should have told you this a long time ago, but I couldn’t. I wanted to forget all about him and I wanted us to have a normal life.”
“What, Mummy?” Myron asked, finding himself sitting up very straight, his throat going dry.
“Darling, you’re growing up.”
“Mother, I’m 42 years old!”
“And that is nothing in dragon years,” Myron heard his mother say, but the words did not compute: he sat back sharply.
She was still smiling, but now Myron was not as certain of his confidante and nurturer anymore - was she having a breakdown?
“You heard me correctly, darling,” she carried on, apparently unconcerned about his growing disbelief. “You are one quarter dragon. Your father could change between his dragon and his human form, and he told me that when you started to mature you would begin to gain that ability.”
“No, no, no,” Myron’s thoughts rebelled, it sounded so ludicrous.
He stood up and backed away towards the fireplace.
“This is silly,” he denied, gasping a breath before he tumbled on, “I’m Middle of the Road Myron, Myron the Mediocre. I’m not a dragon.”
Even the way the word fell off his tongue felt wrong and he could feel himself beginning to panic.
“Those people you work with are so cruel to you,” his mother tutted, but still did not look in the least bit perturbed by the nonsense she was talking. “Now you can show them.”
Myron heard the laugh before he realised it had come from his mouth, and he shook his head vigorously. He loosened his tie as hot and cold ran up and down his body. His heartbeat was far faster than was good for him and he had to remember his high blood pressure. Yet, that one word, ‘dragon’, was now stuck in his mind on repeat and there was no stopping his racing pulse, nor the sweat forming on his shoulder blades.
“Ridiculous,” he tried to convince himself again, but it wasn’t working, and he shivered.
His mother shimmered in front of him and he blinked, but everything felt very odd. He sort of knew what was happening, but his brain denied it, that was, until a rush of tingling ran from his scalp down through his body and it was far too late for denials. Myron sat down with a thump as his head hit the ceiling light and his tail knocked over the flower arrangement in the fireplace. The cracking sound of wood and glass told him he’d sat on the coffee table, but he didn’t really feel it as the broken bits of furniture failed to make an impression on his scales.
Scales, he had deep purple scales all over his body, and his body wasn’t man shaped anymore: he had four legs and something felt weird on his back. It took him a moment to realise it was a pair of thick, leathery wings and he stared over his shoulder at them as they flapped around in his panic.
Myron gasped in a big breath, his chest growing warmer as he did so. He gasped again and wondered if he had heartburn.
“Gently, darling, gently, just breathe,” his mother’s calm voice reached him and he found her standing under his chin, reaching for his shoulders once more.
“Mother, I’m…” he began, his voice sounding much deeper than before and growly, so he stopped.
“You’re a very handsome dragon, darling,” his mother finished for him, beaming up at him and rubbing his front legs.
“Mummy,” Myron said, discovering that even dragons could squeak when they were upset.
“There, there, my darling,” his mother soothed, wrapping her arms as far round him as they would go and patting him gently. “Mummy’s here and there’s nothing to worry about.”
There was everything to worry about: nothing was simple anymore, nothing was ordinary...ordinary, that thought stalled in Myron’s mind. He had loved ordinary, he had craved it, it was his friend. Then he thought about the names and the jokes he’d endured at work in the name of ordinary. Monotonous Myron was no more, his suit was in shreds all over the lounge. Who had taken his place? Mysterious Myron? Masterful Myron? Mercurial Myron? He wasn’t quite sure, but, as he blinked around from his new perspective, he knew nothing was ever going to be ordinary anymore.
Pushing his glasses up his nose, he squinted at his palm. It took a little waggling in the bad strip lighting of the office, but then he realised his skin had blistered into tiny little almond-shaped lesions. Yet, the skin wasn’t sore and the raised marks were more purple than red. Tentatively, he touched the deformations with his opposite index finger. Stroking downwards, they were smooth, barely discernible, but upwards, his finger caught on their lower edges. It felt very strange, and, shivering, Myron stopped touching.
He stared at both palms, which were mirrors of each other, for another few seconds, then, not liking what he was seeing, he scrabbled for his backpack that was under the desk. As quickly as possible, he grabbed out his cycling gloves and pulled them on.
*
“Mummy,” Myron called as he took off his cycle helmet and walked into the hallway of their home.
“Darling,” his mother returned his greeting and appeared from the lounge into the hall; she was smiling as she looked up at him, but then recognition of his anxiety flickered onto her face. “What is the matter?”
Myron sagged as his mother put her hands up onto his shoulders. He had been worrying for the rest of the day and he told her in a rush, “I think I have an infection.”
He yanked off his gloves and showed his mother the hives that were growing darker. He was not expecting her to take hold of his hands and, smiling, rub her fingers over the strange patches.
“Oh, darling,” she gazed back up into his face and her eyes were glistening, “come and sit down, we need to have a talk.”
His mother did not let go of his hands, but she turned and gently pulled him towards the living room. Confused, he just went with her guide. She sat him down on the sofa, and, sitting beside him, took in a deep breath.
“Myron, my darling boy,” she began, her voice rising and falling in a very strange manner that worried Myron. “You don’t have an infection."
