Most of my college years were spent trying to be a “real” fiction writer. That is, writing crappy short stories and outlining (okay, thinking about) crappy novels in the real world, with real problems, and real issues. While I would say it was wasted time, I don’t think that’s the case entirely. I mean, all writers have to grow, right? I was just embarrassed to love SF/F so much; I believed that it was, on some level, childish and certainly not a legitimate endeavour.
Well, thankfully I came to my senses after I got my BA. But even before that, I couldn’t shake the fantasy bug entirely. Rifling through my parents’ old hard drive, I found this little gem.
There is nothing as freeing, in this life, as the rush of wind against your wings. Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to understand. After all, you probably don’t have wings; and you’ve probably never been able to propel yourself into the sky—the green grass of the earth vanishing beneath your feet, and the grand sphere of the heavens expanding before you. Once you have achieved a certain altitude, of course, the air becomes rather crisp. There aren’t many humans that can withstand that sort of temperature very well, but those of my particular persuasion are equipped with the ability to go rather unscathed in such harsh weather. Our scales help repel water and a thick layer of fat—just beneath—allows for an extra layer of warmth.
What is most fascinating about flying, however, and what inspires me the most, is the grand view. Once your eyes grow accustomed to the shifting light, and the roaring winds, you gaze beyond and find the world stretching before you—the horizon just a faint curve in the distance—and you, for one brief moment, are lord of it all. Kingdoms, wars, marriages, rain; anything expected in life, it all moves beneath your feet. I have lived so long sometimes it can all seem so insignificant. Yet, when I am up in the sky—above it, and in a sense, escaped from it—I realize that in its insignificance, it is intrinsic and unique.
I have seen a great deal from the skies.
That is what you wanted to know, isn’t it? Of course, I haven’t been a dragon all of my life. There are few beasts in this land that can lay claim to that grand privilege, born from the fires of mountains, sprung from eggs of marble and granite. I was once a woman, as ordinary as the rest. To become this creature, there is much I have lost; and yet, much I have gained.
I can see by the look in your eyes that you are interested; yes, you want to know how it all came to be. Well, I was never much for stories. But I see you are eagerly writing this down, and my tale is worth the telling—unlike much of the rubbish bards babble about these days! A woman turned to a dragon, yes.