Suddenly, where there once was a somewhat smoldering maiden, now here I stand on all fours, smoke billowing out my nostrils, fire crackling in my lungs. Not to blow my own smoke or anything, but I am no small dragon. It is quite impossible when one is as old as I am and has seen the turn of millennials.
But alas, burning helpless people is no fun, not when they are frozen in shock and don’t even try to flee. I toss my head instead and get a ripple effect of screams. I had forgotten how loud these mortal beings were. Ugh, now my ears would be ringing until I was well past their meager border with the wind coursing over my shining scales.
After staring them down, I fly away, back to my mountains, my cave, and my hoard of battle-scarred women who have defeated all odds, despite their circumstances.
Six Weeks Earlier…
I was taking a nap in my meadow, curled up like a feline, when a human child ran slap into my side. I will say, it hurt the child more than it did me, but it was annoying, nonetheless. Disgruntled, I look over my shoulder, my fluorescent purple scales glinting in the sunshine.
“Child, whatever are you doing?” I purr, looking the mortal over. A girl, around eleven, if I had to guess.
“Tamarintha, I need your help. Please.” The girl, instead of running away, tries to climb up my shoulder. Interesting. Someone has leaked my name to the mortals, who shall I be roasting when I get home tonight, I wonder?
“Child, what do the mortals call you, and how do you know what they call me?” I move my arm, allowing the girl to finally reach my shoulder and sit.
“They told me never to tell anyone else who you are, but that you would help me after I told you my story. My name is Raha and I need your protection.” Of course. I will be having a talk with my stewardess this afternoon. Glenna always knew I would never turn a child in danger away.
“Yes, child. Now, what do you need protection from, hmm?” I purr again, only this time, smoke thickens my voice in preparation for the crisping I know is coming.
***
I guess this was how it ended, huh? Me, a damsel in distress, tied to a stake while the flames licked my skin. It was more of a caress, really. After all, the fire knew who it belonged to.
Usually, some brave knight tried to step in about now and save the poor, disfigured-by-now maiden. Guess that wasn’t in the plot for this story.
The flames burned hotter, not really, but it looked good as the flames danced higher on my body. Oh, look at that! All the townspeople showed up to see me burn. How pleasant. I feel so loved. It doesn’t matter, I prefer the smoldering coals of hatred and revenge anyway.
Apparently, I’m not making enough of a show out of burning because one of my feeble executioners throws more wood on my fire. People can be so dense sometimes. I should have known it would be this easy when I took on the image of a distraught Raha, screaming about seeing a dragon, while the townspeople all cried, “Burn her!” Little did they know, you can’t burn what is made of flame. I stretch my toes, flex my hands, take a deep breath, and shift.
Original Fiction Submitted by Avery McRay
Thoren, last of the giants, huddles close to a fading fire, its glow dimming against the sprawling darkness of his cavern. His fingers trace over crude charcoal lines on the stone wall—images of those who once stood tall beside him. Each stroke is a remembrance, a silent honoring of giants who laughed and roamed freely under open skies, now reduced to mere shadows captured in black dust.
The fire flickers, throwing grotesque shapes against the drawings. Thoren wraps himself tighter in his father’s fur, its fibers brittle with age but heavy with memories. His thoughts coil tightly around a bitter sneer, “Man cannot stand tall while giants roam the earth.” A mockery of those who came with fire and iron to hunt his kin, shrinking their world to this cold, hidden refuge.
The night throbs with a distant but growing clamor—human voices chanting in unison, torches piercing the thick veil of trees like stars fallen to the merciless ground. They come. Always they come. Their songs, hauntingly beautiful, are a herald of death to any who are different, any who dare exist outside their realms.
With a sigh that stirs the ashes, Thoren kills his meager fire, casting his shelter into darkness. He rises, a massive silhouette against the lessening shadows, and slips through a narrow passage hidden behind a curtain of falling stone dust. His hand pauses over the image of his mother—the lines of her face defiant even in stillness, her strength now his burden.
The chants sharpen, knives whetting the night air. Thoren’s heart, a drum slow and deep, beats not for himself but for the memories that may soon turn to dust like those scattered by his touch. He knows these secret paths, the silent tracks and shadowed valleys where his people once danced with the winds. Now, they are his escape routes, paths of survival in a world that no longer wishes to know his kind.
Climbing to a ridge as dawn’s light bleeds into the sky, Thoren watches the fjord below. The longships return, slicing through the morning mist, their sails swollen with victory. The men sing of heroes and monsters, of battles won and lands claimed. Their voices weave myths of their own making, tales that will never speak of the giant who watches them, hidden and silent.
Thoren turns from the rising sun, its light harsh against his retreat. The path before him winds into the mists that shroud the cliffs, a path of solitude and survival. He moves with the silence of the forgotten, each step a defiance, each breath a challenge to the songs that celebrate his supposed end.
As he disappears into the mist that crowns the land, Thoren carries the weight of his ancestors, a giant among the dwindling shadows. His presence is a ghostly whisper against the saga of men, a remnant of a world that once embraced the vast and the mighty. Each breath is a refusal to be erased, each step a testament to those who are remembered only by the stones and the silent echoes of the forest.
Original Fiction Submitted by Jacob Moon
Copyright © 2025 Cardinal Arts Journal - All Rights Reserved.
Project of GSCC Languages and Humanities
We use cookies to analyze website traffic and optimize your website experience. By accepting our use of cookies, your data will be aggregated with all other user data.