30 Days - Dragon Weather

 It’s dragon weather.

 

Her mother sometimes will say that all fog is dragon weather, but she knows better. There are some very specific things to dragon weather and leave it to an adult to not understand the nuances.

 

Dragon weather is this:

 

Haze and fog so thick you can’t see a yard, grey and misty and shifting constantly, not quite raining but your skin left damp anyway because the fog is so thick you can feel cloud tears bead your skin. Forms half seen and then not seen at all, and the soft breath of the world beneath your feet.

 

She sits on a hill, sees the sheep moving in the fog–dragon’s breath–and listens.

 

Sometimes, though she can’t see, she thinks she hears the beat of a dragon’s wings.

30 Days - Flame

 “Match, match, match, hurry, come–”

 

“I’m trying!”

 

Her hands fumble across the floorboards, where are they, they were right here, but there’s empty space where they used to be, little box full of matches.

 

Both of them freeze as they hear susurrant drag and thud scrape of claws over wood.

 

Then another.

 

She reaches out and tugs him close to her with one arm, other hand still fumbling in the blind-dark, the too-dark dark, silent over the floor. Fingers knocking the corner of the tiny box, she snatches up the matches, fumbling with fingers to get a match.

 

“Candle,” she whispers, soft as breathing, heart locked in her throat.

 

Luke presses the old candle into her open hand without a word.

 

In the can’t-see dark, there is a hiss, followed by a second, a third, room-pressing.

 

“Mary,” Luke says, voice weak.

 

She fumbles with the matches, drops one, gets another, and strikes it once, twice, again.

 

“Light, damn you,” Mary says with a near sob, boards creaking beneath the weight of those things, hands shaking, tears stinging her eyes, “Light light ligh–yes.” The match flares to life, flickers, wavers in the air and she holds her breath, touches it to the candle and the wick catches, flares bright as hope.

 

The room fills with screams and squeals, and as she looks up she catches sight of blood-coloured (or is it covered?) scale and milk white eye before the shadow is only shadow again, the dark not too dark.

 

The candle flame gutters, then holds.

 

In the dark at the edges, they can hear ragged breath and angry growl, and she shifts her grip. Half a candle.

 

They need to find more.