Issue 25 May 2015
"Could we not talk this through?"
Sir Marlon the Quite Polite (King Robert VI had run out of good titles for his knights some time ago) was sure this wasn't the way dragons were suppose to talk. Especially to people who looked like proper knights, with the regulation flowing white cloak (recently laundered), gleaming sword (it was new), and manly and rugged hairstyle (he was a tad confused by this, but had tried to grow his out a bit nonetheless). Admittedly his trembling hands probably didn't help his case, but all dragons, especially enormous ones with evil amber eyes, should know the rules around this sort of situation.
Hoping it was just a misunderstanding on the dragon's part (anything that big was bound to be a little thick), he resolved to try again. "Halt, foul beast," he cried, placing an iron-clad foot on a convenient rock and striking what he hoped was a heroic pose. "I have come to rid the kingdom of your--of your--" he struggled for a word, "--pestilence!"
I was doodling a Cessna 172 Skyhawk. Just like the planes my dad flew. The wings were looking nice, and it was the best sunset I had ever drawn. You should have seen those rudders. Amazing rudders.
And then she smiled at me.
At first, nothing. I was lost in the sky, right along with my Cessna. Its wings spread across the college-ruled notebook paper, the propeller blazing toward my algebra homework.
But there was a double-take. Again, I looked up. She was still smiling. Smiling with those massive green eyes. At me? Of course she was smiling at me, I was the last seat in the back row. But I said nothing. It would have been okay to stay silent, but I stared. At least three, long seconds. I imagined these were like the last three seconds of a kamikaze dive bomb.