Wings flutter, small fingers pulling on a single purple leaf. A swarm of black feathers and a call break the silence, the crow missed its target, yet the leaf is now free. It falls, the fingers still gripping tight, as crystalline wings begin to crinkle, and skin begins to fade, the leaf turns from purple to red as its jailbreaker melts away. The forest floor is a hush of falling leaves, as one more is added. The crinkle of footsteps isn't the dying leaves, but the bones of faeries who set them free.
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Dreaming of Dragons
There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. That’s what everybody says anyway, but I always remember there being dragons. They would roam in the darkness, their teeth protruding from their mouths, too long to fit inside, and their eyes soulless. Nothing but black pupils, dark and unblinking. Nera is constantly chittering in my ear about how amazing the dragons are, with their venomous glands, talons stronger than diamonds, wings razor sharp and all that. I don’t really get what she sees in them, I mean, they are horrifying and weird which technically makes them very amazing but they are also the main reason I haven’t slept in three days and am not paying attention.
By Steph Ruff4 years ago in Fiction
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