Last week was story week.

I was worried, at first, because sitting down to tell a story is extremely hard for me. I’ve tried writing 9-5 and my creative process just doesn’t work that way. So, I actually gave up on this goal. But in the middle of the week I realized that storytelling is a part of everything that I do.

I would show you examples in my cover letters, but that’s pretty boring. I did manage to knock out the intro to my next short story. This is another story that no one is supposed to “understand” – rest assured, if I did it right, it should still be pretty to read.

A serpentine dragon coursed across the sky, its glittering scales composed of every star in the heavens, its claws rending the air. Its mouth opened to reveal a giant white pearl, perfectly round. As its maw gaped wider and wider the pearl grew larger and larger, revealing oceans and dimples.

Smoke rose from the wreckage of a tiny cottage on the edge of the forest, a casualty of the dragon’s wild rage. The man stumbled out of it, dazed, but glanced only in passing at the home he’d built with his own hands, fixating instead on the sinuous twists of the dragon above him. He wasted no time climbing on the stacks of firewood in the back to mount the roof.

The dragon soared and coiled in the night sky, a living constellation that the man had no choice but to gape at, in awe. He gave no mind to his safety, so entranced was he by the serpent’s beauty. It roared and shook its lion’s mane, whipped the ground with its fiery tail. The sky shattered, the earth shook, and fire sparked in the forest depths.

The building below him creaked precariously as fire licked up its walls, weakening them from the inside. Still, the man gave no notice. Instead, he reached a hand out slowly toward the dragon. It turned toward him and screamed in fury. Still not satisfied, the man reached up higher and higher. The beast’s tail whipped out, ensnaring him. Its bristling scales grated his flesh as its grip tightened. His scream escaped as a puff of air crushed out of his lungs. His ribcage cracked under its grip, but his eyes never left the dragon. His questing fingers still reached for its eyes.

The cottage burned beneath him and the roof caved in from the heat. His eyes began to glaze over as blood ran down the scales of the beast. Finally, his hand dropped, flopping weakly in the dragon’s grasp. It screamed celestial rage and triumph and dropped him into the flames below.

But his gaze never left its eyes.