“How can you know?” he denied sharply, drawing on the deep vein of hypochondria he had been nursing all his adult life.
His mother continued to smile, although part of the time she looked like she was almost crying too: it was all rather worrying.
“I know, sweetheart, because your father warned me this might happen.”
“My father?” Myron checked, his voice small and his pulse speeding up, because they never talked about his father, ever.
His mother nodded.
“When your father abandoned us, I was very angry with him, and I should have told you this a long time ago, but I couldn’t. I wanted to forget all about him and I wanted us to have a normal life.”
“What, Mummy?” Myron asked, finding himself sitting up very straight, his throat going dry.
“Darling, you’re growing up.”
“Mother, I’m 42 years old!”
“And that is nothing in dragon years,” Myron heard his mother say, but the words did not compute: he sat back sharply.
She was still smiling, but now Myron was not as certain of his confidante and nurturer anymore - was she having a breakdown?
“You heard me correctly, darling,” she carried on, apparently unconcerned about his growing disbelief. “You are one quarter dragon. Your father could change between his dragon and his human form, and he told me that when you started to mature you would begin to gain that ability.”
“No, no, no,” Myron’s thoughts rebelled, it sounded so ludicrous.
He stood up and backed away towards the fireplace.
“This is silly,” he denied, gasping a breath before he tumbled on, “I’m Middle of the Road Myron, Myron the Mediocre. I’m not a dragon.”
Even the way the word fell off his tongue felt wrong and he could feel himself beginning to panic.
“Those people you work with are so cruel to you,” his mother tutted, but still did not look in the least bit perturbed by the nonsense she was talking. “Now you can show them.”
Myron heard the laugh before he realised it had come from his mouth, and he shook his head vigorously. He loosened his tie as hot and cold ran up and down his body. His heartbeat was far faster than was good for him and he had to remember his high blood pressure. Yet, that one word, ‘dragon’, was now stuck in his mind on repeat and there was no stopping his racing pulse, nor the sweat forming on his shoulder blades.
“Ridiculous,” he tried to convince himself again, but it wasn’t working, and he shivered.
His mother shimmered in front of him and he blinked, but everything felt very odd. He sort of knew what was happening, but his brain denied it, that was, until a rush of tingling ran from his scalp down through his body and it was far too late for denials. Myron sat down with a thump as his head hit the ceiling light and his tail knocked over the flower arrangement in the fireplace. The cracking sound of wood and glass told him he’d sat on the coffee table, but he didn’t really feel it as the broken bits of furniture failed to make an impression on his scales.
Scales, he had deep purple scales all over his body, and his body wasn’t man shaped anymore: he had four legs and something felt weird on his back. It took him a moment to realise it was a pair of thick, leathery wings and he stared over his shoulder at them as they flapped around in his panic.
Myron gasped in a big breath, his chest growing warmer as he did so. He gasped again and wondered if he had heartburn.
“Gently, darling, gently, just breathe,” his mother’s calm voice reached him and he found her standing under his chin, reaching for his shoulders once more.
“Mother, I’m…” he began, his voice sounding much deeper than before and growly, so he stopped.
“You’re a very handsome dragon, darling,” his mother finished for him, beaming up at him and rubbing his front legs.
“Mummy,” Myron said, discovering that even dragons could squeak when they were upset.
“There, there, my darling,” his mother soothed, wrapping her arms as far round him as they would go and patting him gently. “Mummy’s here and there’s nothing to worry about.”
There was everything to worry about: nothing was simple anymore, nothing was ordinary...ordinary, that thought stalled in Myron’s mind. He had loved ordinary, he had craved it, it was his friend. Then he thought about the names and the jokes he’d endured at work in the name of ordinary. Monotonous Myron was no more, his suit was in shreds all over the lounge. Who had taken his place? Mysterious Myron? Masterful Myron? Mercurial Myron? He wasn’t quite sure, but, as he blinked around from his new perspective, he knew nothing was ever going to be ordinary anymore.
~
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Poor Myron hehe. Though, I'd love to turn into a dragon at 42! I vote for Mercurial Myron. ;)
ReplyDeleteA to Z 2017: Magical and Medicinal Herbs
He did get a bit of a shock :)
DeleteOh that's got to be interesting, hitting dragon puberty! Learning about a whole new phase of your life, one you never saw coming, in human mid-life.
ReplyDeleteExcellent work!
Dragon on. ;)
Thank you :) I think Myron has more to find out.
DeleteThat sounds like an interesting beginning to a story.
ReplyDelete~Patricia Lynne aka Patricia Josephine~
Story Dam
Patricia Lynne, Indie Author
It is intriguing me, actually, so something may develop :)
DeleteHi Sophie - oh dear poor Myron - well told .. what happens next?! Have a good Easter ... cheers Hilary
ReplyDeletehttp://positiveletters.blogspot.co.uk/2017/04/m-is-for-melton-mowbray-market-national.html
Hope you had a good Easter. :)
DeleteHaha! Excellently written! Also Myron the Mediocre is a great dragon name... :D
ReplyDeleteThe Multicolored Diary: WTF - Weird Things in Folktales
I did kinda like that one :)
Delete