Flash Fiction Horror for Black Harvest

Dragon Breath

Dragon Breath

          I have only a minute before the dragon rushes in. I must stay calm.

          Is that a breeze on my face, or the updraft from dragon’s wing? I tremble, but it was only a wisp of breeze. Nothing more.

          I must think intelligent thoughts. One’s last thoughts should be high level. Shouldn’t they? I think that's called philosophy, but I don't know anything about it. Such heavy subjects were deemed unimportant for a princess' schooling.

          A poem. I shall recite a poem. But which one? For some reason, I can’t remember even one. My tutors would be so upset.

          I suppose I could recite my arithmetic facts, but right now the learning of them seems so much wasted time. I shall certainly never have use for meathematics inside a dragon’s belly.

          I wonder what the creature looks like. I shall see in a moment. He will fly across the chasm where he goes to hunt. Then he will land on this cliff, and he will seize me in his claws. I am bound to the stake, or I would run away. I wish I could. Why must I be the one sacrificed?

          My hands are tied behind me; a gag runs through my mouth. My dress, a beautiful flowing gown with golden threads of trim, is sacrificial white. The crown on my head, most appropriate for a king’s daughter, is dainty and finely woven of strands of the purest gold. The crown sits atop my head so lightly. I scarcely can feel it. Father showed it to me before he placed it in my golden curls. The crown carries three blue sapphires of great value. Perhaps the dragon will prefer the jewels. Perhaps he will not eat me -- at once.

          They say a dragon is ferocious, with teeth that drip with glop. They say he has thick scales that jingle when he walks and eyes that twirl, like the wheels on a cart. His eyes are like emeralds, sparkling and mesmerizing, or at least, so I’ve been told.

          I’ve heard it said by people -- who really might know -- that dragons have fiery breath that singes all one’s hair. I wonder which will go first, my hair or my face and arms, because they say as well, that what drops from his glop will eat away one’s skin. I should not like that. It's going to hurt.

          Yesterday, before I knew that I was going to be the one sacrificed, my father remarked to my mother how lovely I had grown. He said, right in front of me, how proud he was. Did he say that just because he knew that this day would be my last?

          My mother laughed. How could she laugh, if she knew that this was my end? But she did, and then she said I looked just like Claire, my older sister, and Claire has been proclaimed the most fair of all the land. Lucky Claire who sits in a palace eating chocolates and drinking dark velvety wine. Claire, who always gets to be first at everything – first to be wooed, first to get married, first to become a queen. But I shall be first at something – first to be sacrificed to save my people from a dragon.

          I think I hear the dragon’s roar now! He may be coming right this second. My heart pounds, my hands grow clammy, my stomach rolls with distress. I start to struggle against my ropes, but then I stop. It would be wrong to fight. I must willingly give myself to the dragon’s voracious hunger. I must. It is my duty.

          But my knees shake. My lower lip quivers. A tear slides from my right eye down to my nose. I shake my head and the drop tumbles onto the ground. Fallen tear, at least you have gained your freedom. You will nourish that spot where you lay. Perhaps a seed from a passing bird will descend into your moisture. Then maybe a mighty sycamore or an ash or a new exotic plant will grow from my tear. I would like that. If only the minutes would continue ticking so I could see that come to pass.

          But my minutes are almost at an end. I think I shall prepare the ground with more tears. That way the chances are better . . .

          The air ripples. I feel the breath of heat upon my face. Open your eyes, I tell myself. Look into your death with courage. I cannot.

          "Oh, please let me act like a princess should act," I whisper. "Don’t let me babble, or plead, or cry out hysterical words for the townspeople might still be watching.

          I feel the wind of the dragon's wings. He roars, back-flaps, and then sets down. The thud of his landing vibrates through my body. In surprise at the feel of it, I open my eyes. And then I scream . . .


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