Writing

“The king has returned!” Trish cupped her hands around her mouth to shout the call as her hooves beat against the stone streets. . .

The dragon had flown a long way, searching for someone to be his friend. He had seen this village from the air, found a lovely marsh not too far away, and thought he would settle here. He walked to the town, hoping to find someone to talk to.

Once upon a time, there lived a girl from a village with spotless opal skin and raven hair soft as silk running along the riverside in search of a drink. That was until she came upon the most magnificent creature sipping among the clearest lake water she had ever seen.

Cautionary steps obscured by turbid chaos; each fog-laden path both difficult and different.

Sometimes words are not enough: The rage as Burning flame In blue heat

The man ascended the snow-coated mountain, holding his child close. With the other arm, he dug his walking stick into the ground. The ice cracked under the stick with each step he took.

Lavinia did not consider herself a motherly figure of any sort. By most accounts, she was quite the opposite. She was fierce and swift, each stroke of her wings brought sweeping terror to the villages below.

During some year in my youth, I can’t remember which, I was in the car with my mother and sister. A bag of crackers and a Fuji apple sat on my lap. The ride was quiet, except for my nibbling of that large apple. At that age, I could never eat the whole thing, but I still thought some fruit would be nice. Halfway through, I was ready to be done with it.

Camouflage: kaleidoscopic metallic reflection

They come one by one, ruby throats glowing like fire in a dragon’s belly. They fight for the sugary stuff, beaks stabbing into columbine

“Did you know there’s a dragon under Fisherman’s Wharf?” Lance paused mid-chew. He looked at Martha, a confused expression on his face. “What?” “I said, did you know there's a dragon under-” “No, I heard you the first time. What do you mean?”

There once was an orphan in a far-off land whose name was never put to memory. Promissum was a realm so blessed that its people flourished with unending grace. Misfortune was an estranged myth, and so was an orphan.

What do you want? You want to be beautiful? Give me your hands. I’ll fit them for silver And labor and sand.

I dare to drown in dreams, There fantasies become fact; Life is more than what it seems. I am alive under moonbeams,

Onward he hurtles, slicing through winds undaunted. Though exhausted, flesh and sinew strain in tandem, refusing defeat to volleys of rain. Forests become miniscule dark